Over Troubled Water - Part One
Part I
All things considered, the Apocalypse had gone pretty well. When it all came down to it in that cemetery in Kansas, Sam had had the strength to push Lucifer aside, retake his own body, and pull Michael (and Adam, because we really shouldn’t forget about the youngest Winchester brother) down into the Pit with him. But apparently the Cage was something that was only meant to house celestial beings of the highest order. And human bodies and souls were not something that was included in this category, much to everyone’s surprise and instant relief.
The first thing Dean had seen after watching his brother (and Adam, although Dean didn’t quite think of Adam as a brother) fall into Hell was Castiel’s face as he crouched down in front of Dean and peered at him seriously. Dean looked up through his one seeing eye, the other one being completely swollen shut and watched the angel press two fingers to his forehead before popping completely out of existence. Dean didn’t even have time to ask the angel how the hell he wasn’t in little bits anymore.
But he didn’t dwell on that fact for very long. No, instead his eyes (yes, both of them now) were drawn to the tall figure standing where a giant void had been thirty seconds before. Beside him was a shorter and lankier figure.
Dean was up and running at his brother before he could remember standing up. Hitting the moose and grabbing him, Dean held onto Sam as tightly as he could.
Ω
And after that, things returned to what they were before the whole Seals and Apocalypse deal. They returned to how it had been before angels became a real and very prominent presence in Sam and Dean’s lives. It was almost like Dean had never even gone to hell. No longer was the wrath of archangels Dean’s worst nightmare. Hell, Dean had not even heard from Castiel since that day the Apocalypse had ended. It was like all the celestial beings had been wiped from the face of the earth and returned to... Heaven, Dean supposed. Where else would they go, anyway? Except for Michael and Lucifer, of course.
Three weeks after the Fall of Michael and Lucifer found Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Adam (which still startled Dean whenever he walked into a room with Adam in it) in Bobby’s house in Sioux Falls, all still reeling a bit from the anticlimactic outcome of it all.
“So, hear anything from Feathers lately?” Bobby asked Dean as they scoured books for a solution to a witch problem in Illinois.
Dean’s hand faltered a bit on its way to grab his beer bottle. “None,” he said shortly.
Castiel had become a rather sore subject for Dean since he’d disappeared and hadn’t sent any word or sign or fucking anything to alert the small group about what was going on in Heaven or what he himself was doing. Sam had already tried a few times to get Dean to talk about it, but Dean had successfully deflected any real conversation about the angel. He’d figured that since Cas had forgotten about him so easily, that he would do the same. Hell, even the handprint that had signified their “profound bond” was gone. So Dean said to hell with him and moved on. Or, well, to be honest, he’d tried to move on. He was still working on that.
“Well,” Bobby continued, “I suppose no news is good news. But it’d be nice if he’d send a postcard or something.”
Dean took a swig of his beer and returned to the book, where he tried to keep his thoughts on his utter and absolute hatred for all things witchy and away from a certain angel in a trench coat. Which didn’t work out too well, but he wasn’t going to dwell on that.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice coming in from the kitchen table. “I think I found something, guys,” Adam said.
Dean followed Bobby over to where Sam and Adam were sitting. This had turned out to be the normal arrangement for the group, with Sam sticking a lot closer to Adam than anyone else. Dean was slightly resentful of this fact, but since he didn’t want to be the one to deal with Adam, the role had fallen to Sam. They had turned out to be kindred spirits in more than just the whole ex-archangel-vessel thing, with Adam’s love for book knowledge (he, like Sam, had a lifetime membership to Geekdom International, according to Dean). And, to add the cherry on top, Sam took to being an older brother like a fish to water (despite his resentment, Dean felt a spark of pride for that). Dean was left in Bobby’s company, which he didn’t mind of course, but he missed the rhetoric that he and Sam had once had.
As he approached, Dean saw that Adam was pointing to an illustration in a book that looked older than the bible. The pages were worn so thin that they were translucent. Where did Bobby get all the books, anyway, Dean wondered.
“So, basically,” Sam began after scanning the page for a few moments, “all we have to do is get these ingredients and burn them during a crescent moon? That almost sounds too easy.”
“The less contact we have with these sons of bitches the better,” Dean said as he sidled up next to Sam.
“It shouldn’t take too much to get rid of them, Sam. They’re barely causing serious damage, compared to what a witch who’s three hundred years old can do, based on what this book is saying,” said Adam, glancing down at the book again.
“All right. So, how do we get this stuff?” Sam asked.
Ω
Despite the apparently easy fix, the ritual went to hell. Which didn’t surprise Dean. All their luck from the last five years went into stopping the Apocalypse, so of course nothing would be easy. After traveling nine hours to some podunk little town in Illinois, setting up the proper altar, and acquiring ingredients, the witch job ended with a curse on Dean and Adam stabbing the high priestess of the coven. Which had, thankfully, broken the curse on Dean. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever experienced before, even in Hell; he’d been bound by invisible ropes that started squeezing tighter every time he struggled. Dean had been left in the hotel room while the other three went out to track and kill the witches.
Dean rubbed his hands up and down his arms, still feeling the echo of ropes on his skin. Sam glanced over at him from the passenger side seat of the Impala. Despite being incapacitated for several hours, Dean had insisted on driving his baby back to South Dakota, in spite of Sam’s insistence that he was in no condition to do so. Dean’s stubbornness had won out.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Dean?” Sam asked for what felt like the hundredth time since they’d left Latham.
“Jesus, Sam. We haven’t even made it to Iowa, yet. And like I said the ninety-nine other times, I’m fine,” Dean growled at his brother, pressing the pedal down further. The Impala sped up with a jolt.
“You do realize that you haven’t stopped rubbing your left arm and shoulder for the last two hours?” Sam said with a touch of forced patience, as if he was dealing with a rather block-headed four year old.
Dean immediately stilled his right arm, which was rubbing his left just like Sam had said. Shit, he really hadn’t noticed that-not that Sam needed to know that. “Shut up. My shoulder’s sore, so of course I’m gonna rub it, bitch.”
Sam just rolled his eyes. “Sure thing, jerk.”
Dean concentrated on the flat highway back to Bobby’s.
Ω
Bobby and Adam pulled up in an old Ford truck just as Dean and Sam grabbed their duffle bags out of the trunk of the Impala. With a quick nod to Bobby, Dean headed into the house and straight up to the small bedroom he used whenever he and Sam stayed here. It was the closest Dean ever got to having his own room since that house in Lawrence. After throwing his duffle down beside the bed, Dean drew out of his over shirt and went over to the mirror. He pulled up the left sleeve of his t-shirt and examined his shoulder. The last time he had done this, he discovered a giant-ass handprint on him that apparently claimed his soul or some shit. But now, there was only smooth skin lightly sprinkled with freckles. There was not a single trace of the bright red brand of Castiel’s true hand. How long was that gone, Dean wondered. His mind flickered over the last time he had seen the angel. The last he’d seen of Cas was at Stull Cemetery, when Cas had healed him. And then left.
Dean tugged at his sleeve and trudged down the stairs .
Dean’s shoulder still stung viciously and he apparently wasn’t hiding that fact very well as Bobby asked, “You still hurting from those witches, boy?”
Dean rearranged his face into something happier. “Nah, Bobby. The food at that diner in Minnesota didn’t agree with me too well,” he replied as he pulled a beer out of the fridge.
Dean pulled out a chair and sat down, popping the cap off of his bottle. He took a long drink and when he looked up, Adam was awkwardly standing on the other side of the table.
“Can I help you?” Dean asked.
Adam’s mouth twitched nervously, but he steeled himself and went ahead anyway. “I’m really sorry about the whole curse deal. I think I got blood from the wrong species of doves, and-”
Dean held up his hand. “Adam, it’s fine. This kinda stuff happens- a lot, actually. I mean, fuckin’ witches, man. So, just chill, okay? It’s not your fault, unless you did it intentionally...” Dean let his voice trail off.
Adam rushed to deny the implication. “Oh, God, no. Dean, you know that I-” Adam stopped when he saw Dean was laughing. Instead of pulling a bitchface like Dean’s other brother was wont to do, Adam just chuckled. “Okay, I get it. No apologizing unless it’s hugely bad.”
Dean swallowed down another mouthful of beer. “You got it in one.”
