[FIC] Limits at Infinity
Title: Limits at Infinity
Author: phaelsafe
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Destiel, Castiel/Crowley but not really.
Spoilers: 5.22
Warnings:
Word Count: ~3475
Summary: What really happens after Lucifer smites Castiel?
A/N: Welp, about halfway through this, my brain decided this needed to be something else entirely and here you go!
Castiel.
Suddenly, he comes to; although, he doesn't remember ever being anything but conscious. It's disconcerting how little he actually remembers, and yet he remains calm. The concept of time seems beyond him anyway.
"God?" he asks on impulse. He has no recollection of what the word even means, but it's coming back to him very, very slowly, like sunlight flooding over the edge of the world, chasing away the somber shadows of night and illuminating everything in it's path.
The responding snort is sarcastic. No, I am not your absent Creator. The voice rumbles, but whoever it is sounds amused. Do not open your eyes until I tell you it's safe. I do not relish the idea of having to start over from scratch....
Abstractions and emotions come first, followed by language. His name is Castiel.
Then he remembers calling Michael something derogatory, and the horrified expression upon Dean's face just before Castiel explodes into gore -- the scattering of his atoms was so sudden and quick that it was painless. Or, if not, he hopes he'll continue to repress that particular detail.
Then he remembers Dean looking up, frowning despite the damage wrought by Lucifer's hand. As Castiel steps forward he blocks the blinding light of the sun and reaches out, extending his Grace to heal Dean. The hunter watches him with awe etched across his now perfect face.
The latter hasn't happened yet, but the idea that time is linear is a human construct, and Castiel is not human.
Memories cascade upon him, or maybe they rush out away from him. There is definitely a sharp falloff where the events of the future begin to shift around drastically. Everything is tangled and confusing, and though he knows it's very real, he feels like he's viewing it all through a television screen. One point shines brightly through the turmoil, rings as clear as a bell.
Panic threads its way through him, his blood running suddenly cold. "Dean?"
You already know, replies the voice with a sigh.
The answer is vague and Castiel shivers. He does know, but he is still alarmed because his awareness of what happened is fleeting; it occurred during the break in his existence. There is only prophetic hearsay trickling back to him from an array of tomorrows. "The future can be altered!"
Calm down. You're making this difficult. Your charge is alive. The younger Winchester was successful in locking Lucifer back in his cage, but he is trapped there as well. He also dragged Michael down kicking and screaming, explains the voice with a dark, familiar chuckle.
The sound slides around and envelopes him, a gesture that is meant to be comforting, and it surprisingly is; yet he also finds it greatly disturbing. The being does not feel hostile or evil, but it is supernatural. As a celestial being himself, no presence should feel out of place or foreign to him. "What are you doing?" He asks this not because it is any more or any less important than who is doing it, but because he is likely to get an answer.
I am putting you back together. Your vessel was easy enough. Human biology is truly fascinating. Your Grace, however, is proving to be far more difficult; you've been shedding it for so long.
Castiel does remember the pain of his Grace drifting away into the aether, his inability to reach out and pull it back to him -- pieces of himself he thought he would never get back. Slowly, Castiel had transformed into a mere ghost of what he had been, nothing more than a projection of divinity cast out as a shadow upon the Earth by the light of humanity.
With some effort, Castiel can indeed feel his Grace settled precariously about him and he brushes against it, tries to draw it to him, but he cannot connect with it at all. Dread seizes him and he lashes out. So close, and yet his Grace might as well not be there at all with his inability to access it.
Cas, the voice appeals as a hand falls protectively over his eyes. It's okay. You're okay. Let me finish, and you will be whole once more. I'm almost done.
He stiffens -- there are only so many people who refer to him as Cas -- then relaxes as the hand ghosts down the side of his face and ends with pat to his cheek. He should know this, but he can't seem to work through the information so he asks, "Who are you?"
Another snort. Here I am, puzzling you back together, piece by piece, and you don't recognize me? I'd be offended if you hadn't just been blown to smithereens by an archangel.
"Other than my Father, I don't know anyone capable of what you are doing," Castiel snaps. He feels fragile, on the verge of shattering.
Yet another chuckle from whoever, and cheeky is the only way Castiel can describe it as the sound rolls over and through him, slippery as oil. No need to get so tetchy. Let's make a deal!
