"Should've made Jeff naked"
I am re-posting my deancas_xmas fic because I have some thanks and some notes to make about it.
Firstly, to cienna for beta-ing, and giving me disbelieving sideways glances every time I asked, "It's not too depressing for a Christmas fic, right?"
Also, my most heartfelt thanks to thehoyden for finding Jehoel's name for me (Jehoel, angel of presence and a mediator), and assuring me that Jeff started with a J not a G in far-flung America. This is not quite the crack we talked about, but I kept Jeff much as we had discussed him. May he forever save us from obtuse, smarmy guys in pubs.
Title: Some Rise by Sin, and by Virtue Fall (1/2)
Rating: R for violence and swearing
Word count: 16,298
Summary: Takes place sometime after 6x9. The end of a war.
Notes: This began as crack, with the idea of a story about Cas's harried, over-worked angel PA. Apparently, I'm incapable of crack and so it turned into something entirely different. Title blatantly stolen from Shakespeare because it was just too appropriate to not use.
.Some Rise by Sin, and by Virtue Fall.
1. The History
It had been neither a long nor a fierce war, but it had been unexpected and it had been bitter in a way that no angel could help but compare to the First War. It tasted of betrayal and of twisted love and pride, obsession, and all the other things that angels shouldn’t feel. Weren’t designed to feel.
They had thought that it could never happen again. That never again would angel kill angel. Never again would it happen that an angel sought power over other angels, over God. They were servants and they had no will of their own and for the longest time Jehoel had believed it, and had been glad for it because it meant he’d never have to see his brothers and sisters killing and tearing at each other again. He had cried for them then, as he cried for them now.
Jehoel was born to be Mediation, but nothing he did ever seemed to work. He couldn’t stop the battles and the anger and the love that was hate. Most of his kind couldn’t even tell the difference any more.
It was why he had followed Castiel, in the beginning.
More than because Castiel had been resurrected by their father. More than because he had been resurrected more glorious, more bright and full of Grace than he had been before. Before Castiel, such a thing was unheard of. But for Jehoel it was his brother’s great love. It was because Castiel wanted nothing more than peace, for them all to be as they were supposed to be; creatures who followed their Father’s will. Never could Jehoel, nor any other cherub, imagine that their Father would ever want his children to be at odds. Not with each other and certainly not with His beloved humanity.
Castiel was one of the many, an ordinary soldier who had known very little of either Heaven or Earth. For the longest time he would have known only battle and discipline and absolutes, but even he had seen the difference between right and wrong. He had questioned and he had recognised the wicked, unholy ways of his superiors and showed compassion. And for all this the cherubs loved him and followed him. They were not made to fight, and they were not made to endure, but for this- to bring their brothers to peace and to ensure the preservation of humanity- they did what they could.
Jehoel, who had always been a negotiator, an intermediary, amongst his brothers and sisters, was charged with persuasion, brokering alliances, and with ensuring that Castiel did not drown in the endless demands and prayers and petitions of his supporters. Or more accurately, Jehoel charged himself with these things for Castiel would certainly never ask it of anyone. Castiel commanded his armies and he sent his brothers and sisters to war, but he would not seek his own comfort, as though he did not believe he deserved it.
Many times Jehoel wondered what could have happened on Earth, before his return, that had made Castiel so very cautious and so very reserved and solitary. It set Castiel apart more than anything else; against the very nature of angels it was almost as though Castiel could not trust his kin.
Perhaps it was understandable, because they were embroiled in a war with others of their kind, but Castiel did not seem to trust even his closest supporters. His reticence was plain to see in the way he disallowed anyone from going to Earth. In the way he would not reveal where he was going half the time, from the way he never spoke of Hell or Dean Winchester or Raphael or anything else which related to that failed Apocalypse. And Castiel made no secret of it.
For this reason, it was with much elation that Jehoel was asked to accompany Castiel to Earth.
It was the first time Castiel had shown even the smallest amount of confidence in another angel, and Jehoel tried not the think of how proud it made him that he had been chosen.
Castiel, chosen himself by their Father, one of the most powerful of the Host, and certainly the most head-strong, and he sought out the help of a lowly cherub.
"You are mediation," Castiel said, as though this explained everything, and took hold of Jehoel's hand.