The rest of the day was spent lazing around Bobby’s house, something that the Winchesters had not done since the whole Apocalypse deal had started. Dean spread out on the lumpy sofa and managed to find a Dr. Sexy marathon while Sam, Bobby, and Adam geeked out over some ancient books Bobby had just obtained. It was times like this that Dean didn’t really mind being left out.
Somewhere into the fourth episode of Dr. Sexy, Dean dozed off. He groggily came to and found the lights were off in the living room and everyone else seemed to have gone to bed. He clicked off the TV and went upstairs to turn in himself.
At first, Dean slept soundly and dreamlessly. But the quiet darkness of dreamless sleep slipped into real darkness.
Dean opened his eyes to see a long staircase somehow only leading down. Small flickering lights lit the descending path. As Dean drew closer to the top of the stairs, he saw the lights were in fact candles-but without the candle part. There were hundreds of tiny wicks lit with a flame growing out of the stone walls. Seeing the downwards path as the only way to go, Dean slowly crept down the stairs, hugging the walls and wishing for something-anything-to use to protect himself.
The pseudo-candles became fewer and further between the deeper Dean went into the crevice. But that was the only difference from up top. Everything was still, stagnant. The only things that moved were the flames and Dean himself. It was beyond eerie, it was disturbing, it reminded Dean of...
Gasping, Dean sat up in his bed, the sheets wet with his sweat. Dean put his head between his legs to stave off the nausea that had attacked him so suddenly when he had recognized the place he was in. He took a few shuddering breaths. He hadn’t seen that place in his dreams for months and months now. Ever since Lucifer had risen, he’d barely gotten any sleep, and when he did, his nights were either dreamless or filled with Lucifer wearing Sammy’s body to the prom and Dean’s meatsuit killing him. As anguishing as those dreams had been, they couldn’t compare with the ones like the dream-nightmare-he’d just woken up from.
Nothing could compare with memories.
Things weren’t going well in Heaven since Michael had descended with his little brother into the pits of Hell. And by “not going well” Castiel meant that the chaos that was now his responsibility to sort out was beginning to become extremely overwhelming. He’d always admired the structure and discipline of Heaven, as it was orderly and simple, so this new chaotic way of things almost made his head hurt, if it could do such a thing. Castiel was mostly on his own for “ruling” Heaven (that was how the rest of the angels saw it, but Castiel felt like he was babysitting a bunch of three-year-olds who had too much time on their hands). The only exception being a rather young angel named Samandriel. Samandriel had turned out to be a great scout for Castiel, and he was away for much of the time observing the activities of the Heavenly Host and only came back to report when something drastically needed Castiel’s personal attention. Which for the first few years was quite a bit.
Samandriel had mostly brought reports of other angels rebelling against Castiel’s newfound power. The main instigator of these rebellions was the archangel Raphael. But thankfully, such small insurrections were easily put down and Raphael killed early on. Since then, Samandriel’s reports came less and less frequently. The uprisings were much easier to deal with than Castiel initially thought they might be, but just over four years (or two Earth weeks) after Castiel had returned to Heaven, he suddenly discovered the presence of two more sets of wings, affectively making him an archangel. When Samandriel saw him that morning, he had fallen down into a prostration of devotion and claimed indubitably that Father saw what was going on in Heaven and had intervened.
A figure in the far corner of the great hall started clapping loudly and wolf-whistled as he approached. “Gotta say, Cassie, you’ve moved up in the world.”
Castiel stared blankly forward as his brother Gabriel stepped into the light, his own six wings of pure gold extending powerfully. “What-how-Gabriel, but Lucifer killed you. How are you here?” Castiel demanded.
Gabriel shrugged his shoulders and popped a sucker into his mouth. “Dunno, kiddo. One minute I was nothing and the next I was wandering around Ass-crack, Nebraska. How long was I outta commission?”
Castiel struggled for and answer for a moment, still utterly shocked at his brother’s appearance from the dead. “Uh, just over a month and a week Earth time, so about-”
“Eleven and a half years, celestial time.” Castiel nodded. Gabriel continued, “Well, lemme guess... Rafie is giving you some trouble about locking our eldest brother in the Pit, am I right? He always was horribly predictable.”
And after that, with the help of Gabriel, Heaven was restored to some semblance of order.
But a few years after Raphael was killed, a new wave of disorder descended on Heaven. This time, it was Castiel who’d instigated it. He’d expected the confusion; the angels were still trying to get used to Castiel’s new edict of “Free Will”. When he’d attempted to explain to them the concept, they were about as receptive as rocks. Many protested that their Father had created them to obey and serve Him and His Orders.
“What do you think got us all into this mess, in the first place, Mariel? That’s what we tried to do, but our Father left us on our own and it ended in chaos. We almost ended the world, for His sake!” Castiel snapped at the dour angel. He’d finally found the end to his dwindling patience. Was it truly that difficult? Yes, he himself had had some trouble understanding the notion at first, but it hadn’t taken nearly the same amount of time as the Heavenly Host.
After months and months of convincing, Gabriel had suggested that instead of giving the angels true free will, as Castiel intended, perhaps they should push for a more structured version.
“What are you suggesting, Gabriel?” Cas asked as he dropped bonelessly onto his chair in the great hall, more tired than he could recollect ever being before.
“Well, Cassie,” he began, licking the extra chocolate from his Twix bar off his fingers, “Instead of just giving the idiots out there a decree of ‘you’ve followed orders enough, just go do whatever the fuck you want’-which I’ll admit is true, but after, what, six thousand millennia, I just don’t think it’s gonna fly.” He snapped his fingers and another candy bar-Snickers this time-appeared in his hand.
“So...?” Castiel prompted, his impatience growing, much to Gabriel’s delight. He slowly took a bite of the candy bar and savored it slowly.
“So, dear brother,” he began with his mouth full, “perhaps telling them to go do, I dunno, good might be the right kind of angle to take with that bunch. And lay out a few basics. Like, no smiting humans, only evil supernatural creatures like demons and wendigos and shit like that. And healing some of those who’ve been praying a lot. And who deserve it, of course. Can’t go upsetting that balance too much, now can we?”
Castiel mulled over the idea for a few moments (which translated into a few Earth hours). It wasn’t exactly what he had planned for, but at this point, he was running out of options. Plus Gabriel was right; the concept of obedience and servitude was too deeply embedded within the Heavenly Host to turn it into a host of angels with free will. They didn’t have a Dean Winchester to teach them the concept through human eyes and actions. And that seems to have made all the difference, at least when it came to Castiel.
Sitting up straighter in his throne-like chair, Castiel said, “Time to issue an amended decree then, I suppose.” He stood and walked out of the marble hall.
Gabriel watched him go, chewing on his latest treat. Dean Winchester had made all the difference, indeed.
Ω
Castiel stood atop the Empyrean Stairs and sent a message to the entire Host to convene. Nearly instantly, Castiel could see the whole Host crowded in front of him, save Gabriel who waltzed in and leaned casually up against a pillar, hidden from the Host. He took a breath and steeled himself. It was one thing to rule Heaven from inside a hall, but to see the entire Host and the true visual representation of his responsibility still shook him.
Looking out, Castiel began, “I have amended my last decree. To best serve Heaven and our Father, we all shall go out into the world and do good. The Earth is full of darkness cast by not just the humans, but others with more malicious intent, such as demons-” at the word, a low hiss resounded and several angels’ wings flared swiftly. Castiel paused until the excitement burned out. “And other evil creatures that walk the Earth. They have been allowed to crawl among our Father’s beloved world and creatures, mostly unchecked, for far too long. Balance must be put back in place, and going down to Earth is how it shall be done.”
A shocked silence answered Castiel. Many of the nearest angels tried to hide their hesitancy, but the fluttering of wings betrayed them.
“So our orders are to leave Heaven?” A voice questioned politely, asking the question that the rest of the Host was too afraid and too timid to ask. Samandriel, then. Castiel smiled.
“No, Samandriel. I am not casting everyone out of Heaven. You all will not be forced to live on Earth permanently or anything of the sort. No, instead you all should visit periodically to do good. If the entire Host was to simply converge on Earth, there would be mass panic. We must do good, but without drawing attention to ourselves. We do not wish to disrupt any careful peace that has settled on Earth.” And with a nod Castiel dismissed the Host, who vanished immediately.