Demon. King of Hell. Crowley. The information floods into his mind, and his reply is instant. "No."
Castiel, Crowley admonishes. He is somehow speaking to Castiel telepathically. This is the easiest way to weld your Grace back together. The alternative would be unpleasant for everyone involved. There's also a good chance I'll destroy this section of the universe in the process, and all your effort -- falling, 'Team Free Will' -- will have been for nothing. Besides, I find this particular ball of mud amusing.... Crowley trails off, seemingly distracted by his own thoughts. It can be something trivial, if you prefer: if I am in need of assistance, you need do nothing but give my request consideration, and I shall do the same? Crowley pauses again, and this time it sounds intentional. Or, I could just send you back to Stull Cemetery as you are. Raphael is already moving to get the Apocalypse back on track. He begins to pull away.
Images flash behind his closed lids, everything he has done from the moment he pulled the Righteous Man from Hell; things he has done because of Dean -- for Dean. "Wait!" Castiel pleads and he feels the demon halt. "If all I have to do is consider your request... if the time comes, then I accept."
Even though Dean will hate him for it.
Warm hands frame his face, startling Castiel from his thoughts.
This is a terrible idea. He wants to open his eyes, to see Crowley's face, but that desire is a human one -- if he can't detect any lies from a psychic link, he certainly won't find them within the demon's expression. And the warning Crowley gave earlier; the consequences sound rather dire and Castiel doesn't want to chance it.
Warm lips press against his, and the kiss is entirely chaste. He had expected Crowley to use more... tongue. He doesn't get an opportunity to respond to the delighted laughter that follows his idle thought as white-hot electricity crackles across his skin.
Jerking his face away from Crowley, Castiel gasps, drawing the unnecessary breath out of reflex as an alien energy arcs through him and galvanizes the cracks of his broken Grace back together. Through the rush of power, he feels the muscles of his stomach twitch as hand presses there. It's enough of a distraction that he focuses in on it, wonders at the point of it until Crowley places his other hand over Castiel's heart and completes a metaphysical circuit.
He arches into the contact, every muscle in his body contracting sharply as his larynx seizes up around a scream. Crowley provides resistance, pushes back physically as he pulls the Grace across multiple dimensions and directs it back into the angel. It seeks that which makes him Castiel, the remnants of his angelic existence and -- whatever not-quite-a-human being he is now.
And then his Grace just slips into place as though it had never been gone, and Castiel collapses, breathing heavily.
How could he possibly forget this, the magnitude of his true self, the sheer depth of his existence?
He reigns in his pulmonary and circulatory systems; he doesn't really need to maintain them at all, but it requires less energy to allow the body's autonomic nervous system to function than it does to heal the perpetual cell death caused by anoxia -- which is rendered moot by the lack of atmosphere here. There is barely enough of anything to even claim the presence of trace elements. Crowley must have acted as life support before reanimating Castiel.
"What happened to Jimmy Novak?" Castiel bolts upright, his eyes flying open as he twists to face Crowley. He is stationary, but only the myriad twinkling stars around him serve as reference.
I did not think to look for your vessel's soul.
He can't bring himself to look at Crowley just yet and so he categorizes stellar objects instead: dwarfs and super giants, emission nebulae and supernova remnants, clusters, black holes.... The universe is freighted with the memories and dreams of time.
Jimmy Novak had been a constant source of warmth and comfort. Castiel swallows, saddened by the loss.
He finally drags his gaze to his companion and sees nothing. More specifically, Crowley is a massive empty region that blots out a significant portion of space, and Castiel thinks it must be an illusion that he cannot discern the distance between himself and Crowley. Despite the void surrounding him, Castiel's senses still work. With a frown, he extends the light of his Grace beyond the boundaries of his vessel.
He tries to comprehend what he sees: a writhing fractal of rounded angles and pointed curves in which shadows cast shadows which cast shadows off into an infinite horizon that both absorbs and deflects the radiance of Castiel before-
Averting his eyes, he recoils and furls his wings protectively around himself to keep from falling into the aberration.
"Yeah, like you're not a migraine and half to look at in your true form, all shifting prisms and endless searing divinity," Crowley snarks as he phases back into his usual appearance. He adjusts his already immaculate suit before he leans back to lounge against nothing only a few meters away. His eyes wander around taking in the view.
"You are not a demon," Castiel points out.