***
There were many things that Jehoel wished that he had not had to learn.
What it felt like to see hatred and disgust in the eyes of his own brothers and sisters. Betrayal. Realising what lies were and how much they hurt. With the realisation Jehoel understood Castiel's reticence all too well.
That day, he came to understand the sorrow in Castiel's eyes as he fought the other angels off. Jehoel understood his desperation as Castiel grabbed for Jehoel's wrist and demanded he fly and now. The feel of his brother's blood on his hands, warm and sweet and so very red was something Jehoel would not forget. He had not been to Earth in a very long time, and he had not seen humanity in many centuries, but Jehoel recognised that the blood of an angel did not belong on Earth. It fell to the ground as they flew and from it nothing good could come.
Castiel, powerful and not at all proud, used his own vessel to keep the sharp swords of their kin- their enemies- away from Jehoel, and Jehoel knew fear and guilt and desperate grief.
"Faster," Castiel urged. But to where could they run?
Their brothers were many, and they were two. Their brothers were angry and fierce and there was no mercy in their Grace and it made Jehoel feel sick, that this was what they had become.
This, he decided, was even worse than before. This was more horrifying than the First War because there was no reason for this fight anymore. Castiel’s resurrection could only be the work of their Father, and could only signify his approval. This fight had become selfish, hateful, and Jehoel could see nothing to be gained from it. Only more dissonance between the angels. Only more discord in Heaven. Jehoel realised as he beat his wings faster than he had in his entire existence, that perhaps this was what Castiel had been keeping from them all. Perhaps his solitude had been a means to their protection.
Suddenly changing directions, Castiel wrapped Jehoel in his great wings and they fell towards the Earth faster than Jehoel had ever travelled before. So fast that he feared he could not possibly survive. Just as they were about to hit the ground they were suddenly elsewhere, transported to some other part of the Earth that was no longer the dense green forest they had been escaping from.
Still, they flew within the sphere of Earth and so they were bound to its physics and Jehoel and Castiel came upon the Earth at a painfully fast velocity, slowed only marginally by Castiel's outstretched wings. Jehoel felt the structure of them snap and tear and cried out, even though Castiel did not.
The ground, Jehoel learned, hurt.
For a long while Jehoel was too dazed to move. He knew they should keep moving, and he knew he should ensure that Castiel was all right, because their brothers had been cruel and ruthless in the way they had cut at him and there had been a lot of blood. But all Jehoel could do was lie upon the Earth and try to gather himself back together.
It was quieter here. More dry. There was none of the fertile plant life of before, and there was no sky here. Inside then, in some human structure which felt as profane as anything Man could create, and as ugly. The ground beneath them was carpeted in greens and browns that could never have been natural, and as Jehoel moved, testing the damage to his vessel and himself, he saw that Castiel was indeed bleeding all across the floor.
"Castiel," he whispered, and tried not to panic when his brother's eyes stayed closed and he did not move. Jehoel didn't know how to heal and he didn't know who he could trust and he had no idea where he was. And still Castiel lay, motionless and pale and probably dying and Jehoel felt utterly helpless.
"You have to tell me what to do," he begged, but all Castiel did was continue to bleed from his vessel. Not wanting to see any more spill, Jehoel pressed his hands to where the wounds were worst, against Castiel's stomach and his side, and wished that their Father had made humans with more hands so that he might cover the gashes on his shoulder and along his brother's back too. The touch caused Castiel to stir, breathing air he didn't need in short, pained gasps. Jehoel wanted very much to cry.
"Castiel," he called again, "Brother, please."
Jehoel was no warrior, but he knew enough to realise that they were not safe here. They were not hidden.
It was supposed to be a meeting for the brokerage of peace. It was supposed to be the end of the war, and the betrayal of it burned Jehoel's Grace in a way he'd never felt before.
It was anger, he realised, and felt ashamed.
Except Castiel's Grace was ripped. Slashed and torn by their own brothers and if he'd known how to, Jehoel would have cursed those who’d turned on them. Castiel had protected him, had saved his life, and Jehoel meant to do the same. So he pressed against the wounds more forcefully, willing the blood to stop spilling and the cuts to heal. He was only a cherub, but he was still an angel and he was not about to let Castiel die. Not here, on the dirty floor of some human structure, at the hands of treacherous brothers.