“Well, I gotta say Cassie. Dad should have made you the top archangel from the get-go. That almost looked easy.” Gabriel straightened up and made his way towards the young archangel.
Castiel simply shrugged in reply. For as much that had gone well since he came back to Heaven, it hadn’t made him any happier or more content. Fixing Heaven was just another duty that needed to be fulfilled in his eyes.
Gabriel saw the resignation that spread out across Castiel’s face, and sighed to himself. “Walk with me, Castiel.” And he descended the Stairs while Castiel followed.
Gabriel led them down into one of the smaller gardens that was hidden amongst the various grand halls. Deftly avoiding branches of trees and leaves of ferns, Castiel found himself suddenly in a small meadow. Gabriel sat down on one of the two obsidian benches. He gestured Castiel to sit as well. Once Castiel had done so, he looked over into Gabriel’s face. Gone were the easy smiles and crinkled eyes. In their place sat dark somber gray eyes and a mouth set in a straight line. He was almost unrecognizable to Castiel.
Confused, Castiel asked, “What is it, Gabriel?”
Gabriel pursed his lips before beginning. “How long has it been since you left Earth, Castiel?”
“Just over thirty-five years.”
“So right around four Earth months, then.” Gabriel sighed. “Castiel, you’re not happy here, doing this work.”
“That is of no import. It is my duty. I brought this on Heaven and it is my responsibility to look after it,” Castiel replied.
“Duty or not, you are not happy nor content with remaining in Heaven, overseeing the Host. It’s not like you were originally intended to do this, anyway.”
“Gabriel, where are you going with this? So what if that was not originally in Father’s plan. Apparently the Apocalypse was, and look where we are now. So what if I’m not content? There are things that must be done. My happiness is worth nothing compared to the order of Heaven.”
Gabriel leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Yes, Cas, but you just told the rest of the Host to go out onto Earth and do good. Why should you be the one to remain here?”
“Someone needs to run Heaven and I no longer have any reason to visit Earth. There are more than enough angels to go do good. After taking the reigns of Heaven, those reigns became bindings that tie me to Heaven. You know this. You know Michael was also bound as such.”
Gabriel looked sharply at Castiel and suddenly sat up straight. “Castiel, this is me telling you that you are wrong. But you are needed on Earth, and soon, too.”
Castiel tilted his head in confusion and looked up to Gabriel, who had stood up. “What do you mean?” Castiel asked.
Gabriel didn’t acknowledge his question, and proceeded to say, “I, the Archangel Gabriel, being the eldest angel of the Heavenly Host, do remove the ties binding the Archangel Castiel to Heaven and take them upon myself.”
Castiel stood up. This had never been done before. What was Gabriel doing? But before Castiel could reach Gabriel, he was struck by something white and hot. He fell to his knees in pain, but still looked up to Gabriel. There was the scent of ozone in the air (lightning, he thought, lightning is what hit me. How was there lightning in Heaven?) Another bolt of lightning flashed above them in the sky, this time striking Gabriel. But he did not fall, the lightning flared out within him, lighting up the veins of his grace and extending all three pairs of his wings. Castiel looked up at him in awe and terror. Gabriel’s eyes filled with light as he turned towards Castiel.
“Castiel, return to Earth and I will stay here in your stead.” Somehow, his mouth quirked up at one end. “Yes, that is an order. Go, Castiel, and be happy.”
Castiel, eyes wide, slowly nodded and vanished.
Alone in the meadow, the light faded from Gabriel’s body. “I only hope he is in time,” he murmured to himself.
Ω
Castiel appeared in the great hall, where Samandriel was waiting. When Samandriel saw him, he said, “Castiel... you look different.”
Castiel took a deep, unnecessary, calming breath. “I am no longer ‘Ruler’.”
“But, how can that be? You’re the only one who could!” Samandriel said, shocked.
“It seems Gabriel has reassigned me. To Earth.”
“Gabriel has taken the mantle? The Messenger, truly?”
“It seems so. I’m sorry, Samandriel, but I must go before he finds me here. He ordered me to Earth immediately. I only wished to say goodbye.”
Samandriel smiled warmly at his commander. “It is only for a little while, Castiel. I shall see you again.”
With a nod, Castiel flew to Earth.
“Shit, you look like you haven’t slept in days,” a woman’s voice said as she slipped onto the barstool next to Dean.
Dean turned, ready to deflect another woman’s attentions, when he saw that it was Sheriff Jody Mills who had sat down next to him. Dean turned back to his beer. “Hey, Sheriff. How are ya?” He asked before taking a gulp of the brew.
Jody signaled to the bartender, a college co-ed that had tried to talk Dean up when he first had first arrived, for her usual. “Better than you, apparently. Seriously, Dean, you look like the cat dragged you in after spitting you out. Everything all right?”
The bartender brought the sheriff her drink without sparing a glance for Dean, which he was grateful for, as he had spurned her over two hours ago and she’d focused her attentions on some bikers down the bar.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Bobby’s fine. Adam’s fine. Even Sammy’s fine.” He finished off his beer and managed to catch the bartender’s eye for a refill.
“I see you left yourself off that list,” Jody replied.
Dean just shrugged. “Haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
Jody sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping her own drink.
When Dean was halfway through his fourth drink of the night, Jody said, “Anything you wanna talk about? I know that something big happened a few months ago to you boys. Bobby didn’t give me any sort of details, just that things would calm down a bit now.”
“Thanks for the offer, Sheriff, but Sammy’s the one who likes to talk about his feelings, not me.”
“Maybe you should follow his example. Where is he tonight, anyway? I thought you two were almost conjoined at the hip.”
Dean snorted. “He and Adam just got back from a job. They were out east for a while.” Dean took another long drink.
“Hmm...” Jody murmured. She checked her watch. “Well, I better get going. It’s getting pretty late.” She stood up and paid the bartender. Before leaving, she peered down at Dean. His shoulders were slumped low, his elbows wide on the bar. She could almost see the tightness in his back. From what little she’d seen of his eyes during their conversation, she could tell that they were obviously red. “Okay, kiddo, I think it’s time you left as well. Wouldn’t want Bobby to worry, or anything.”
Dean shot her an exasperated look. He was completely prepared to drink himself into a stupor and lay in the Impala until he was sober enough to drive.
“Don’t make me make it official and drag you out in handcuffs.”
He wasn’t all that willing to fight her on this, as he was dead tired. Maybe tired enough to actually sleep tonight, he thought. So, he stood up and threw a wad of bills on the bar to cover his tab. He followed Jody out into the parking lot to where their cars were parked next to each other.
She watched as he stumbled out of the door. “I don’t think you should be driving tonight, Dean. In fact, if you did, I’d have to pull you over.”
“I’ll just sit and wait it out, thanks,” Dean replied tiredly.
“I’m going to call Sam for you. I don’t want to see you out on the road.” She unlocked her car and said, “Have a good night, Dean. Try to get some sleep. You really need it.”
“‘Night, Sheriff,” he replied as he got into the Impala. He leaned against his seat, his head tilted towards the ceiling. He let his eyes fall shut but instantly regretted it. Images from his latest nightmare flashed behind his eyelids. It had been a young man who had made a demon deal for good grades through college. The guy had reminded Dean too much of Sam and his hand had shaken the tiniest bit as he cut into him.
Shaking his head, Dean tried to focus on something else, anything to keep his mind away from the nightly terrors he had. Immediately, his thoughts fell to Castiel. He wondered what the angel was doing then, what could possibly be so fucking important that he couldn’t pop down for a minute to see Dean, to let him know that he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere with his wings burned into the grass. Dean slammed his hands onto the steering wheel, trying as hard as he could to ignore the gaping feeling in his chest as his friend’s abandonment.
He slowly breathed in and out as he saw the headlights of one of Bobby’s trucks.
Ω
The drive back to Bobby’s house went entirely too quickly for Dean’s liking. He spent the whole twenty minute trip dreading sleep. By the time Adam pulled into Bobby’s driveway, he had his mind set on finding the strongest booze in the house and drinking until he passed out. It hadn’t worked the other times, but hey, maybe tenth time’s the charm.