Crowley levels a look at the angel and quirks an eyebrow.
"If not a demon, then what?" Castiel asks cautiously. He feels off, different. There's more to him than there had been before.
The silence stretches between them as Crowley contemplates him. "I am the soul and messenger of the Other Gods, the Crawling Chaos." He holds the angel's stare and switches to another language, one that seems to rend the space around them and causes Castiel's vision to double. The words sound like breaking glass and crashing oceanic waves and something Sam once called the handshake of a dial-up modem. They send a shiver crawling down his spine, rippling through his Grace; his ear does catch a faint 'Nyarlathotep' amidst the unmodulated noise.
A sense of dread takes root, and Castiel tilts his head. "You can't be. That's just a story," he declares.
Crowley's shrug is noncommittal. He points at something above them, brings his hand nearer to his face, and closes an eye as though he's sighting along the length of his index finger. "No, Cas. The Necronomicon is just a story. I am quite real," he says before jabbing the digit skyward several times.
Castiel gazes up. The light of a star winks out with every punctuated gesture, and he gapes, his eyes dropping back to Crowley in utter shock. An irritated noise escapes Crowley, and he waves a bored hand in the same general direction. The angel looks back and watches as the stars flicker back to life.
He can feel when Crowley's attention switches to him. He bristles at the scrutiny and returns it full force.
Crowley lifts his chin and watches Castiel through narrowed curious eyes. "How did an angel of the Lord fall so thoroughly in love with a bloody human?"
"I-" Castiel starts, the question catching him completely off guard. "What?"
"And vice versa," Crowley adds. He holds out his hand again and crooks a finger like he's beckoning for the angel to come closer.
Castiel feels a tug at his Grace as the bond he shares with Dean surfaces. He does not know how Crowley is forcing it to materialize, and his arms fly up to cover his chest, a defensive yet utterly useless measure.
Musing out loud, Crowley says, "That is the only reason I was able to collect any bits of you in the first place. He's such a stubborn jackass that he managed to keep you from completely Falling."
Castiel had been too wrapped up in becoming human that he had paid little to notice the bond. Or, more likely, with his weakened abilities, he had been unable to recognize it. What Crowley exposes is little more than a representation of his relationship with Dean, of the actual bridge that Castiel can feel ranging out into the empty distance where it's anchored by the hunter.
Looking inward now, he can the bond wrapping around his Grace, binding him tightly. He doesn't feel constricted in the slightest, and that's because strands of his Grace twine with the fragment of Dean's soul, lending to the shining light instead of cutting it off.
Was it like this before? Castiel had filtered out as much as he could that passed through their bond, at least until he began to fall and could no longer feel it -- and Dean tended to feel rather strongly about... everything. He wasn't even sure if Dean knew it existed.
Abject sorrow and loneliness reverberates across the expanse between them. It triggers within Castiel a desire to spread his wings and fly to Dean, to comfort him. It's the first real emotional reaction he's had since Crowley re-infused his Grace.
The emotions are tricky now. To some, he has an intense knee-jerk response, and others he responds to with only a muted awareness. He wonders if this is from his recent resuscitation or from reacquiring his angelic nature. Castiel doesn't remember having quite this issue before, but that had been a more gradual and natural process.
A bark of laughter from Crowley draws Castiel's attention outward again, but a glimmer catches his inner-eye. A substance of unknown origin, definitely nothing holy, slips throughout his Grace as slick as quicksilver. It's just barely visible, and he doesn't feel anything when he tries to pinpoint it.
"Both, but regardless of your nature, you are self-aware now and have accepted the responsibility of free-will. The appropriate responses will come soon enough," Crowley states. "You'll have to be more careful now that you are like unto an archangel. That is why you feel different. I hope you don't mind; I rather like to tinker--" the smile directed at Castiel is unpleasant, and the angel manages to suppress a shudder. He doesn't want to imagine what Crowley fiddling about with his inner workings entails "--and no, that's not what you see in your Grace. Think of it more along the lines of that scar you left on your hunter's shoulder when you raised him from Hell."
The explanation does nothing to alleviate Castiel's apprehension, but he shoves his worry aside. Heaven will be in chaos, and Dean needs his help; for the time being, his new power can only be of use. Out of both concern and curiosity does he ask "Why did you bring me back?"
