fic: One For Sorrow
Title: One for Sorrow
Characters/pairings: Castiel, Dean, Sam; gen
Rating/warnings: PG-13/spoilers for up to 7.10; character death
Word count: ~6,200
Summary: Castiel comes back in the form of a bird. He takes it upon himself to watch out for Sam and Dean however he can.
Notes: I'm using this as a fill for the Fairy tales & folklore spot on my angst_bingo card because, well, there's a lot of folklore about magpies, and it plays into this, and yeah. Title comes from the old nursery rhyme that starts that way.
Today I slipped while exercising and slammed my chin against a cement floor. I blame any missed typos on the small possibility that I have a concussion.
This is how Castiel comes back the first time: his eyes snap open and close quickly against bright, burning sunlight, and when he can think properly, he finds himself lying on his back in a field somewhere in Italy. His vessel is one identical to Jimmy Novak, but lacking the soul of the man who once lived there. As though all of the atoms have been knit back together, but the soul within has been allowed to float up to Heaven, mercifully free.
He does not remember what death was like, for the few hours that, by Earth’s time, he was gone. But he does recall a hearing a soft sort of whisper when he first opened up his resurrected eyes. It was gone with a reflexive blink, though; and Castiel passes it off as a mild hallucination, a side effect of coming back to life. Part of him wants very much to believe that it was the touch of his Father, bringing him back into His kingdom, but Castiel is practical, and he knows that he is not worthy of seeing God.
The second time that he comes back is similar to the first. Again, he doesn’t remember the aftermath of Lucifer snapping his fingers and blowing him apart. That’s something that he ponders later, wondering if there is no afterlife for angels, as is commonly regarded to be true. He decides that that’s probably right, even though plenty of other widely-believed things have been disproven in recent times.
And then things happen, and Castiel dies for the third time, shedding his essence along with the rest of the Purgatory souls. This death is the most painful one yet because, unlike the other two, it is tainted with the bitter tinge of regret. He thinks, as he feels his Grace being torn to pieces and his vessel being claimed by Leviathans, that perhaps it is for the best that he dies: Dean will not forgive him-and rightfully so-and it would be worse to have to face his anger in life than it would be to avoid it with death.
His last thought is that he is going to die as a coward, and that he probably lived as one as well.
*
Castiel comes back at sunset precisely four months after his third death, and two weeks post the death of Robert Singer. It is a Thursday. He is Graceless, but his knowledge of himself and his surroundings has not faded. He knows that he is Castiel, that he was once a soldier in the garrisons of Heaven, and that he died after betraying two brothers.
He also knows this: he is no longer in the human body he had long inhabited. For reasons that he cannot even begin to speculate upon, his Father has brought him back in the form of a bird.
Castiel comes to by finding himself in a small nest. For a moment he feels power and light in it; traces of the hands by which it was constructed, but they fade quickly. It is, to an outsider, just a pile of twigs.
Cautiously, he stretches his wings. They’re muscular and strong. His Father gave him the form of a bird in its prime, then.
For some time, Castiel stays in the nest. He contemplates existence and resurrection; why he should be brought back now, of all times, particularly after the havoc that he wreaked upon the world. After the pain that he caused, to Sam, to Dean, and to countless others whose names he did not care to know, and all of it in a misguided attempt at claiming his Father’s name. Castiel knows that he has done nothing to warrant His forgiveness. To die, to truly stop existing, would be the only punishment that could possibly fit. And while Castiel knows that it is hardly his place to question his Father, he cannot see the judgment or the justification in giving him another chance at life.
But then Castiel feels a pull, and he recognizes, with some surprise, that he can sense Dean Winchester. He feels his location as strongly as he could if Dean were praying for him, asking for him to come.
So Castiel does the only thing that he can do, having no other knowledge of what, exactly, he’s expected to accomplish with this new, third chance: he spreads his wings and he flies towards Dean.
*
Dean is staring out the window with bleary eyes and a flask of cheap whiskey in his hand when the bird lands on the car-of-the-week.
There’s nothing special about the bird (or the car, for that matter; it’s a cheap, beat-up piece of crap Civic that he probably did someone a favor by taking). Not at first, anyway. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but it doesn’t look like there’s anything spectacular about the size of it or anything.