After slamming the car door shut, Dean plodded up the stairs of the porch and quietly opened the door. Dean heard Sam pull up behind the truck in the Impala. Despite his general irritation, he was glad that Sam had thought far enough ahead to bring Adam along so someone could drive the Impala back. Dean didn’t like the idea of letting his baby sit in a parking lot all night.
Bobby was sitting behind his desk, hanging up the phone, when Dean passed him to the kitchen to raid the liquor cabinet.
“Hey, Bobby.”
“You’re back earlier than I thought you’d be,” Bobby said as he shuffled around some papers.
Dean shrugged and kept going towards the kitchen. Bobby seemed to find whatever he was looking for and reached for the phone.
Dean was just reaching for the bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet when he heard Bobby say, “Yeah, Sam, he’s about the same. I think he’s still not sleeping much.” There was a pause. Bobby let out a low whistle. “He did? Damn, that kid is a quick learner. Faster than you two, anyway. Well, it’s a good thing he’s with you, then, since Dean’s...” He trailed off.
Dean ground his teeth together. Looks like Sam doesn’t need him anymore, since Adam’s so great at everything. Goddammit, he was fine. So what if he didn’t sleep much? It’s not like he’d slept well since Dad had died anyway.
Instead of sticking around to hear whatever shit they had to say about him, Dean grabbed the bottle of whiskey and clunked his way upstairs.
Ω
When Dean opened his eyes to see not the inside of his bedroom, but instead the doorway of the stone cavern that he inhabited for nearly forty years, he decided that whiskey didn’t help. It seemed that no matter what he did, he still “woke up” here.
His legs propelled him forward through the low entrance. He had tried several times to change his course in the dream, but every night he still ducked through the doorway and into the cavern. Once inside, he attempted to not look to see who would be on the table tonight. But, like his legs, his neck did not obey his brain’s command.
Before him lay the soul of an old man. His face was riddled with the kind of wrinkles that did not come from smiling, but from stress and worry. Among the waves of flesh used to lie a strong chin accompanied by an even stronger nose. But these dominating features had been lost to time and death. The man was shaking visibly on the table, muttering something to himself.
As Dean approached, he could hear the man’s voice. He was murmuring the Lord’s Prayer in a thick accent. Dean remembered this soul very well. The man had lived a long, full life. He had lived in Germany for all his life as a farm worker. He had been an ardent Nazi supporter in all the ways that made Dean internally shudder.
He’d tortured the man’s wife, Lina, the night before.
Dean sat in the backseat in his own body as he reached the man’s side, unable blink if he wanted to, let alone to stop himself. Next to the metal table housing the man, there was a tray full of blades, matches, chains, and other things that Dean would use to strip this man apart.
Dean picked up a thin blade and studied it. It was long enough to slice through the muscle of the abdomen but not deep enough to gut him completely. He dipped the blade into the jar of water provided and coated it in the shallow tray of salt-just to make the wound sting that much more. Objectively, it was rather convenient in Hell that the soul could not just die and stop their punishment. Dean placed the knife point at the top of the man’s sternum and slowly cut in and down, along the breastbone. The man screamed.
Once he was done opening up the man’s chest in a way that was reminiscent of an autopsy, Dean stepped away and prepared a syringe. The man breathlessly started begging him to stop, to just end it all, to just kill him. Dean squirted a small amount of the green-ish liquid out of the syringe to remove any air bubbles. He stepped back over to the man and located the frantically-beating heart within the ribcage. He plunged the needed into the man’s heart and pressed the lever down.
The man seized as the concoction sped through his entire circulatory system. He would have about thirty minutes until the hemlock mixture did its job and killed the man. Placing the syringe back on the tray, Dean chose another blade to turn the man to pieces with.
As he was cutting a steady, straight line from the tip of the man’s pinky to his elbow, a man stepped out of the shadows.
“I see your lovely little brew is doing its trick. It was ever so clever of you to use hemlock as the main ingredient. Did I ever tell you how proud of you I was when you first used it successfully?” Alastair asked.
Dean continued cutting, unable to respond in any way. In his memory, Alastair hadn’t been here for this victim, and so he was incapable of going off-script, apparently.
Alastair chuckled. “But I suppose you can’t quite answer, can you Dean? Oops, I did it again,” he half-sang.
Dean moved on from the man’s forearm to his opposite leg. The man gurgled through the pain, the hemlock coursing through his veins nicely.
“I don’t think I ever told you what he did, did I? Oho, he was a baddie, that’s for sure. If I recall correctly, which I do, all I told you was that he was from Germany. Hmm, well, he lived during very strange time in Germany. He was around for that whole World War II and Nazi shing-dig. Nasty, nasty fellow.” Alastair moved from his place near the wall and came closer to inspect Dean’s work.
“When you were in Hell your work was just exquisite, only bested by my own, of course. I couldn’t have the student outdo their master before they became fully demon, now could I?” He chuckled.
Dean was screaming in his head to wake up, to stop cutting up the German man, to just get away from it all. But it fell on his own deaf ears. This was the worst part of his nightmares: he was trapped in them until his own fucked up mind let him out. It seemed that he wasn’t going to get out of it easy tonight.
“Ah, but I digress. As I was saying, this guy right here,” Alastair tapped the babbling man on the nose, “he was the beginning of a program back then. Something called, oh what was it...”Alastair stroked his chin in false forgetfulness. “Aha! Action T4. Yes, this man right here, and his wife, you remember her, wrote a letter straight to Herr Hitler himself to get rid of their child. Seems odd, doesn’t it?”
Dean curled in on himself within his mind. He didn’t want to hear this; didn’t want to know this. Knowing what the man had done gave him a purpose for the torture. A reason to feel good about tearing this soul apart. But no matter how far inside his head he retreated, Alastair’s words still reached him.
“You see, Dean, he and his wife had a son who was a bit off. Missing a leg or two and an arm. They thought that he should just be ‘put asleep’. Seems it was illegal at that time, so they asked dear old Uncle Hitler to change the law. And guess what?” He asked in a baby tone. “It worked!”
The man’s heartbeat was slowing. Dean set down the blade and watched as the man gasped for air as his heart failed him. Soon, the lungs would follow, and then the brain. When he was in the Pit, Dean had found this part of his work to be the most interesting, these last few moments as a being before dying. Since Dean was not going to immediately resurrect the man as Alastair had done countless times to him, the soul would fade into nothing.
As the soul disintegrated before his eyes, Dean nearly breathed a sigh of relief. If the soul was gone, that meant that he would finally wake up from this horror. But once the soul flickered for the last time, Dean wasn’t gasping into wakefulness. His eyes turned to Alastair who was watching him with an amuse smirk curling his lips.
“You really didn’t think it would be that easy, did you? Oh, no, no, Dean. You know better than that.” The demon moved forward until he was close enough to touch Dean. He placed his hand on Dean’s left shoulder and gripped it tight. The pain emanated from his shoulder made his legs buckle and he fell to his knees.
Alastair smiled kindly (as kindly as a demon can) down at Dean and said, “Don’t forget all that you’ve learned, Dean-o. You’ll need to remember real soon.”
The stone walls quickly shifted and turned into the walls of the bedroom he slept in. Dean sat up suddenly and scrambled to the bathroom. He leaned over the toilet as his stomach rejected everything he’d eaten in the last day.
Once his stomach was empty, Dean washed out his mouth and spat out the water into the sink. He grabbed the bottle of mouthwash and swished a mouthful around for a bit, before turning his attention to the sharp pain in his shoulder. It throbbed like it had two years prior. He quickly hiked up the sleeve of his t-shirt to inspect his skin.
There was absolutely nothing marring his skin. It was as smooth as it had been the day Cas had healed him and removed his own handprint. But still the ache remained.
Leaning over the sink and gulping in huge breaths of air, Dean waited for his heartbeat to slow down into something that didn’t scream of an immediate heart attack. He could see the beginnings of a sunrise out of the window to his right.
Once out of the bathroom, Dean paused in the hallway. He considered going back to bed and lying down, because falling asleep was pointless, or making himself an extremely strong pot of coffee. He opted for the latter.
Dean blearily measured out the correct amount of coffee, and then added more for good measure. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water when he heard an eerily familiar sound behind him. Whipping around, Dean saw the angel Castiel sitting in one of Bobby’s kitchen chairs. He dropped the glass.
The angel smiled wanly up at him and said, “Hello, Dean.”