"Just because I'm the voice of mindless and unfathomable beings that live beyond the edge of the known universe doesn't mean I have an ulterior motive. Besides, that whole 'ass-butt' bit? Brilliant! How could I not bring you back after that?" Crowley asks.
Castiel recognizes it for the deflection it is.
Crowley shrugs. "I have my reasons," he says, letting his hand fall to his side as he releases the intangible hold he has upon the angel.
The trickling emotion from Dean abruptly surges and breaks over Castiel in the form of despair. He sways with the force of it and catches the knowing smirk that spreads across Crowley's face.
"Go coddle your pet or whatever it is you two do. I have things to get back to anyway," Crowley says.
"We don't-" Castiel starts, but Crowley interrupts him with a dismissive wave. He disperses into a shadowy fog, camouflaged against the blackness of space, then vanishes without further ado.
Castiel's eyes fall shut and he drifts in the empty silence until Dean begins withdraw, unconsciously tying their link into knots.
With a flap of his wings, he's back at Stull Cemetery. It's bright and sunny, but time stops at the gate. A reaper watches with narrowed eyes as the angel passes unrestricted through whatever barrier is keeping her out.
Bobby stands over his dead body, grief-stricken. He glances around and his eyes widen with disbelief as Castiel appears and crouches down. With a press of his fingers, Castiel compels Bobby back into his body.
The old hunter gasps softly and sits up. He looks confused as he tries to get his feet under him, but Castiel shakes his head. "Wait here. Rest," he suggests before looking over his shoulder to where Dean, his frame wracked with quiet sobs, kneels in the grass.
Castiel knows when the reaper departs; she no longer has a soul to reap so she has no reason to stick around. The moment the flow of time resumes, Dean stiffens.
It had not occurred to Castiel to close off the bond, and the temporal bubble must have dampened his presence. With it gone, Dean can sense him to some extent. Castiel knows this because he can feel it -- the realization, the acceptance, the love -- rise above the constant melancholy. And it's directed at the angel.
Finally, Dean looks up at Castiel, frowning despite the damage wrought by Lucifer's hand. "Cas, you're alive?" his breath stutters out with the words.
Castiel recognizes the mixture of fear and hope in Dean's question. "Better than," he replies. As he steps forward, he blocks the blinding light of the sun and reaches out.
A smile lifts Dean's swollen lips, and he gravitates toward the touch, so much so that Castiel has to adjust in order to support the unexpected weight. He falters -- these seemingly insignificant details are deviations, tiny cracks in what he knows of the future that spiral out ahead of them forming massive rifts of possibility -- but he gently cups Dean's face, extending Grace out to heal him.
The hunter watches Castiel with awe etched across his now perfect face. "Did God bring you back?" Dean's eyes dart to where the rings of the Horsemen rest on the ground. Pain flashes through their green depths.
"Something like that," Castiel huffs. "New and improved." His attempted humor apparently fails; Dean is rather intent on studying the ground with his jaw clenched tightly. Belatedly, Castiel understands that now may not be the most appropriate time to make such remarks, but before he can apologize, Dean throws his arms around Castiel and drags the angel down into an awkward hug.
"I'm just glad you're back," Dean whispers against Castiel's neck.
Not coddling, I assume? quips Crowley from out of nowhere.
Castiel can sense the other being's morbid satisfaction, but the words lack his typical snark; he is unable to divine any intent and decides to ignore Crowley for now.
The Apocalypse has been averted, and Sam is gone. Where the emotions filtering through their bond earlier were fraught only with pain and suffering, they are now tempered with solace. Dean obviously needs this, so Castiel tucks his chin over the hunter's shoulder and settles into the embrace.
There is no other place Castiel wants to be anyway. With everything they've all been through, he figures they deserve, at the very least, this moment. Heaven can wait so Castiel forces himself to relax.
He pushes all thoughts from his mind, and as they go, his gaze falls to the ground. Castiel freezes immediately: Dean had not been offended by any poorly-timed joke. He tries to pull away again as an ominous laughter rings through his head; Crowley'sf presence departs.
"Tell me, Cas." Dean twists his fingers into Castiel's coat, locking him in place. Castiel could easily break free, but the hunter sounds so trusting as he tilts his head, rests his temple against the angel's as he pleads -- and that's when Castiel notices the subtle denial radiating from Dean -- "Why you aren't you casting any shadows?"