They were on Earth, and the only other angels here were those who followed Raphael, or who followed themselves. He could not go to Heaven for help without leaving Castiel alone and defenceless. To carry Castiel away himself- away from the strange human smells of decay and sweat and things Jehoel couldn't recognise- was impossible. And there was only Dean and Sam Winchester who Jehoel knew Castiel would trust. But they were just humans. What could they do?
"You must wake up," Jehoel insisted.
The bleeding, at least, had slowed with the application of Grace and pressure and hope. It was something, Jehoel thought, and moved around his brother's vessel to crouch by his head and wipe away the blood at his neck and from his mouth with the edges of his own vessel's shirt. Where once it had been white it was now a bright red, and Jehoel's hands were sticky and stained. It had been a long time since Jehoel had felt the physical sensations of their Father's world. He had forgotten how horrifying they could be.
Desperately trying to think of some way to fix this, or to call for help, Jehoel pushed aside the layers of Castiel's clothes to reveal a deep puncture wound low on his shoulder. If it had gone all the way through, Jehoel realised, if one of the angels had pierced through Castiel's vessel much deeper he would be dead. It was useless though, to agonise over what might have been. What could have been. This was something Castiel always said; that they could not help what had happened. They could only move forward, concentrating on what was in front of them. On the future.
Jehoel steeled himself, sick as it made him feel to see his brother this way and to feel so utterly inadequate. Castiel would not be so utterly afraid. So Jehoel pressed down on this wound too, pushing his own Grace within his brother and again Castiel stirred, shifting restlessly under his hands. His face showed great pain and distress but there was nothing Jehoel could do to alleviate that. He just wanted Castiel to live.
And then, Castiel's eyes opened, just a little, but it was something. Jehoel leaned over him, not letting go of the wound, but wanting to see his brother's eyes and to know he was helping and not making things worse.
"Castiel," he called, and watched as Castiel's eyes tried to focus on his face. Jehoel didn't know much about human physiology, but he knew enough to guess that this was not a good sign. "You must tell me how I can help you," Jehoel insisted.
It was a long few minutes before Castiel could reply, like he found it difficult to understand the words. He looked around and Jehoel could feel his confusion.
"I couldn't return us to Heaven," he said finally. His voice was so very quiet. Not at all like the Castiel Jehoel had come to know.
"No," Jehoel said. "We were trying to escape. You brought us here."
Where here was, Jehoel still wasn't sure.
"I won't leave you. Tell me what to do," he asked again.
There was a strange smile on Castiel's face, something sad and resigned.
"There is no help for us here." Castiel took a deep breath. It stuttered in his human lungs, wet and strained. "You must return to Heaven."
"I will not." Jehoel might only be of a low Order, but he had listened to Castiel and he had understood very well and taken to heart the part about Free Will and choice. "There is Dean Winchester. He can help."
"He cannot," Castiel sighed, and his eyes slid away, closing.
Jehoel hated himself for it, but he pushed down on the wound under his hands. The skin felt warm and the blood slippery, but Jehoel was not about to lose Castiel to unconsciousness again. Castiel hissed and tried to pull away but he was weak, and that worried Jehoel even more. "Please, brother," he begged. "I can think of no one else on Earth. Just tell me how to contact him?"
There had to be some spell, or some messenger he could use. How else could Castiel have kept in contact with the Winchesters? They remained hidden from angels, and Jehoel has heard that it was Castiel himself who hid them, even from himself.
"I still have my cell phone," Castiel replied, his eyes mostly closed. Slowly, Castiel reached into the pocket of his coat, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries. He drew out something that Jehoel had never seen in his life, small and silver and black. Human technology.
Castiel looked at the object strangely, as though he couldn't quite remember why he was holding it anymore, but before Jehoel could ask how to use it, what he had to do, Castiel's eyes slid fully closed and his vessel became lax and unresponsive, and no amount of cajoling could wake him.
Picking up the thing cautiously, Jehoel decided that if a human could use it, then an angel certainly could.