For a moment, Dean thinks that it’s watching him, but he dismisses that idea as coming from his mildly-paranoid, alcohol-drenched mind. It’s just a bird, he thinks groggily, as his ability to think slowly fades into the white noise of sleep, and some hilariously sarcastic part of him that remembers the poetry units of his high-school English classes adds, only that and nothing more.
*
The bird is still there when he wakes up, still sitting on the hood of his car, staring at him. It’s the first thing that Dean sees when he comes to, tired and hung over.
He squints at it, trying to get a proper look despite the intensity of the light outside, and the effect that it has on his pounding head. It was that brightness that woke him. Sam must have pulled the curtains open before he went out running, the ass.
On top of the Civic, the bird shifts its wings, like it knows that it’s being observed. It’s a weird-looking thing, not a species that Dean instantly recognizes. Which is understandable, of course; he’s never really been interested in distinguishing one feathered thing from the next. But he can tell a blue-jay from a blackbird. This isn’t the sort of bird that he’s seen before.
For one thing, its feathers are a weird combination of colors. It’s got a black hood for its head, something that contrasts sharply with the snowy whiteness of its breast. Dean doesn’t know much about birds, but he has to admit that it’s a striking combination.
He swings his heavy legs over the side of his bed, forcing himself to get up and take a closer look at it. It stops moving as he approaches, could be some sort of bizarre bird-ish hood ornament.
Dean’s breath catches. The tips of its wings are a brilliant, bright blue, deeper than those of any jay he’s ever seen.
It adjusts itself, like it knows it’s being scrutinized. There’s an air of something around it, intelligence or sentience, and no matter how often he’s seen monsters that look like ordinary animals, it kind of freaks him out. It takes all he’s got to not just grab his sawed-off and blow the thing to a pile of feathers right now.
He’s being crazy, he thinks, forcing himself to turn away from it. It’s just some bird that’s taken up nesting on top of the piece-of-crap car that he hotwired from the 7-11 two states over. He’s got no proof that there’s anything strange about it.
Still, as he heads off to wash the sleep from his face, he can’t help but have a lingering feeling of unsettledness, like the bird is still there, still watching through the window for some reason that he can’t possibly comprehend.
*
"There's a bird on your car," Sam says when Dean walks out of the bathroom. He's touching his toes, or trying to. The grey sweats that he's wearing have stains around the armpits; Dean will never understand what he sees in jogging.
"Frigging thing's been there since last night." Dean collapses on his unmade bed and stares out the window. The bird looks back impassively-which is probably understandable because let's face it, how exactly is a bird supposed to show emotion? "Does there seem something… weird about it to you? Like something's off?"
"Besides the fact that it's a magpie? No, not really."
"A magpie." Dean nods, looking at the bird. He doesn't get the significance of that, but okay. "How can you tell?"
Sam shrugs, looking embarrassed. "Remember when I was twelve and I really liked birds? I took in a lot from then." He finally gives up his attempt to reach the ground without bending his knees. "Anyway, it's kind of strange to see them around here. They're way more common in Europe. And anyway, we're in Alabama. Pretty sure that magpies aren't native to Alabama."
"Think I should shoot it?" Dean asks, recognizing how crazy he sounds even as the words slip from his mouth. The look that Sam gives him just confirms it.
"Dean, it's a bird. I don't think it's out to get us. I mean, it didn't try to attack me when I came in or anything." He leans against the entrance to the bathroom. "Why is it bothering you?"
"I don't know." Dean shakes his head. "There's just something about it that's… weird. I mean, birds aren't supposed to stay overnight on the same car, are they? They, you know, fly and all that shit."
"Well, usually. But I don't think it's that strange. Maybe it's hurt or something." As Sam walks into the bathroom he calls out, "If it follows us, then I'll go and look up the lore on magpies, okay?"
"Fine," Dean answers. He closes his eyes, waiting for Sam to be ready to leave, and pretends that he can't feel the weight of the bird's beady black eyes upon him.
*
When Sam and Dean exit from their motel, Castiel is waiting for them.