Author: phaelsafe
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Destiel, Castiel/Crowley but not really.
Spoilers: 5.22
Warnings:
Word Count: ~3475
Summary: What really happens after Lucifer smites Castiel?
A/N: Welp, about halfway through this, my brain decided this needed to be something else entirely and here you go!
Castiel.
Suddenly, he comes to; although, he doesn't remember ever being anything but conscious. It's disconcerting how little he actually remembers, and yet he remains calm. The concept of time seems beyond him anyway.
"God?" he asks on impulse. He has no recollection of what the word even means, but it's coming back to him very, very slowly, like sunlight flooding over the edge of the world, chasing away the somber shadows of night and illuminating everything in it's path.
The responding snort is sarcastic. No, I am not your absent Creator. The voice rumbles, but whoever it is sounds amused. Do not open your eyes until I tell you it's safe. I do not relish the idea of having to start over from scratch....
Abstractions and emotions come first, followed by language. His name is Castiel.
Then he remembers calling Michael something derogatory, and the horrified expression upon Dean's face just before Castiel explodes into gore -- the scattering of his atoms was so sudden and quick that it was painless. Or, if not, he hopes he'll continue to repress that particular detail.
Then he remembers Dean looking up, frowning despite the damage wrought by Lucifer's hand. As Castiel steps forward he blocks the blinding light of the sun and reaches out, extending his Grace to heal Dean. The hunter watches him with awe etched across his now perfect face.
The latter hasn't happened yet, but the idea that time is linear is a human construct, and Castiel is not human.
Memories cascade upon him, or maybe they rush out away from him. There is definitely a sharp falloff where the events of the future begin to shift around drastically. Everything is tangled and confusing, and though he knows it's very real, he feels like he's viewing it all through a television screen. One point shines brightly through the turmoil, rings as clear as a bell.
Panic threads its way through him, his blood running suddenly cold. "Dean?"
You already know, replies the voice with a sigh.
The answer is vague and Castiel shivers. He does know, but he is still alarmed because his awareness of what happened is fleeting; it occurred during the break in his existence. There is only prophetic hearsay trickling back to him from an array of tomorrows. "The future can be altered!"
Calm down. You're making this difficult. Your charge is alive. The younger Winchester was successful in locking Lucifer back in his cage, but he is trapped there as well. He also dragged Michael down kicking and screaming, explains the voice with a dark, familiar chuckle.
The sound slides around and envelopes him, a gesture that is meant to be comforting, and it surprisingly is; yet he also finds it greatly disturbing. The being does not feel hostile or evil, but it is supernatural. As a celestial being himself, no presence should feel out of place or foreign to him. "What are you doing?" He asks this not because it is any more or any less important than who is doing it, but because he is likely to get an answer.
I am putting you back together. Your vessel was easy enough. Human biology is truly fascinating. Your Grace, however, is proving to be far more difficult; you've been shedding it for so long.
Castiel does remember the pain of his Grace drifting away into the aether, his inability to reach out and pull it back to him -- pieces of himself he thought he would never get back. Slowly, Castiel had transformed into a mere ghost of what he had been, nothing more than a projection of divinity cast out as a shadow upon the Earth by the light of humanity.
With some effort, Castiel can indeed feel his Grace settled precariously about him and he brushes against it, tries to draw it to him, but he cannot connect with it at all. Dread seizes him and he lashes out. So close, and yet his Grace might as well not be there at all with his inability to access it.
Cas, the voice appeals as a hand falls protectively over his eyes. It's okay. You're okay. Let me finish, and you will be whole once more. I'm almost done.
He stiffens -- there are only so many people who refer to him as Cas -- then relaxes as the hand ghosts down the side of his face and ends with pat to his cheek. He should know this, but he can't seem to work through the information so he asks, "Who are you?"
Another snort. Here I am, puzzling you back together, piece by piece, and you don't recognize me? I'd be offended if you hadn't just been blown to smithereens by an archangel.
"Other than my Father, I don't know anyone capable of what you are doing," Castiel snaps. He feels fragile, on the verge of shattering.
Yet another chuckle from whoever, and cheeky is the only way Castiel can describe it as the sound rolls over and through him, slippery as oil. No need to get so tetchy. Let's make a deal!
Demon. King of Hell. Crowley. The information floods into his mind, and his reply is instant. "No."