***
Hunt followed hunt, mile are after mile of creatures more powerful than they should be, age-old habits all out of whack and tried-and-tested ways of killing them ineffective. They weren't getting any help from On High, and a whole lot too much interest from Downstairs and all Dean had to rely on was Sam. And Sam was about as reliable as a vampire in a blood bank. So yeah, Dean's life was fucked up.
Sometimes, Dean realised the strangeness of it. After a year in the suburbs, doing normal things, Dean had some reference from which he could look and see exactly how far from civilian life they really were. How far outside of what most people considered reality they were.
Dean couldn't even decide if he missed it; that everyday repetition where nothing unusual, nothing life-threatening happened. Somehow he'd known, deep inside, that there was no way that kind of life could last. Not for Dean Winchester.
Castiel had once told him that good things do happen, but Dean had yet to see much evidence of it. From what Dean had seen of Cas lately he wondered if the idiot angel even believed it anymore. And thinking about Cas these days just led absolutely nowhere.
The only guy in all creation who might actually have Dean's back and he wasn't around.
There’d been a time when Dean had liked driving along these long stretches between jobs. It'd been something simple, something he could control, where he could relax and just feel his car and the road under him and his brother next to him and know they were both, for as long as they drove, safe. The silence between him and Sam, now, was just a reminder of everything that was wrong. Tension made worse by the fact that there was nothing Dean could do about it, and that Sam didn't even notice there was anything wrong.
He was almost glad when his cell rang- something to break up the monotony and the constant feeling of wrongness- thinking maybe it was Bobby with some news, or at least a new hunt. But when he took his eyes off the road for just a moment to look at the screen, what he saw almost made him crash the damn car.
"The hell?"
Dean frowned, and saw Sam looking at him with his fake look of concern. He raised an eyebrow and Dean thought that the interest was real, at least.
"Cas," Dean said, and Sam actually looked surprised.
"Wow."
"Yeah."
Staring at Cas's name on his phone, Dean considered not answering. It wasn't like the bastard ever answered when Dean called. Still, he might have found something out, and there was always the opportunity to bitch Cas out if he hadn't, which was pretty much about the extent of their relationship these days.
Dean wondered if he should pull over for this conversation. There weren't many cars out this time of the morning, but still, he wanted all his concentration for this.
Making his decision, Dean pulled over sharply, so that Sam had to put a hand against the dash to stop himself being thrown forward. Sam didn't make any comment.
It was weird, but as soon as Dean answered the phone he knew something was wrong.
There was a long silence, so long that Dean thought that maybe Cas's phone was still in Cas's pocket and had somehow accidentally dialled Dean, and any minute Dean was going to be assaulted with the high-pitched screeching of angels in their true forms. Except mostly all Dean could hear was breathing, and maybe some shuffling and clicking, like the phone being moved around.
"You gonna say something?" he asked.
Then, "Hello," and no way that was Cas's voice. Much higher, the voice sounded almost afraid, and definitely panicked. "Hello?" whoever it was said again. "Is this working? Is that Dean Winchester? Please tell me it's Dean Winchester."
"Who's this?" Dean asked carefully, trying not to think what someone else having Cas's phone could mean. Someone who knew Dean's name.
"My name is Jehoel. I serve Castiel. You are Dean Winchester?"
Dean ignored the question. "Where's Cas?"
"He's injured, and I don't know what to do. You'll help me won't you? Please tell me you'll help me."
The guy sounded convincing, and Dean shoved down the sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of Cas so busted up he couldn’t contact Dean himself. But Dean knew all too well just how good demons- and angels- were at lying.
"Let me talk to Cas."
"I can't..." The guy on the other end of the line broke off, tried again, "He's not awake. He won't stay awake. Please, Dean Winchester. You're the only one I could think would help us."
It reminded Dean of a time when Cas had come to Dean for aid, because there was no one else. This stranger had that same frustrated irritation, but also distress. Fear. But none of it made any sense.
"What do you expect me to do?" Dean asked. There were so many reasons not to get involved in messed up angel business, if that was what it even was.
"I don't know," the stranger told him. "I know nothing of Earth, and nothing about vessels, and I don't want to leave Castiel. We are unprotected here."