He is very good at waiting-has been doing so since last night, since he found the motel where they had set down, found the car over which Dean's essence was spread.
It was good to see them again, to have solid proof that they are alive. He hadn't realized before how utterly fearful he had been that his actions had somehow caused their deaths, and the pull that he felt was just some cruel trick. Or, different but no less painful to contemplate, that what he did to Sam had permanently incapacitated him. It had relieved him beyond measure to see Sam exercising, acting normally.
But now they're out here, and both of them are watching him. Sam looks on with more curiosity, Dean with more wariness, but what matters is that they're both watching him.
Castiel spreads his wings out, an imitation of what happened the first time that he met Dean. He doesn't know if this will work, has his very strong doubts that it will, but it's the most that he's got right now. His Father has not deemed him worthy of speech, and so his options for communicating with the Winchesters are limited rather severely.
"What the hell is it doing?" asks Dean, looking at him with suspicious scorn. "Looks like a mating dance."
Okay. So this isn't working. Castiel drops his wings, stills all the bones in his body, and just looks at them, focusing on Dean. He wills them to see him, to understand who he is.
"Look, it's just a bird," Sam says. "I mean, it's kinda strange that it's up here, and that it spent all night on your car, since it doesn't seem to be hurt, but...." he shakes his head. "I'm pretty sure it isn't evil."
"Yeah. Maybe not." Dean regards Castiel for a moment longer, frowning. "Still seems weird, though. Shoo, birdy." He waves at Castiel. "Car's a piece of shit, but you can't have it. Get away."
So Castiel flies up and rests on the motel, because what else can he do? They just think that he's some ordinary bird and, for the moment, he has no way of convincing them otherwise. All he can do is fly and follow them, and hope that they eventually get the message.
Sam and Dean's gazes follow him upwards. "Guess there's no point in shooting it," Dean says. "The owners would probably throw a fit if I blasted a hole in their roof."
"Yeah, I don't think that it's a good idea to bring out the shotguns just yet." Sam turns back to the car. "C'mon. We better get on the road now, if we want to start that case tomorrow."
"I know." Still, Dean pauses for another moment, just staring at Castiel. He looks back, willing him to understand, to see what's right before him. But for all that Dean chastised him for his habit of staring too long, he is still unable to make that connection.
Dean turns away and slips into his car, and when he starts to drive Castiel takes wing, intent on following. He's turned his back and left enough times in his life. This time he follows Sam and Dean, set on staying with them, whether or not they recognize him. It's all he can do right now, really, and so he'll do it to the best of his ability.
*
When Dean steps out of the Dirty Water Motel, looking to breathe some air that isn't stale and scented vaguely like vomit, he sees the bird waiting for him.
It's in the same place as last time, just sitting on top of the car. It looks mildly reproachful-don't even ask him how the hell a bird manages that; it just does.
He stares at it for a moment. The bird stares back.
Dean turns around and walks back inside the motel. "Sam?" he says. "Either you get researching the magpie lore or I'm getting my sawed-off and killing the fucking thing that's sitting on top of the car."
Sam, who was just powering up his laptop to figure out how to deal with the current boo hag situation, frowns and starts typing away on the laptop. "I'll get right on it."
*
Sometime later, Sam says, "Dean, there's no solid lore on magpies. In England, they're bad omens. Seeing them can mean that someone's going to die."
"Few weeks too late for that," Dean mutters, fingering the flask at his side.
"Well, they're good luck in China. Their feathers are used to symbolize fearlessness in some Native cultures. Maybe that cancels things out."
"But there's nothing about them being, like, demonic? Evil, I mean." This motel doesn't have windows, but Dean can just feel it waiting there, watching them with some sort of magpie-ray vision. He'd bet his life that it's still sitting on top of his car.
"In some Scottish lore, they carry a drop of the devil's blood with them. And other places say that magpies were the only birds not to sing to Jesus when he was on the cross. But like I said, there's a lot of conflicting stuff on them. And I never heard of a bird haunting." Sam glances up at him and shrugs. "I don't know. I mean, normally I'd say better safe than sorry, but…it's a bird, Dean."
"That's following us. That doesn't set off any alarms in your head?"