The Beginning - Part Two
All things considered, the Apocalypse had gone pretty well. When it all came down to it in that cemetery in Kansas, Sam had had the strength to push Lucifer aside, retake his own body, and pull Michael (and Adam, because we really shouldn’t forget about the youngest Winchester brother) down into the Pit with him. But apparently the Cage was something that was only meant to house celestial beings of the highest order. And human bodies and souls were not something that was included in this category, much to everyone’s surprise and instant relief.
The first thing Dean had seen after watching his brother (and Adam, although Dean didn’t quite think of Adam as a brother) fall into Hell was Castiel’s face as he crouched down in front of Dean and peered at him seriously. Dean looked up through his one seeing eye, the other one being completely swollen shut and watched the angel press two fingers to his forehead before popping completely out of existence. Dean didn’t even have time to ask the angel how the hell he wasn’t in little bits anymore.
But he didn’t dwell on that fact for very long. No, instead his eyes (yes, both of them now) were drawn to the tall figure standing where a giant void had been thirty seconds before. Beside him was a shorter and lankier figure.
Dean was up and running at his brother before he could remember standing up. Hitting the moose and grabbing him, Dean held onto Sam as tightly as he could.
Ω
And after that, things returned to what they were before the whole Seals and Apocalypse deal. They returned to how it had been before angels became a real and very prominent presence in Sam and Dean’s lives. It was almost like Dean had never even gone to hell. No longer was the wrath of archangels Dean’s worst nightmare. Hell, Dean had not even heard from Castiel since that day the Apocalypse had ended. It was like all the celestial beings had been wiped from the face of the earth and returned to... Heaven, Dean supposed. Where else would they go, anyway? Except for Michael and Lucifer, of course.
Three weeks after the Fall of Michael and Lucifer found Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Adam (which still startled Dean whenever he walked into a room with Adam in it) in Bobby’s house in Sioux Falls, all still reeling a bit from the anticlimactic outcome of it all.
“So, hear anything from Feathers lately?” Bobby asked Dean as they scoured books for a solution to a witch problem in Illinois.
Dean’s hand faltered a bit on its way to grab his beer bottle. “None,” he said shortly.
Castiel had become a rather sore subject for Dean since he’d disappeared and hadn’t sent any word or sign or fucking anything to alert the small group about what was going on in Heaven or what he himself was doing. Sam had already tried a few times to get Dean to talk about it, but Dean had successfully deflected any real conversation about the angel. He’d figured that since Cas had forgotten about him so easily, that he would do the same. Hell, even the handprint that had signified their “profound bond” was gone. So Dean said to hell with him and moved on. Or, well, to be honest, he’d tried to move on. He was still working on that.
“Well,” Bobby continued, “I suppose no news is good news. But it’d be nice if he’d send a postcard or something.”
Dean took a swig of his beer and returned to the book, where he tried to keep his thoughts on his utter and absolute hatred for all things witchy and away from a certain angel in a trench coat. Which didn’t work out too well, but he wasn’t going to dwell on that.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice coming in from the kitchen table. “I think I found something, guys,” Adam said.
Dean followed Bobby over to where Sam and Adam were sitting. This had turned out to be the normal arrangement for the group, with Sam sticking a lot closer to Adam than anyone else. Dean was slightly resentful of this fact, but since he didn’t want to be the one to deal with Adam, the role had fallen to Sam. They had turned out to be kindred spirits in more than just the whole ex-archangel-vessel thing, with Adam’s love for book knowledge (he, like Sam, had a lifetime membership to Geekdom International, according to Dean). And, to add the cherry on top, Sam took to being an older brother like a fish to water (despite his resentment, Dean felt a spark of pride for that). Dean was left in Bobby’s company, which he didn’t mind of course, but he missed the rhetoric that he and Sam had once had.
As he approached, Dean saw that Adam was pointing to an illustration in a book that looked older than the bible. The pages were worn so thin that they were translucent. Where did Bobby get all the books, anyway, Dean wondered.
“So, basically,” Sam began after scanning the page for a few moments, “all we have to do is get these ingredients and burn them during a crescent moon? That almost sounds too easy.”
“The less contact we have with these sons of bitches the better,” Dean said as he sidled up next to Sam.
“It shouldn’t take too much to get rid of them, Sam. They’re barely causing serious damage, compared to what a witch who’s three hundred years old can do, based on what this book is saying,” said Adam, glancing down at the book again.
“All right. So, how do we get this stuff?” Sam asked.
Ω
Despite the apparently easy fix, the ritual went to hell. Which didn’t surprise Dean. All their luck from the last five years went into stopping the Apocalypse, so of course nothing would be easy. After traveling nine hours to some podunk little town in Illinois, setting up the proper altar, and acquiring ingredients, the witch job ended with a curse on Dean and Adam stabbing the high priestess of the coven. Which had, thankfully, broken the curse on Dean. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever experienced before, even in Hell; he’d been bound by invisible ropes that started squeezing tighter every time he struggled. Dean had been left in the hotel room while the other three went out to track and kill the witches.
Dean rubbed his hands up and down his arms, still feeling the echo of ropes on his skin. Sam glanced over at him from the passenger side seat of the Impala. Despite being incapacitated for several hours, Dean had insisted on driving his baby back to South Dakota, in spite of Sam’s insistence that he was in no condition to do so. Dean’s stubbornness had won out.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Dean?” Sam asked for what felt like the hundredth time since they’d left Latham.
“Jesus, Sam. We haven’t even made it to Iowa, yet. And like I said the ninety-nine other times, I’m fine,” Dean growled at his brother, pressing the pedal down further. The Impala sped up with a jolt.
“You do realize that you haven’t stopped rubbing your left arm and shoulder for the last two hours?” Sam said with a touch of forced patience, as if he was dealing with a rather block-headed four year old.
Dean immediately stilled his right arm, which was rubbing his left just like Sam had said. Shit, he really hadn’t noticed that-not that Sam needed to know that. “Shut up. My shoulder’s sore, so of course I’m gonna rub it, bitch.”
Sam just rolled his eyes. “Sure thing, jerk.”
Dean concentrated on the flat highway back to Bobby’s.
Ω
Bobby and Adam pulled up in an old Ford truck just as Dean and Sam grabbed their duffle bags out of the trunk of the Impala. With a quick nod to Bobby, Dean headed into the house and straight up to the small bedroom he used whenever he and Sam stayed here. It was the closest Dean ever got to having his own room since that house in Lawrence. After throwing his duffle down beside the bed, Dean drew out of his over shirt and went over to the mirror. He pulled up the left sleeve of his t-shirt and examined his shoulder. The last time he had done this, he discovered a giant-ass handprint on him that apparently claimed his soul or some shit. But now, there was only smooth skin lightly sprinkled with freckles. There was not a single trace of the bright red brand of Castiel’s true hand. How long was that gone, Dean wondered. His mind flickered over the last time he had seen the angel. The last he’d seen of Cas was at Stull Cemetery, when Cas had healed him. And then left.
Dean tugged at his sleeve and trudged down the stairs .
Dean’s shoulder still stung viciously and he apparently wasn’t hiding that fact very well as Bobby asked, “You still hurting from those witches, boy?”
Dean rearranged his face into something happier. “Nah, Bobby. The food at that diner in Minnesota didn’t agree with me too well,” he replied as he pulled a beer out of the fridge.
Dean pulled out a chair and sat down, popping the cap off of his bottle. He took a long drink and when he looked up, Adam was awkwardly standing on the other side of the table.
“Can I help you?” Dean asked.
Adam’s mouth twitched nervously, but he steeled himself and went ahead anyway. “I’m really sorry about the whole curse deal. I think I got blood from the wrong species of doves, and-”
Dean held up his hand. “Adam, it’s fine. This kinda stuff happens- a lot, actually. I mean, fuckin’ witches, man. So, just chill, okay? It’s not your fault, unless you did it intentionally...” Dean let his voice trail off.
Adam rushed to deny the implication. “Oh, God, no. Dean, you know that I-” Adam stopped when he saw Dean was laughing. Instead of pulling a bitchface like Dean’s other brother was wont to do, Adam just chuckled. “Okay, I get it. No apologizing unless it’s hugely bad.”
Dean swallowed down another mouthful of beer. “You got it in one.”