Fuck, but the guy sounded like he was about to burst into tears. If it really was one of Cas's followers, then Cas really needed to get better help. If they were all like that then the world was doomed.
He still hadn't a clue what this angel expected him to do, but forgetting for a second all the recent crap between them, Dean did owe Cas. There was no way he could take the chance that Castiel was dying somewhere with only some useless, panicking idiot for help. Dean didn't pretend to know what was going on with Heaven, but he was fairly certain Cas dying would not be good.
And even if it didn’t feel like it most of the time, Cas had become one of them somewhere along the line.
On the other end of the line, whatever-his-name-was had started pretty much begging. "Castiel would only trust you," he said and "The other angels might have followed us," and "I can't let him die."
There was no ignoring that.
Dean asked, "Where are you?" and that was how Dean met Jehoel.
***
Never before had time seemed like such a tedious thing. Never before, that he could remember, had Jehoel even thought about time at all. It was a human invention, meaningless to angels who had all the time in creation at their disposal. They knew it as what had happened, what was happening, and what would happen. Anything else was arbitrary.
Except where Jehoel had taken such a very long time to work out what to press on the telephone to make it work that Castiel's blood was dry against his neck and his vessel's clothes were saturated with it. Jehoel pressed down on what wounds he could, closing them as much as he knew how, but healing was not something cherubs knew much about. They knew love and friendship, companionship and the human heart. They didn't know what to do when that heart began to slow, its rhythm becoming erratic.
And then to have to wait for Dean Winchester's arrival, because he refused to tell Jehoel where he was and because he wanted to drive to them was pure torture. Waiting had never felt like this before. Like torment, every passing moment increasingly interminable and unending.
"Why do you trust him?" Jehoel asked, when he could no longer stand the quiet, filled only with the sound of Castiel's uneven, painful breaths. When he could no longer bear to sit and do nothing any longer. Jehoel held Castiel's head in his hands, trying to soothe him with his Grace and with a hand stroking through his human hair. It was soft, Jehoel thought. "He would not let me bring him."
Castiel was only half-awake, but this he heard. "He doesn't know you," he said, and Jehoel became even more worried because his words slurred together.
They weren't far, Dean Winchester had said. They wouldn't take long. But it felt like it'd been eons, and now the sun was setting and Jehoel didn't think he liked the dark very much. He was scared, he realised. He was scared for Castiel, and for himself, and he was scared that he didn't know what was going to happen next.
Castiel's human eyes were unfocused and his Grace was dimming by the time the Winchesters finally arrived. No matter how much of his own Jehoel offered, Castiel would not take and Castiel won every argument Jehoel tried to make, every method he could think to urge Castiel to allow him to help, by virtue of closing his eyes and not responding.
It was, Jehoel decided, very unfair.
He was scared, too, of Dean Winchester. Jehoel didn't really know what to expect because Castiel would speak of him only rarely and he wasn't given to spying on humans as some of his brothers and sisters were. Really, he didn't know what to expect.
Jehoel was even more afraid of Dean Winchester when he finally came face-to-face with the human. As soon as he set foot inside the room, he brandished a weapon and a bottle of what smelled like holy oil at Jehoel menacingly.
They were in a motel, Jehoel had learned when he'd been trying to explain where they were. It was a human place, obscure and unimportant, and Jehoel could see why Castiel had chosen it.
"Why are the lights off?" Dean Winchester asked, and Jehoel didn't understand because he had no control over the sun. And then there was light of a different kind; a glowing, artificial thing that made his human eyes hurt. Jehoel pulled Castiel closer. It may have been some time since Jehoel had interacted with humans, but he knew at once from his soul and his heart that this was Dean Winchester. In his arms, Castiel stirred and it was the most movement he had made for a long while.
"Dean," he called, and Jehoel watched, strangely fascinated, as Dean Winchester took in the sight of Castiel, his eyes widening and his lips thinning out into a tense line. He glanced behind him, back towards the door, and for the first time Jehoel noticed the other Winchester brother. It was strange, he thought, how he hadn't even noticed him before.
His attention returning to Castiel, Dean approached slowly, still cautious. "You okay, Cas?"
Castiel let out a long breath. "I have been better." It was more mumbled then anything and Jehoel wondered if Dean Winchester could even hear him.