"But is it malicious? I mean, there is a ton of stuff out there on, like, familiars and animal guardians. That sort of thing. I don't know, maybe we're lucky." Sam shrugs again. "Let's face it, it's not acting evil. I don't think it's a Leviabird or something. Maybe we're lucky. Maybe it's good."
"When's luck ever been on our sides?" Dean can't pretend that the bird seems evil, of course. Besides the fact that it's stalking them, it hasn't done anything near malicious-hasn't pecked out his eyes when it had the chance, or gotten its friends to go all Hitchcock on he and Sam. But that doesn't mean it's good, and anyway, he's in the business of putting down anything unnatural. 'Cause otherwise they'll just pretend they're your friend, and then go behind your back, and hurt your brother, and then get killed. "I'm shooting it. Tonight."
Sam sighs. "I still think that's overkill, but if you can do it without being caught…"
"It's a frigging bird, Sam. How hard can it be to gank?"
*
The bird isn't there when they go out to deal with the boo hag. It doesn't show up when they get back, either, although that might just be because it's pouring outside, an un-Mississippi-like deluge of freezing rain that soaks through their clothes and drenches their skin as soon as they step outside of the car.
"Maybe it's gone," Sam says dubiously as Dean looks around the dark parking lot for a sign of blue feathers. "It could've just been a normal bird, Dean."
"Bull," he says grimly, his teeth chattering in the cold. "It's watching us. I'm sure it is, Sam."
His brother just sighs and shakes his head, causing a mini-flood to pour from his hair. "Let's grab some rest. If it's there in the morning, we'll deal with it then."
*
It is.
They don’t.
Sam gets up first, goes out to do his hippy running thing despite how puddled and worm-ridden the ground must be. But by the time Dean wakes up, Sam is all done. In fact, he's all showered up and everything. He's standing out in the parking lot, feeding the magpie some form of crumbs.
"Sam," Dean says flatly, squinting against the bright morning sunlight, "We don't usually feed the creepy stalker birds, okay?"
The bird glances up once at him, seems to hesitate, and then goes back to eating the stuff in Sam's hand, which Dean thinks might be leftover burger bun from last night. His brother just rolls his eyes at the comment. "I don't think it's evil."
"What, 'cause it's eating? Plenty of things need food to live. Doesn't make them good."
"It was sitting out on the car when I came back, completely soaked. It was out here all night, Dean, and it looked pathetic. I felt bad, so I grabbed some of the stuff that we had left, and, well…" He shrugs. "It just doesn't feel evil. I know there's no litmus test to see if a bird is bad or not, but I really, really don't think it is."
"You think a normal magpie just starts eating from a stranger's hand?" Dean resists the urge to lean over and snap its neck while it's distracted, although God alone knows why. "I'm no wildlife expert myself, Sam, but I'm pretty sure that's not how they usually are."
"Well, I didn't say it was normal." The crumbs gone, he brushes off his hands and drops them to his side. The bird regards them both for a moment, and then takes flight, ruining whatever opportunity Dean would have had to kill it. "Just, I don't think it's bad, Dean. Face it, we don't have any cause to think that it's hurting people. All it did was follow us. What the hell, maybe it is a normal bird. Maybe it just took a liking to us, you know?"
Dean takes pains to not bring up Amy, not mention Sam's unfortunate habit of sympathizing with innocent-looking things, and how it rarely ends well. "No. No, I don't know. And if I see that damn thing hanging around again, I'm going to fucking kill it. You here that?" he yells at the bird, feeling really frigging stupid as he does, because okay, he probably looks kind of crazy, yelling up at a small black shape that's flying above. But still, he's pretty sure that it can understand him.
Sam sighs and shakes his head. "Let's just go. If it has any sense, it'll stay away from you."
"Damn right it will." He looks up again, but it's disappeared from sight. "It fucking better."
*
They don't recognize him.
This does not surprise Castiel - indeed, he wasn't foolish enough to think that they would instantly see him for who he was; knew that his current form didn't lend itself to recognition. But a part of him had hoped beyond reason that somehow, for some reason, Sam and Dean would be able to know that he wasn't just some bird, some insignificant creature prone to following cars.