Castiel, Crowley admonishes. He is somehow speaking to Castiel telepathically. This is the easiest way to weld your Grace back together. The alternative would be unpleasant for everyone involved. There's also a good chance I'll destroy this section of the universe in the process, and all your effort -- falling, 'Team Free Will' -- will have been for nothing. Besides, I find this particular ball of mud amusing.... Crowley trails off, seemingly distracted by his own thoughts. It can be something trivial, if you prefer: if I am in need of assistance, you need do nothing but give my request consideration, and I shall do the same? Crowley pauses again, and this time it sounds intentional. Or, I could just send you back to Stull Cemetery as you are. Raphael is already moving to get the Apocalypse back on track. He begins to pull away.
Images flash behind his closed lids, everything he has done from the moment he pulled the Righteous Man from Hell; things he has done because of Dean -- for Dean. "Wait!" Castiel pleads and he feels the demon halt. "If all I have to do is consider your request... if the time comes, then I accept."
Even though Dean will hate him for it.
Warm hands frame his face, startling Castiel from his thoughts.
This is a terrible idea. He wants to open his eyes, to see Crowley's face, but that desire is a human one -- if he can't detect any lies from a psychic link, he certainly won't find them within the demon's expression. And the warning Crowley gave earlier; the consequences sound rather dire and Castiel doesn't want to chance it.
Warm lips press against his, and the kiss is entirely chaste. He had expected Crowley to use more... tongue. He doesn't get an opportunity to respond to the delighted laughter that follows his idle thought as white-hot electricity crackles across his skin.
Jerking his face away from Crowley, Castiel gasps, drawing the unnecessary breath out of reflex as an alien energy arcs through him and galvanizes the cracks of his broken Grace back together. Through the rush of power, he feels the muscles of his stomach twitch as hand presses there. It's enough of a distraction that he focuses in on it, wonders at the point of it until Crowley places his other hand over Castiel's heart and completes a metaphysical circuit.
He arches into the contact, every muscle in his body contracting sharply as his larynx seizes up around a scream. Crowley provides resistance, pushes back physically as he pulls the Grace across multiple dimensions and directs it back into the angel. It seeks that which makes him Castiel, the remnants of his angelic existence and -- whatever not-quite-a-human being he is now.
And then his Grace just slips into place as though it had never been gone, and Castiel collapses, breathing heavily.
How could he possibly forget this, the magnitude of his true self, the sheer depth of his existence?
He reigns in his pulmonary and circulatory systems; he doesn't really need to maintain them at all, but it requires less energy to allow the body's autonomic nervous system to function than it does to heal the perpetual cell death caused by anoxia -- which is rendered moot by the lack of atmosphere here. There is barely enough of anything to even claim the presence of trace elements. Crowley must have acted as life support before reanimating Castiel.
"What happened to Jimmy Novak?" Castiel bolts upright, his eyes flying open as he twists to face Crowley. He is stationary, but only the myriad twinkling stars around him serve as reference.
I did not think to look for your vessel's soul.
He can't bring himself to look at Crowley just yet and so he categorizes stellar objects instead: dwarfs and super giants, emission nebulae and supernova remnants, clusters, black holes.... The universe is freighted with the memories and dreams of time.
Jimmy Novak had been a constant source of warmth and comfort. Castiel swallows, saddened by the loss.
He finally drags his gaze to his companion and sees nothing. More specifically, Crowley is a massive empty region that blots out a significant portion of space, and Castiel thinks it must be an illusion that he cannot discern the distance between himself and Crowley. Despite the void surrounding him, Castiel's senses still work. With a frown, he extends the light of his Grace beyond the boundaries of his vessel.
He tries to comprehend what he sees: a writhing fractal of rounded angles and pointed curves in which shadows cast shadows which cast shadows off into an infinite horizon that both absorbs and deflects the radiance of Castiel before-
Averting his eyes, he recoils and furls his wings protectively around himself to keep from falling into the aberration.
"Yeah, like you're not a migraine and half to look at in your true form, all shifting prisms and endless searing divinity," Crowley snarks as he phases back into his usual appearance. He adjusts his already immaculate suit before he leans back to lounge against nothing only a few meters away. His eyes wander around taking in the view.
"You are not a demon," Castiel points out.