The rest of the day was spent lazing around Bobby’s house, something that the Winchesters had not done since the whole Apocalypse deal had started. Dean spread out on the lumpy sofa and managed to find a Dr. Sexy marathon while Sam, Bobby, and Adam geeked out over some ancient books Bobby had just obtained. It was times like this that Dean didn’t really mind being left out.
Somewhere into the fourth episode of Dr. Sexy, Dean dozed off. He groggily came to and found the lights were off in the living room and everyone else seemed to have gone to bed. He clicked off the TV and went upstairs to turn in himself.
At first, Dean slept soundly and dreamlessly. But the quiet darkness of dreamless sleep slipped into real darkness.
Dean opened his eyes to see a long staircase somehow only leading down. Small flickering lights lit the descending path. As Dean drew closer to the top of the stairs, he saw the lights were in fact candles-but without the candle part. There were hundreds of tiny wicks lit with a flame growing out of the stone walls. Seeing the downwards path as the only way to go, Dean slowly crept down the stairs, hugging the walls and wishing for something-anything-to use to protect himself.
The pseudo-candles became fewer and further between the deeper Dean went into the crevice. But that was the only difference from up top. Everything was still, stagnant. The only things that moved were the flames and Dean himself. It was beyond eerie, it was disturbing, it reminded Dean of...
Gasping, Dean sat up in his bed, the sheets wet with his sweat. Dean put his head between his legs to stave off the nausea that had attacked him so suddenly when he had recognized the place he was in. He took a few shuddering breaths. He hadn’t seen that place in his dreams for months and months now. Ever since Lucifer had risen, he’d barely gotten any sleep, and when he did, his nights were either dreamless or filled with Lucifer wearing Sammy’s body to the prom and Dean’s meatsuit killing him. As anguishing as those dreams had been, they couldn’t compare with the ones like the dream-nightmare-he’d just woken up from.
Nothing could compare with memories.
Things weren’t going well in Heaven since Michael had descended with his little brother into the pits of Hell. And by “not going well” Castiel meant that the chaos that was now his responsibility to sort out was beginning to become extremely overwhelming. He’d always admired the structure and discipline of Heaven, as it was orderly and simple, so this new chaotic way of things almost made his head hurt, if it could do such a thing. Castiel was mostly on his own for “ruling” Heaven (that was how the rest of the angels saw it, but Castiel felt like he was babysitting a bunch of three-year-olds who had too much time on their hands). The only exception being a rather young angel named Samandriel. Samandriel had turned out to be a great scout for Castiel, and he was away for much of the time observing the activities of the Heavenly Host and only came back to report when something drastically needed Castiel’s personal attention. Which for the first few years was quite a bit.
Samandriel had mostly brought reports of other angels rebelling against Castiel’s newfound power. The main instigator of these rebellions was the archangel Raphael. But thankfully, such small insurrections were easily put down and Raphael killed early on. Since then, Samandriel’s reports came less and less frequently. The uprisings were much easier to deal with than Castiel initially thought they might be, but just over four years (or two Earth weeks) after Castiel had returned to Heaven, he suddenly discovered the presence of two more sets of wings, affectively making him an archangel. When Samandriel saw him that morning, he had fallen down into a prostration of devotion and claimed indubitably that Father saw what was going on in Heaven and had intervened.
A figure in the far corner of the great hall started clapping loudly and wolf-whistled as he approached. “Gotta say, Cassie, you’ve moved up in the world.”
Castiel stared blankly forward as his brother Gabriel stepped into the light, his own six wings of pure gold extending powerfully. “What-how-Gabriel, but Lucifer killed you. How are you here?” Castiel demanded.
Gabriel shrugged his shoulders and popped a sucker into his mouth. “Dunno, kiddo. One minute I was nothing and the next I was wandering around Ass-crack, Nebraska. How long was I outta commission?”
Castiel struggled for and answer for a moment, still utterly shocked at his brother’s appearance from the dead. “Uh, just over a month and a week Earth time, so about-”
“Eleven and a half years, celestial time.” Castiel nodded. Gabriel continued, “Well, lemme guess... Rafie is giving you some trouble about locking our eldest brother in the Pit, am I right? He always was horribly predictable.”
And after that, with the help of Gabriel, Heaven was restored to some semblance of order.
But a few years after Raphael was killed, a new wave of disorder descended on Heaven. This time, it was Castiel who’d instigated it. He’d expected the confusion; the angels were still trying to get used to Castiel’s new edict of “Free Will”. When he’d attempted to explain to them the concept, they were about as receptive as rocks. Many protested that their Father had created them to obey and serve Him and His Orders.
“What do you think got us all into this mess, in the first place, Mariel? That’s what we tried to do, but our Father left us on our own and it ended in chaos. We almost ended the world, for His sake!” Castiel snapped at the dour angel. He’d finally found the end to his dwindling patience. Was it truly that difficult? Yes, he himself had had some trouble understanding the notion at first, but it hadn’t taken nearly the same amount of time as the Heavenly Host.
After months and months of convincing, Gabriel had suggested that instead of giving the angels true free will, as Castiel intended, perhaps they should push for a more structured version.
“What are you suggesting, Gabriel?” Cas asked as he dropped bonelessly onto his chair in the great hall, more tired than he could recollect ever being before.
“Well, Cassie,” he began, licking the extra chocolate from his Twix bar off his fingers, “Instead of just giving the idiots out there a decree of ‘you’ve followed orders enough, just go do whatever the fuck you want’-which I’ll admit is true, but after, what, six thousand millennia, I just don’t think it’s gonna fly.” He snapped his fingers and another candy bar-Snickers this time-appeared in his hand.
“So...?” Castiel prompted, his impatience growing, much to Gabriel’s delight. He slowly took a bite of the candy bar and savored it slowly.
“So, dear brother,” he began with his mouth full, “perhaps telling them to go do, I dunno, good might be the right kind of angle to take with that bunch. And lay out a few basics. Like, no smiting humans, only evil supernatural creatures like demons and wendigos and shit like that. And healing some of those who’ve been praying a lot. And who deserve it, of course. Can’t go upsetting that balance too much, now can we?”
Castiel mulled over the idea for a few moments (which translated into a few Earth hours). It wasn’t exactly what he had planned for, but at this point, he was running out of options. Plus Gabriel was right; the concept of obedience and servitude was too deeply embedded within the Heavenly Host to turn it into a host of angels with free will. They didn’t have a Dean Winchester to teach them the concept through human eyes and actions. And that seems to have made all the difference, at least when it came to Castiel.
Sitting up straighter in his throne-like chair, Castiel said, “Time to issue an amended decree then, I suppose.” He stood and walked out of the marble hall.
Gabriel watched him go, chewing on his latest treat. Dean Winchester had made all the difference, indeed.
Ω
Castiel stood atop the Empyrean Stairs and sent a message to the entire Host to convene. Nearly instantly, Castiel could see the whole Host crowded in front of him, save Gabriel who waltzed in and leaned casually up against a pillar, hidden from the Host. He took a breath and steeled himself. It was one thing to rule Heaven from inside a hall, but to see the entire Host and the true visual representation of his responsibility still shook him.
Looking out, Castiel began, “I have amended my last decree. To best serve Heaven and our Father, we all shall go out into the world and do good. The Earth is full of darkness cast by not just the humans, but others with more malicious intent, such as demons-” at the word, a low hiss resounded and several angels’ wings flared swiftly. Castiel paused until the excitement burned out. “And other evil creatures that walk the Earth. They have been allowed to crawl among our Father’s beloved world and creatures, mostly unchecked, for far too long. Balance must be put back in place, and going down to Earth is how it shall be done.”
A shocked silence answered Castiel. Many of the nearest angels tried to hide their hesitancy, but the fluttering of wings betrayed them.
“So our orders are to leave Heaven?” A voice questioned politely, asking the question that the rest of the Host was too afraid and too timid to ask. Samandriel, then. Castiel smiled.
“No, Samandriel. I am not casting everyone out of Heaven. You all will not be forced to live on Earth permanently or anything of the sort. No, instead you all should visit periodically to do good. If the entire Host was to simply converge on Earth, there would be mass panic. We must do good, but without drawing attention to ourselves. We do not wish to disrupt any careful peace that has settled on Earth.” And with a nod Castiel dismissed the Host, who vanished immediately.