Of course, he supposes that they have recognized that, to some extent. It just hasn't panned out in the way he was hoping. Particularly in the way that Dean has become convinced that he's evil, some sort of hellish monster (and maybe that's not far from the truth; maybe that's how Dean would see him, if he knew. Castiel has not bothered to entertain hopes of forgiveness; even he is not so foolishly optimistic).
Still, Castiel has nowhere else to go, and he still feels some modicum of responsibility for the Winchesters' fates. And Sam, at least, has not taken unkindly to his presence; he was kind enough to offer Castiel nourishment after the severely uncomfortable rainstorm, after all. So, with that in mind, Castiel follows the car that Dean drives. He follows him when he dumps that car on a dark city street and jumps over to another one that was parked outside of a nightclub with bright neon lights.
He flies when it rains, and when it snows, and he doesn't ever let the weather or the late hours stop him, even though his Graceless state often makes him want to find somewhere to just fold his wings and nest. Sometimes his body protests, making him feel so frail, so unlike the angel that he was. But he knows what he can take, and so he pushes himself to his very limits, resting only when the Winchesters do.
And for the most part, Castiel stays out of sight. He knows Dean doesn't want him around, and so he lets Dean believe that he isn't around.
With Sam, he is perhaps a little less cautious, although he still takes pains to not actually approach him. Sometimes he trails him when he goes out running in the morning, though, and he's fairly certain that Sam has caught sight of him before. And knowing Sam, he's smart enough to at least consider that the black bird in the sky is the same one that spent several nights holding vigil upon his brother's car.
But Sam does not try to approach him, offer him sustenance as he did that one time, and Castiel respects that. He has no right to demand anything of Sam, after all, and so he doesn't. He just lets his life become one solely of flying and resting, and watching out for Sam and Dean from a proper distance. It is all that he can do, he thinks; he knows nothing else of how birds live. But he does know the Winchesters, and he thinks he knows about penance, and searching for forgiveness when he doesn't expect it to be granted.
*
The magpie doesn't appear again, or at least, it doesn't spend any more time nesting atop Dean's car. Sometimes he thinks that he sees flashes of blue-tinted wings in the corners of his eyes, but when he looks directly at them, they're gone almost immediately.
Gradually he puts the incident out of his mind, although he does always glance twice at blackbirds when he sees them around.
*
Whenever possible, Castiel follows the Winchesters on their hunts. It is, of course, difficult at times to stay out of sight; more difficult to be able to watch out for them when they go inside houses or crypts or what-have-you, but he's always managed. If he's to act like their guardian angel-to use a human expression relating to a fanciful notion that the armies of Heaven ever cared about the lives of every person on Earth-then he should be with them when they are doing the most dangerous parts of their job: the actual killing, the face-to-face slaying of the monsters that roam the Earth. It wouldn't make sense to just stay outside their motels and let them face teeth, claws, and spells by themselves.
They are, of course, perfectly capable hunters. And even if it wasn't, there's little that Castiel could possibly offer them in ways of assistance, even if they needed it. His form doesn't exactly lend itself to heroics, after all.
Still, he finds some measure of security in just being close by in case things ever change. He watches faithfully, always ready to step in at a moment's notice. As soon as he gets the chance to help, he will take it; this Castiel knows with all certainty.
*
Castiel learns to appreciate flying, to understand what it is about the open roads of America that have made Dean Winchester love them. There's something about seeing them stretched beneath him as he soars impossibly high that's just…. majestic, in a way, as beautiful as the forests or the dip of the valleys. All these open paths that stretch on, leading to thousands upon thousands of different journeys.
Sometimes when he's flying, he feels like maybe he's found some sort of peace. He knows that his sins will never be absolved completely, and that he doesn't deserve that, anyway; even if his Father did pardon him with his resurrection, it means little without the forgiveness of Dean and Sam (although he knows in the way that the younger Winchester offered him help him rid himself of the Purgatory souls that Sam had already forgiven him). But being up there, away from the Leviathans and the reality of all that he's done, seeing the way that the roads and the forests and the valleys lie below him, sprawling and great and beautiful - it gives him a sense of being alive and being at rest in a way that he's never had before. He is well aware that it's an illusion, that people - Sam - suffer because of his choices. But it is a good illusion, and so Castiel does not deny himself the chance to indulge in it.