Crowley levels a look at the angel and quirks an eyebrow.
"If not a demon, then what?" Castiel asks cautiously. He feels off, different. There's more to him than there had been before.
The silence stretches between them as Crowley contemplates him. "I am the soul and messenger of the Other Gods, the Crawling Chaos." He holds the angel's stare and switches to another language, one that seems to rend the space around them and causes Castiel's vision to double. The words sound like breaking glass and crashing oceanic waves and something Sam once called the handshake of a dial-up modem. They send a shiver crawling down his spine, rippling through his Grace; his ear does catch a faint 'Nyarlathotep' amidst the unmodulated noise.
A sense of dread takes root, and Castiel tilts his head. "You can't be. That's just a story," he declares.
Crowley's shrug is noncommittal. He points at something above them, brings his hand nearer to his face, and closes an eye as though he's sighting along the length of his index finger. "No, Cas. The Necronomicon is just a story. I am quite real," he says before jabbing the digit skyward several times.
Castiel gazes up. The light of a star winks out with every punctuated gesture, and he gapes, his eyes dropping back to Crowley in utter shock. An irritated noise escapes Crowley, and he waves a bored hand in the same general direction. The angel looks back and watches as the stars flicker back to life.
He can feel when Crowley's attention switches to him. He bristles at the scrutiny and returns it full force.
Crowley lifts his chin and watches Castiel through narrowed curious eyes. "How did an angel of the Lord fall so thoroughly in love with a bloody human?"
"I-" Castiel starts, the question catching him completely off guard. "What?"
"And vice versa," Crowley adds. He holds out his hand again and crooks a finger like he's beckoning for the angel to come closer.
Castiel feels a tug at his Grace as the bond he shares with Dean surfaces. He does not know how Crowley is forcing it to materialize, and his arms fly up to cover his chest, a defensive yet utterly useless measure.
Musing out loud, Crowley says, "That is the only reason I was able to collect any bits of you in the first place. He's such a stubborn jackass that he managed to keep you from completely Falling."
Castiel had been too wrapped up in becoming human that he had paid little to notice the bond. Or, more likely, with his weakened abilities, he had been unable to recognize it. What Crowley exposes is little more than a representation of his relationship with Dean, of the actual bridge that Castiel can feel ranging out into the empty distance where it's anchored by the hunter.
Looking inward now, he can the bond wrapping around his Grace, binding him tightly. He doesn't feel constricted in the slightest, and that's because strands of his Grace twine with the fragment of Dean's soul, lending to the shining light instead of cutting it off.
Was it like this before? Castiel had filtered out as much as he could that passed through their bond, at least until he began to fall and could no longer feel it -- and Dean tended to feel rather strongly about... everything. He wasn't even sure if Dean knew it existed.
Abject sorrow and loneliness reverberates across the expanse between them. It triggers within Castiel a desire to spread his wings and fly to Dean, to comfort him. It's the first real emotional reaction he's had since Crowley re-infused his Grace.
The emotions are tricky now. To some, he has an intense knee-jerk response, and others he responds to with only a muted awareness. He wonders if this is from his recent resuscitation or from reacquiring his angelic nature. Castiel doesn't remember having quite this issue before, but that had been a more gradual and natural process.
A bark of laughter from Crowley draws Castiel's attention outward again, but a glimmer catches his inner-eye. A substance of unknown origin, definitely nothing holy, slips throughout his Grace as slick as quicksilver. It's just barely visible, and he doesn't feel anything when he tries to pinpoint it.
"Both, but regardless of your nature, you are self-aware now and have accepted the responsibility of free-will. The appropriate responses will come soon enough," Crowley states. "You'll have to be more careful now that you are like unto an archangel. That is why you feel different. I hope you don't mind; I rather like to tinker--" the smile directed at Castiel is unpleasant, and the angel manages to suppress a shudder. He doesn't want to imagine what Crowley fiddling about with his inner workings entails "--and no, that's not what you see in your Grace. Think of it more along the lines of that scar you left on your hunter's shoulder when you raised him from Hell."
The explanation does nothing to alleviate Castiel's apprehension, but he shoves his worry aside. Heaven will be in chaos, and Dean needs his help; for the time being, his new power can only be of use. Out of both concern and curiosity does he ask "Why did you bring me back?"