“Well, I gotta say Cassie. Dad should have made you the top archangel from the get-go. That almost looked easy.” Gabriel straightened up and made his way towards the young archangel.
Castiel simply shrugged in reply. For as much that had gone well since he came back to Heaven, it hadn’t made him any happier or more content. Fixing Heaven was just another duty that needed to be fulfilled in his eyes.
Gabriel saw the resignation that spread out across Castiel’s face, and sighed to himself. “Walk with me, Castiel.” And he descended the Stairs while Castiel followed.
Gabriel led them down into one of the smaller gardens that was hidden amongst the various grand halls. Deftly avoiding branches of trees and leaves of ferns, Castiel found himself suddenly in a small meadow. Gabriel sat down on one of the two obsidian benches. He gestured Castiel to sit as well. Once Castiel had done so, he looked over into Gabriel’s face. Gone were the easy smiles and crinkled eyes. In their place sat dark somber gray eyes and a mouth set in a straight line. He was almost unrecognizable to Castiel.
Confused, Castiel asked, “What is it, Gabriel?”
Gabriel pursed his lips before beginning. “How long has it been since you left Earth, Castiel?”
“Just over thirty-five years.”
“So right around four Earth months, then.” Gabriel sighed. “Castiel, you’re not happy here, doing this work.”
“That is of no import. It is my duty. I brought this on Heaven and it is my responsibility to look after it,” Castiel replied.
“Duty or not, you are not happy nor content with remaining in Heaven, overseeing the Host. It’s not like you were originally intended to do this, anyway.”
“Gabriel, where are you going with this? So what if that was not originally in Father’s plan. Apparently the Apocalypse was, and look where we are now. So what if I’m not content? There are things that must be done. My happiness is worth nothing compared to the order of Heaven.”
Gabriel leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Yes, Cas, but you just told the rest of the Host to go out onto Earth and do good. Why should you be the one to remain here?”
“Someone needs to run Heaven and I no longer have any reason to visit Earth. There are more than enough angels to go do good. After taking the reigns of Heaven, those reigns became bindings that tie me to Heaven. You know this. You know Michael was also bound as such.”
Gabriel looked sharply at Castiel and suddenly sat up straight. “Castiel, this is me telling you that you are wrong. But you are needed on Earth, and soon, too.”
Castiel tilted his head in confusion and looked up to Gabriel, who had stood up. “What do you mean?” Castiel asked.
Gabriel didn’t acknowledge his question, and proceeded to say, “I, the Archangel Gabriel, being the eldest angel of the Heavenly Host, do remove the ties binding the Archangel Castiel to Heaven and take them upon myself.”
Castiel stood up. This had never been done before. What was Gabriel doing? But before Castiel could reach Gabriel, he was struck by something white and hot. He fell to his knees in pain, but still looked up to Gabriel. There was the scent of ozone in the air (lightning, he thought, lightning is what hit me. How was there lightning in Heaven?) Another bolt of lightning flashed above them in the sky, this time striking Gabriel. But he did not fall, the lightning flared out within him, lighting up the veins of his grace and extending all three pairs of his wings. Castiel looked up at him in awe and terror. Gabriel’s eyes filled with light as he turned towards Castiel.
“Castiel, return to Earth and I will stay here in your stead.” Somehow, his mouth quirked up at one end. “Yes, that is an order. Go, Castiel, and be happy.”
Castiel, eyes wide, slowly nodded and vanished.
Alone in the meadow, the light faded from Gabriel’s body. “I only hope he is in time,” he murmured to himself.
Ω
Castiel appeared in the great hall, where Samandriel was waiting. When Samandriel saw him, he said, “Castiel... you look different.”
Castiel took a deep, unnecessary, calming breath. “I am no longer ‘Ruler’.”
“But, how can that be? You’re the only one who could!” Samandriel said, shocked.
“It seems Gabriel has reassigned me. To Earth.”
“Gabriel has taken the mantle? The Messenger, truly?”
“It seems so. I’m sorry, Samandriel, but I must go before he finds me here. He ordered me to Earth immediately. I only wished to say goodbye.”
Samandriel smiled warmly at his commander. “It is only for a little while, Castiel. I shall see you again.”
With a nod, Castiel flew to Earth.
“Shit, you look like you haven’t slept in days,” a woman’s voice said as she slipped onto the barstool next to Dean.
Dean turned, ready to deflect another woman’s attentions, when he saw that it was Sheriff Jody Mills who had sat down next to him. Dean turned back to his beer. “Hey, Sheriff. How are ya?” He asked before taking a gulp of the brew.
Jody signaled to the bartender, a college co-ed that had tried to talk Dean up when he first had first arrived, for her usual. “Better than you, apparently. Seriously, Dean, you look like the cat dragged you in after spitting you out. Everything all right?”
The bartender brought the sheriff her drink without sparing a glance for Dean, which he was grateful for, as he had spurned her over two hours ago and she’d focused her attentions on some bikers down the bar.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Bobby’s fine. Adam’s fine. Even Sammy’s fine.” He finished off his beer and managed to catch the bartender’s eye for a refill.
“I see you left yourself off that list,” Jody replied.
Dean just shrugged. “Haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
Jody sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping her own drink.
When Dean was halfway through his fourth drink of the night, Jody said, “Anything you wanna talk about? I know that something big happened a few months ago to you boys. Bobby didn’t give me any sort of details, just that things would calm down a bit now.”
“Thanks for the offer, Sheriff, but Sammy’s the one who likes to talk about his feelings, not me.”
“Maybe you should follow his example. Where is he tonight, anyway? I thought you two were almost conjoined at the hip.”
Dean snorted. “He and Adam just got back from a job. They were out east for a while.” Dean took another long drink.
“Hmm...” Jody murmured. She checked her watch. “Well, I better get going. It’s getting pretty late.” She stood up and paid the bartender. Before leaving, she peered down at Dean. His shoulders were slumped low, his elbows wide on the bar. She could almost see the tightness in his back. From what little she’d seen of his eyes during their conversation, she could tell that they were obviously red. “Okay, kiddo, I think it’s time you left as well. Wouldn’t want Bobby to worry, or anything.”
Dean shot her an exasperated look. He was completely prepared to drink himself into a stupor and lay in the Impala until he was sober enough to drive.
“Don’t make me make it official and drag you out in handcuffs.”
He wasn’t all that willing to fight her on this, as he was dead tired. Maybe tired enough to actually sleep tonight, he thought. So, he stood up and threw a wad of bills on the bar to cover his tab. He followed Jody out into the parking lot to where their cars were parked next to each other.
She watched as he stumbled out of the door. “I don’t think you should be driving tonight, Dean. In fact, if you did, I’d have to pull you over.”
“I’ll just sit and wait it out, thanks,” Dean replied tiredly.
“I’m going to call Sam for you. I don’t want to see you out on the road.” She unlocked her car and said, “Have a good night, Dean. Try to get some sleep. You really need it.”
“‘Night, Sheriff,” he replied as he got into the Impala. He leaned against his seat, his head tilted towards the ceiling. He let his eyes fall shut but instantly regretted it. Images from his latest nightmare flashed behind his eyelids. It had been a young man who had made a demon deal for good grades through college. The guy had reminded Dean too much of Sam and his hand had shaken the tiniest bit as he cut into him.
Shaking his head, Dean tried to focus on something else, anything to keep his mind away from the nightly terrors he had. Immediately, his thoughts fell to Castiel. He wondered what the angel was doing then, what could possibly be so fucking important that he couldn’t pop down for a minute to see Dean, to let him know that he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere with his wings burned into the grass. Dean slammed his hands onto the steering wheel, trying as hard as he could to ignore the gaping feeling in his chest as his friend’s abandonment.
He slowly breathed in and out as he saw the headlights of one of Bobby’s trucks.
Ω
The drive back to Bobby’s house went entirely too quickly for Dean’s liking. He spent the whole twenty minute trip dreading sleep. By the time Adam pulled into Bobby’s driveway, he had his mind set on finding the strongest booze in the house and drinking until he passed out. It hadn’t worked the other times, but hey, maybe tenth time’s the charm.