*
It ends on a Thursday.
*
The dog's coat is a shaggy, dark green, of all things. "A regular Emerald Isle'er," Dean had said sarcastically when Sam had first figured out that it was a Cú Síth, some sort of Irish fairy dog type of monster.
Unfortunately, the whole green dog thing made it sound kind of…cutesy. It wasn't that Dean had exactly underestimated the fucker; no, he'd known that he needed to be aware at all times, since the canines that he's hunted in the past have always been on the dangerous side. And, you know, the way that it needs to be stabbed with a blade of iron kind of ups the danger factor, seeing as one generally has to be closer to stab than to, say, just fire off a round.
No, it's mostly just that he wasn't expecting it to be so much like a hell hound. Which was stupid of him; he should have known better. But now is a really fucking bad time to have a panic attack, 'cause it's glaring and glowing with a faint sort of radiation, and it's practically up to his shoulders, and okay, suddenly the iron knife that he's gripping doesn't seem like it's going to be enough.
It stares at him and Sam and curls up a lip, and that's all the warning they get before it leaps at them with grace that's surprising for something of its size. Not that Dean has much time to contemplate this, because there's a fucking fairy dog leaping at him, so he's kind of focused on diving to the side.
He lands wrong, though (fucking stupid rookie mistake) and he cries out as his shoulder takes the brunt of his weight. The dagger he was clutching falls from his hand, and he isn't sure that he's going to be able to get it back. It's nighttime, they're in the hills that the Cú Síth took to hunting upon, and the moon is a tiny fingernail that's more or less all covered by clouds. The flashlights he and Sam left on the ground barely offer any light. "Sam!"
"Over here! Dean, watch-"
Sam doesn't have time to complete the warning before the dog, recovered from its leap, is stalking towards Dean again, and it takes all of his effort to get back up on his feet and start scrambling away from it as it slowly advances upon him. "Shit, shit, shit." It's drooling, with dark, dangerous eyes that shine brightly as they fix upon him, and Dean can only imagine what it's going to feel like as it rips into his chest and bites down hard on his heart.
Dean trips, falls on his ass, and then the thing is looming over him with wide teeth and bright, shining eyes, and oh, god, there's no way Sam's going to make it here in time, he's going to die again by getting his chest torn apart by a fucking hound-
Except he doesn't die, because there's something else attacking the dog now; and maybe Dean's mind is still addled by his near-death experience, but as he takes advantage of the bird that's clawing out the Cú Síth's eyes and gets the hell out of the range of its claws, absolutely nothing that's going on makes any sense.
*
They should be able to handle it.
At least, that's what Castiel thinks when the fight begins, with him watching from his vantage point of being tucked away within the cover of a pine tree. Cú Síth, leftovers from the Aos Sí that were brought to America on the backs of thousands of Irish immigrants, are dangerous, but they're no worse than Sam and Dean have faced before.
But it soon becomes clear that neither of them are up for this fight, not right now. Castiel had noticed before how Sam seems to be slipping into a much frailer state than the one in which he had previously been in. He thinks that Sam is letting go of whatever has been keeping his hallucinations and ultimate breakdown at bay, and the way that he keeps glancing off at some unseen thing behind him is a clear indication of this. Castiel aches to assist him, to repair what little of the damage that he can, but he can find nothing to do to help.
And Dean, Dean seems off-balance as well. Tired, maybe, and just not up to his usual par. He drinks often enough when he's outside, and Castiel thinks that if he could watch him inside his motel rooms, he would observe him having nightmares. He has not taken anything that's happened recently well, and considering the circumstances, Castiel doesn't blame him. He's lost Bobby, come impossibly close to watching his younger brother lose his mind, and to top that all off, they're dealing with an impossible-to-stop threat that's already begun to cause chaos across America. That he's functioning this well in the first place is probably impressive on its own.
Still, though, Castiel expects the brothers to be able to get the fey dog. They've dealt with every other threat that's come their way as of late, and this shouldn't be any greater.
They don't.