"Just because I'm the voice of mindless and unfathomable beings that live beyond the edge of the known universe doesn't mean I have an ulterior motive. Besides, that whole 'ass-butt' bit? Brilliant! How could I not bring you back after that?" Crowley asks.
Castiel recognizes it for the deflection it is.
Crowley shrugs. "I have my reasons," he says, letting his hand fall to his side as he releases the intangible hold he has upon the angel.
The trickling emotion from Dean abruptly surges and breaks over Castiel in the form of despair. He sways with the force of it and catches the knowing smirk that spreads across Crowley's face.
"Go coddle your pet or whatever it is you two do. I have things to get back to anyway," Crowley says.
"We don't-" Castiel starts, but Crowley interrupts him with a dismissive wave. He disperses into a shadowy fog, camouflaged against the blackness of space, then vanishes without further ado.
Castiel's eyes fall shut and he drifts in the empty silence until Dean begins withdraw, unconsciously tying their link into knots.
With a flap of his wings, he's back at Stull Cemetery. It's bright and sunny, but time stops at the gate. A reaper watches with narrowed eyes as the angel passes unrestricted through whatever barrier is keeping her out.
Bobby stands over his dead body, grief-stricken. He glances around and his eyes widen with disbelief as Castiel appears and crouches down. With a press of his fingers, Castiel compels Bobby back into his body.
The old hunter gasps softly and sits up. He looks confused as he tries to get his feet under him, but Castiel shakes his head. "Wait here. Rest," he suggests before looking over his shoulder to where Dean, his frame wracked with quiet sobs, kneels in the grass.
Castiel knows when the reaper departs; she no longer has a soul to reap so she has no reason to stick around. The moment the flow of time resumes, Dean stiffens.
It had not occurred to Castiel to close off the bond, and the temporal bubble must have dampened his presence. With it gone, Dean can sense him to some extent. Castiel knows this because he can feel it -- the realization, the acceptance, the love -- rise above the constant melancholy. And it's directed at the angel.
Finally, Dean looks up at Castiel, frowning despite the damage wrought by Lucifer's hand. "Cas, you're alive?" his breath stutters out with the words.
Castiel recognizes the mixture of fear and hope in Dean's question. "Better than," he replies. As he steps forward, he blocks the blinding light of the sun and reaches out.
A smile lifts Dean's swollen lips, and he gravitates toward the touch, so much so that Castiel has to adjust in order to support the unexpected weight. He falters -- these seemingly insignificant details are deviations, tiny cracks in what he knows of the future that spiral out ahead of them forming massive rifts of possibility -- but he gently cups Dean's face, extending Grace out to heal him.
The hunter watches Castiel with awe etched across his now perfect face. "Did God bring you back?" Dean's eyes dart to where the rings of the Horsemen rest on the ground. Pain flashes through their green depths.
"Something like that," Castiel huffs. "New and improved." His attempted humor apparently fails; Dean is rather intent on studying the ground with his jaw clenched tightly. Belatedly, Castiel understands that now may not be the most appropriate time to make such remarks, but before he can apologize, Dean throws his arms around Castiel and drags the angel down into an awkward hug.
"I'm just glad you're back," Dean whispers against Castiel's neck.
Not coddling, I assume? quips Crowley from out of nowhere.
Castiel can sense the other being's morbid satisfaction, but the words lack his typical snark; he is unable to divine any intent and decides to ignore Crowley for now.
The Apocalypse has been averted, and Sam is gone. Where the emotions filtering through their bond earlier were fraught only with pain and suffering, they are now tempered with solace. Dean obviously needs this, so Castiel tucks his chin over the hunter's shoulder and settles into the embrace.
There is no other place Castiel wants to be anyway. With everything they've all been through, he figures they deserve, at the very least, this moment. Heaven can wait so Castiel forces himself to relax.
He pushes all thoughts from his mind, and as they go, his gaze falls to the ground. Castiel freezes immediately: Dean had not been offended by any poorly-timed joke. He tries to pull away again as an ominous laughter rings through his head; Crowley'sf presence departs.
"Tell me, Cas." Dean twists his fingers into Castiel's coat, locking him in place. Castiel could easily break free, but the hunter sounds so trusting as he tilts his head, rests his temple against the angel's as he pleads -- and that's when Castiel notices the subtle denial radiating from Dean -- "Why you aren't you casting any shadows?"