It seemed he could, because he replied, "Yeah," and crouched down beside them, laying the oil on the floor but not his weapon. It made no sense, Jehoel thought, that he would discard the one thing that could actually do him harm. Sam Winchester, though, stood tall and alert behind them.
Castiel opened his eyes as much as he seemed able and Jehoel could tell that he was trying to focus on Dean Winchester. The human stared right back, and Jehoel was sure Castiel actually relaxed a little, like the pain was less. Or perhaps he just felt safer now, with someone who knew how to fight and how to defend them.
"I've done what I could," Jehoel offered, because there didn't seem to be any end to the look his brother and Dean Winchester were sharing. "We've been here too long. I should like to leave."
He was ignored.
Instead, Dean Winchester placed a hand lightly on the shoulder of Castiel's vessel, moving fabric aside to look at his wounds. Methodically, efficiently he checked Castiel's arms and neck and chest. "Who is this guy?" he asked, glancing up at Castiel.
"Jehoel. He is my most trusted ally. You can trust him."
To hear Castiel speak of him this way made Jehoel's stomach strangely warm, his face hot. To be called ally and trusted, when Castiel never seemed to trust anyone, was such a very great honour.
"He's an angel," was Dean Winchester's reply, and it sounded like an accusation.
"A cherub," Castiel confirmed, and Jehoel was surprised to see Dean Winchester grin.
"Seriously? He's wearing clothes."
Jehoel wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but he didn't like being talked about as though he wasn't there, and he didn't want to stay in the same place any longer.
"My vessel has clothes," Jehoel said irritably. "Now please can we leave."
At that Dean Winchester actually looked at him, and he didn't look amused any more. There was suspicion written on his face. "Some of this is half-healed." He gestured to Castiel's chest. The bleeding had stopped, but some of the wounds had become red and inflamed. There was only so much Jehoel knew how to do against heavenly weapons. "You do that?" Dean Winchester asked.
"Yes."
"He doesn't know how to do more," Castiel said, then turned his head slowly to look up at Jehoel. "You did everything you could."
Dean Winchester watched him for another long moment, his gaze still unfriendly, but maybe a little less hostile. Jehoel squirmed under the attention.
"I can't fly with him," he explained, and had no idea why he suddenly felt nervous. "I couldn't leave him to get help. We just need to hide, somewhere safe, while he heals."
Again, Dean Winchester glanced down at Castiel like he was looking for affirmation, and Castiel nodded, once, before his eyes closed.
Jehoel understood; Dean Winchester had little reason to trust angels, considering the way he had been lied to and all the things that were once asked of him in the name of Heaven. It was cruel and it was unfair, and even now there was reticence in the way the human looked at Castiel, like he wasn't quite sure of him, either.
For a moment, Jehoel considered the possibility that Dean Winchester was going to refuse to help them, and Jehoel didn't know what he would do then. But then Dean Winchester said, "Fine," and slid a hand around the back of Castiel's shoulders, finally putting his weapon away and using both hands to haul Castiel up into a seated position.
Castiel hissed in pain, but made no complaint.
"Help me get him to the car," Dean ordered, and Jehoel obeyed.
***
Rest
Castiel awoke in Dean's car.
He didn't need to open his eyes to know where he was. The smell of leather and exhaust fumes and Dean would have been enough, but Castiel could also hear the steady roll of the engine, the feel of it under his back.
His head was lying, he realised, against someone's thigh. From the curled power beneath it, the proximity of Grace, Castiel thought it had to be Jehoel. His friend was also arguing with Dean, and it was loud.
"If you would just tell me where we were going," Jehoel asked, and he sounded truly annoyed, which was really something of an achievement for a cherub.
From further away, Dean replied curtly, "No."
Castiel supposed he was driving.
Jehoel gave a very deep sigh, and Castiel felt Jehoel's arms tighten around his shoulders.
Castiel would have reassured Dean that Jehoel would not betray them. That he was safe. He would have asked Dean to trust Jehoel as he trusted Castiel- though now, with this war and with Sam as he was, and with all the other hundred things between them- Castiel was no longer sure of how much Dean trusted in his judgment.
He would have spoken, but he was tired and the car felt safe, a place he could finally rest, and before Castiel could bring himself to speak he had fallen to sleep.