Their original plan-to trap the dog between the two of them and stab it; one well-placed strike with a knife of iron would be enough to kill it immediately-doesn't pan out. The Cú Síth is clever, and it splits them up as soon as it has a chance. As if it senses Dean's violent past with dogs, it chooses to go after him first.
Dean avoids it as best he can, but his shoulder wrenches in a way that it shouldn't, and he cries out in pain. The iron blade is thrown from his grasp. He doesn't have enough time to get it before the beast is advancing on him again, and he has to scramble back, to avoid it. Sam, who also had to rush to avoid it, is just regaining his bearings.
He will not reach the dog in time, Castiel thinks with a distant sort of horror. He will be torn apart right in front of him, and Castiel will be powerless to stop it because he was given only the vessel of a bird; he'll have to watch as the best man he's ever known gets ripped into shards of bone and useless strings of flesh-
With effort, Castiel pulls himself out of the stream of panicking consciousness. It takes considerably less thought for him to spread his wings and launch himself up from the tree, and then down, down, down, to where the hound looms over Dean, grinning fiercely at its cornered prey. It takes no thought at all for him to sink his small feet straight into its eyes. He does it instinctively, because it is Castiel's duty to protect Dean, and he will do it however he possibly can. And if the process requires his life to be put on the line-if it calls for him to once again go to the bleak nonexistence of death-then so be it. This time, Castiel is loyal to the end.
He is vaguely aware of Dean putting distance between himself and the Cú Síth, but most of his effort is concentrated on digging into the hound's eyes. It's howling and screaming, not a death cry, but one of viscous fear and anger. It twists beneath him, but he doesn't let up until he is satisfied with its blindness. When he is absolutely certain that its vision has been impaired to the severest degree, he lets up and starts flying back to the tree in which he'd first taken shelter.
For a moment, Castiel thinks that he's actually going to survive. Sam is running towards the hound, and there is an intentness to his face that makes Castiel believe that his knife will fall straight and true. And even if it doesn't, Dean has somehow managed to regain his; Castiel is certain that he'll probably stab it just for spite, anyway.
But then the Cú Síth leaps up, and somehow, in all its blind flailing, it manages to find Castiel-to find him, and to bite down, and Castiel feels its teeth crush his bones and tear his wings, and he barely has time to think before he dies that this time is better than before. This time he does not die as a coward; this time, he dies protecting Sam and Dean, and he prefers that. This is as close as he can come to making amends for his actions before, and even if Sam and Dean never know that, at least he can know that he did his very best to atone for everything, right up until the very end.
*
Sam stabs it. The dog dies beneath his blade, collapsing to the ground with a single, high keen of death. The limp corpse of a bird falls from its jaws. Dean thinks that it's a magpie, although it's dark and he doesn't have any proof to back that up.
He picks up one of the fallen flashlights and goes to stand beside Sam, who's kneeling next to the Cú Síth, staring at the body of the thing that saved Dean's life.
When he crouches next to Sam and angles the light, his suspicions are confirmed. The blue-tipped wings, now with crushed feathers and marred with blood, are instantly recognizable.
They're both quiet for a moment, both staring at the small pile of bones and feathers. It feels absurdly like mourning, and it shouldn't, because it was just a bird, just some animal that was passing by and decided to fly down, and-and-
Screw it. Dean doesn't buy that. Birds don't just do that; random acts of life-saving kindness don't just happen to him. There was something about this bird that was unnatural, just not in the way Dean thought. And now? Now he'll never know exactly what it was.
"I don't understand," Sam says. His voice sounds broken, wrecked, and Dean realizes vaguely that he feels exactly the same, like he wants to just go and start crying, and he has no idea why. "Why? Why did it save you, if it was just a bird? And if it wasn't, then what was it, Dean? What -who- do we have left?"
Dean opens his mouth to answer, but he realizes that he's got nothing to say, because there is no answer for the question that Sam just asked. So he lets it hang in the air between them, and Dean thinks that of all the things that he's seen, this is one that will stay with him forever: faint moonlight and the dim glow of a flashlight illuminating the corpse of a bird with dark blue wings, which stretch out in painful parody of those of a ruined angel.