After slamming the car door shut, Dean plodded up the stairs of the porch and quietly opened the door. Dean heard Sam pull up behind the truck in the Impala. Despite his general irritation, he was glad that Sam had thought far enough ahead to bring Adam along so someone could drive the Impala back. Dean didn’t like the idea of letting his baby sit in a parking lot all night.
Bobby was sitting behind his desk, hanging up the phone, when Dean passed him to the kitchen to raid the liquor cabinet.
“Hey, Bobby.”
“You’re back earlier than I thought you’d be,” Bobby said as he shuffled around some papers.
Dean shrugged and kept going towards the kitchen. Bobby seemed to find whatever he was looking for and reached for the phone.
Dean was just reaching for the bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet when he heard Bobby say, “Yeah, Sam, he’s about the same. I think he’s still not sleeping much.” There was a pause. Bobby let out a low whistle. “He did? Damn, that kid is a quick learner. Faster than you two, anyway. Well, it’s a good thing he’s with you, then, since Dean’s...” He trailed off.
Dean ground his teeth together. Looks like Sam doesn’t need him anymore, since Adam’s so great at everything. Goddammit, he was fine. So what if he didn’t sleep much? It’s not like he’d slept well since Dad had died anyway.
Instead of sticking around to hear whatever shit they had to say about him, Dean grabbed the bottle of whiskey and clunked his way upstairs.
Ω
When Dean opened his eyes to see not the inside of his bedroom, but instead the doorway of the stone cavern that he inhabited for nearly forty years, he decided that whiskey didn’t help. It seemed that no matter what he did, he still “woke up” here.
His legs propelled him forward through the low entrance. He had tried several times to change his course in the dream, but every night he still ducked through the doorway and into the cavern. Once inside, he attempted to not look to see who would be on the table tonight. But, like his legs, his neck did not obey his brain’s command.
Before him lay the soul of an old man. His face was riddled with the kind of wrinkles that did not come from smiling, but from stress and worry. Among the waves of flesh used to lie a strong chin accompanied by an even stronger nose. But these dominating features had been lost to time and death. The man was shaking visibly on the table, muttering something to himself.
As Dean approached, he could hear the man’s voice. He was murmuring the Lord’s Prayer in a thick accent. Dean remembered this soul very well. The man had lived a long, full life. He had lived in Germany for all his life as a farm worker. He had been an ardent Nazi supporter in all the ways that made Dean internally shudder.
He’d tortured the man’s wife, Lina, the night before.
Dean sat in the backseat in his own body as he reached the man’s side, unable blink if he wanted to, let alone to stop himself. Next to the metal table housing the man, there was a tray full of blades, matches, chains, and other things that Dean would use to strip this man apart.
Dean picked up a thin blade and studied it. It was long enough to slice through the muscle of the abdomen but not deep enough to gut him completely. He dipped the blade into the jar of water provided and coated it in the shallow tray of salt-just to make the wound sting that much more. Objectively, it was rather convenient in Hell that the soul could not just die and stop their punishment. Dean placed the knife point at the top of the man’s sternum and slowly cut in and down, along the breastbone. The man screamed.
Once he was done opening up the man’s chest in a way that was reminiscent of an autopsy, Dean stepped away and prepared a syringe. The man breathlessly started begging him to stop, to just end it all, to just kill him. Dean squirted a small amount of the green-ish liquid out of the syringe to remove any air bubbles. He stepped back over to the man and located the frantically-beating heart within the ribcage. He plunged the needed into the man’s heart and pressed the lever down.
The man seized as the concoction sped through his entire circulatory system. He would have about thirty minutes until the hemlock mixture did its job and killed the man. Placing the syringe back on the tray, Dean chose another blade to turn the man to pieces with.
As he was cutting a steady, straight line from the tip of the man’s pinky to his elbow, a man stepped out of the shadows.
“I see your lovely little brew is doing its trick. It was ever so clever of you to use hemlock as the main ingredient. Did I ever tell you how proud of you I was when you first used it successfully?” Alastair asked.
Dean continued cutting, unable to respond in any way. In his memory, Alastair hadn’t been here for this victim, and so he was incapable of going off-script, apparently.
Alastair chuckled. “But I suppose you can’t quite answer, can you Dean? Oops, I did it again,” he half-sang.
Dean moved on from the man’s forearm to his opposite leg. The man gurgled through the pain, the hemlock coursing through his veins nicely.
“I don’t think I ever told you what he did, did I? Oho, he was a baddie, that’s for sure. If I recall correctly, which I do, all I told you was that he was from Germany. Hmm, well, he lived during very strange time in Germany. He was around for that whole World War II and Nazi shing-dig. Nasty, nasty fellow.” Alastair moved from his place near the wall and came closer to inspect Dean’s work.
“When you were in Hell your work was just exquisite, only bested by my own, of course. I couldn’t have the student outdo their master before they became fully demon, now could I?” He chuckled.
Dean was screaming in his head to wake up, to stop cutting up the German man, to just get away from it all. But it fell on his own deaf ears. This was the worst part of his nightmares: he was trapped in them until his own fucked up mind let him out. It seemed that he wasn’t going to get out of it easy tonight.
“Ah, but I digress. As I was saying, this guy right here,” Alastair tapped the babbling man on the nose, “he was the beginning of a program back then. Something called, oh what was it...”Alastair stroked his chin in false forgetfulness. “Aha! Action T4. Yes, this man right here, and his wife, you remember her, wrote a letter straight to Herr Hitler himself to get rid of their child. Seems odd, doesn’t it?”
Dean curled in on himself within his mind. He didn’t want to hear this; didn’t want to know this. Knowing what the man had done gave him a purpose for the torture. A reason to feel good about tearing this soul apart. But no matter how far inside his head he retreated, Alastair’s words still reached him.
“You see, Dean, he and his wife had a son who was a bit off. Missing a leg or two and an arm. They thought that he should just be ‘put asleep’. Seems it was illegal at that time, so they asked dear old Uncle Hitler to change the law. And guess what?” He asked in a baby tone. “It worked!”
The man’s heartbeat was slowing. Dean set down the blade and watched as the man gasped for air as his heart failed him. Soon, the lungs would follow, and then the brain. When he was in the Pit, Dean had found this part of his work to be the most interesting, these last few moments as a being before dying. Since Dean was not going to immediately resurrect the man as Alastair had done countless times to him, the soul would fade into nothing.
As the soul disintegrated before his eyes, Dean nearly breathed a sigh of relief. If the soul was gone, that meant that he would finally wake up from this horror. But once the soul flickered for the last time, Dean wasn’t gasping into wakefulness. His eyes turned to Alastair who was watching him with an amuse smirk curling his lips.
“You really didn’t think it would be that easy, did you? Oh, no, no, Dean. You know better than that.” The demon moved forward until he was close enough to touch Dean. He placed his hand on Dean’s left shoulder and gripped it tight. The pain emanated from his shoulder made his legs buckle and he fell to his knees.
Alastair smiled kindly (as kindly as a demon can) down at Dean and said, “Don’t forget all that you’ve learned, Dean-o. You’ll need to remember real soon.”
The stone walls quickly shifted and turned into the walls of the bedroom he slept in. Dean sat up suddenly and scrambled to the bathroom. He leaned over the toilet as his stomach rejected everything he’d eaten in the last day.
Once his stomach was empty, Dean washed out his mouth and spat out the water into the sink. He grabbed the bottle of mouthwash and swished a mouthful around for a bit, before turning his attention to the sharp pain in his shoulder. It throbbed like it had two years prior. He quickly hiked up the sleeve of his t-shirt to inspect his skin.
There was absolutely nothing marring his skin. It was as smooth as it had been the day Cas had healed him and removed his own handprint. But still the ache remained.
Leaning over the sink and gulping in huge breaths of air, Dean waited for his heartbeat to slow down into something that didn’t scream of an immediate heart attack. He could see the beginnings of a sunrise out of the window to his right.
Once out of the bathroom, Dean paused in the hallway. He considered going back to bed and lying down, because falling asleep was pointless, or making himself an extremely strong pot of coffee. He opted for the latter.
Dean blearily measured out the correct amount of coffee, and then added more for good measure. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water when he heard an eerily familiar sound behind him. Whipping around, Dean saw the angel Castiel sitting in one of Bobby’s kitchen chairs. He dropped the glass.
The angel smiled wanly up at him and said, “Hello, Dean.”
The Beginning - Part Two