When he awoke for the second time, Castiel was no longer in the car, but instead felt a bed beneath him, iron walls around him, surrounded by the power of sigils he had once drawn with his own blood and his own hand.
Bobby's.
The cuts that had been made in his Grace and in his body were finally healed to a point at which they no longer caused him such pain that it was hard to think, and Castiel was glad that he had not been conscious for most of that time. Still, his limbs felt stiff and heavy, his head hurt; the damage to his angel self manifest in his human body.
His shoulders felt cold, exposed, and Castiel realised that someone had removed his coat and jacket and shirt. Castiel could feel bandaging wrapped around his arms and hands and around his chest. That had to have been Dean's doing, because Jehoel would not have known how, or even that it was necessary. There was a scratchy blanket covering him, and Castiel wondered at the sensations, at how weakened he was.
Close by, Dean and Jehoel were arguing again, in low voices, and Castiel wondered if that was what had caused the pain in his head.
"I won't leave," Jehoel was saying. There was anger in his tone.
"We don't need you here," Dean hissed back, and from the annoyance in his voice Castiel thought the argument must have been going on for a long time. "Bobby doesn't want you here."
"I do not care what you want," Jehoel shot back stubbornly.
His loyalty was always a source of strength for Castiel, but Castiel could also understand Dean's reluctance. Even so, Castiel had neither the strength nor the patience to deal with their differences.
"I would prefer if neither of you were here," Castiel cut in before Dean could argue back. His mouth was dry, and he did not think about the last time he had felt thirst. It was a time he did not like to remember.
Slowly, wearily, Castiel opened his eyes. There was little light in the room, but he could still see Jehoel and Dean by the half-open door staring at him.
It was Dean who spoke first. "Cas." He began moving towards Castiel, Jehoel following behind. "Didn't realise you were awake."
"It is difficult to rest with you two arguing."
Jehoel looked contrite, but Dean just frowned. Castiel didn't miss the way his eyes flicked to Jehoel.
"I told you," Castiel said, because as much as he could sympathise with Dean's mistrust, he had already assured Dean once. "Jehoel is loyal, and is no threat to you."
"I wasn't worried about us." Dean shook his head. "He wouldn't tell us what happened to you."
"And you wouldn't tell him where we were going," Castiel pointed out. He turned to Jehoel. "Would you leave us? I am safe here, and we should have returned to Heaven some time ago. You know the orders I meant to give."
It bothered Castiel that he was not actually sure how much time had passed since the fight. Since they had run to a motel which Castiel had once stayed in with Dean and Sam. It was impossible to even tell the time of day hidden within Bobby's panic room.
Jehoel didn't look convinced. "Are you sure? This place is-"
"I set the wards myself," Castiel said.
"The others won't-"
"Explain to them." Castiel reached out to take his brother's hand. "They will follow you."
It would, Castiel thought, be a good thing for a cherub to lead. For someone else to have authority in Heaven.
"If you're sure-" Jehoel looked to Castiel's hand on his, held his human fingers tightly. "I could send help."
"I will heal here."
He gave a blessing, the oldest and strongest he could think of, and Jehoel nodded his head and wished him well. "And to Dean Winchester," Jehoel added. "May he be well, so that he might look after you and stop being so stubborn."
And with that he flew, leaving Dean frowning into the empty space, and leaving Castiel's hand to fall to the bed.
"I don't get angels," Dean said, and he wouldn't meet Castiel's eyes. "I can't trust them."
Castiel had suspected it, but it still hurt to hear.
"And now that I have returned to Heaven-"
Dean didn't reply, but Castiel could see it in the way Dean turned away. He looked towards the door, as though he was considering leaving.
"Then why help us?" Castiel asked.
"I helped you. I'm not that much of an asshole."
There was an awkward silence, Castiel unable to decide what he should say, if it would not be best to remain silent and leave things as they were. But they had barely spoken since Castiel had returned to Heaven, and it was as though during that time they had forgotten how to be friends.
"Dean." Castiel would have liked nothing more than to rest, to let go of the world for a while and heal, but this too was something that needed to be taken care of. He didn't want for this coldness and distance and mistrust to remain between them. There were so few opportunities for them now to have anything more than moments together.
They rarely talked to each other about anything beyond business, necessities, but that was Dean's way, and it was also Castiel's. For them, their friendship had always been in the way they worked together, in the way there was trust between them when they fought at each other's side. In the way Dean looked at Castiel and Castiel looked back and neither of them had to explain it.
"You should sleep, or whatever it is you do now." Dean turned back towards Castiel, looking him over with an unreadable expression.
"I haven't changed," Castiel told him because, in essence, he hadn't and at times it felt as though Dean treated him like a stranger.
"You have," Dean argued.
Castiel tried to meet Dean's eyes, wanting him to understand. "I still remember everything."
What it was to be human; to hunger and to want and to feel uncertain and alone. What it was like to be hopeless and helpless. These things Castiel still felt, sometimes.
Before, when Castiel had wanted to make a point, to make sure that Dean understood, he would have stood close- uncomfortably so for Dean- so that he couldn't look away or ignore Castiel. Castiel thought that perhaps this was what he needed to do now, and attempted to push himself upright. He could not even sit up before his half-healed wounds pulled in a way that hurt.
"Idiot," Dean chastised. "Lay back down."
As pathetic and irritated at himself as Castiel felt, it did at least bring Dean closer, who perched himself on the edge of the bed and pushed Castiel back down.
It was embarrassingly easy.
With anyone else, Castiel would have been ashamed to be so weak, but Dean had seen worse of him, and if there was one place in the universe Castiel could feel safe it was here. This was something Castiel could never forget.
From his attempts to move, the uncomfortable blanket had fallen to Castiel's waist.
"I feel cold," he told Dean, and was pleased when Dean breathed a laugh and smiled, just a small thing, but real.
"Dick," Dean said fondly, and pulled the blanket up over Castiel's shoulders. "Shut up and go to sleep."
Nothing had been resolved. Nothing had changed, and maybe that was the point.
They were the people they had always been; angel and human and neither of them having much use for sentimentalities. Dean was here, sitting beside Castiel, and he stayed even when Castiel closed his eyes and sought rest. The warmth of Dean's body beside Castiel's meant more than any words he could ever have said.
***
Part 2 >>
Firstly, to cienna for beta-ing, and giving me disbelieving sideways glances every time I asked, "It's not too depressing for a Christmas fic, right?"
Also, my most heartfelt thanks to thehoyden for finding Jehoel's name for me (Jehoel, angel of presence and a mediator), and assuring me that Jeff started with a J not a G in far-flung America. This is not quite the crack we talked about, but I kept Jeff much as we had discussed him. May he forever save us from obtuse, smarmy guys in pubs.
Title: Some Rise by Sin, and by Virtue Fall (1/2)
Rating: R for violence and swearing
Word count: 16,298
Summary: Takes place sometime after 6x9. The end of a war.
Notes: This began as crack, with the idea of a story about Cas's harried, over-worked angel PA. Apparently, I'm incapable of crack and so it turned into something entirely different. Title blatantly stolen from Shakespeare because it was just too appropriate to not use.
.Some Rise by Sin, and by Virtue Fall.
1. The History
It had been neither a long nor a fierce war, but it had been unexpected and it had been bitter in a way that no angel could help but compare to the First War. It tasted of betrayal and of twisted love and pride, obsession, and all the other things that angels shouldn’t feel. Weren’t designed to feel.
They had thought that it could never happen again. That never again would angel kill angel. Never again would it happen that an angel sought power over other angels, over God. They were servants and they had no will of their own and for the longest time Jehoel had believed it, and had been glad for it because it meant he’d never have to see his brothers and sisters killing and tearing at each other again. He had cried for them then, as he cried for them now.
Jehoel was born to be Mediation, but nothing he did ever seemed to work. He couldn’t stop the battles and the anger and the love that was hate. Most of his kind couldn’t even tell the difference any more.
It was why he had followed Castiel, in the beginning.
More than because Castiel had been resurrected by their father. More than because he had been resurrected more glorious, more bright and full of Grace than he had been before. Before Castiel, such a thing was unheard of. But for Jehoel it was his brother’s great love. It was because Castiel wanted nothing more than peace, for them all to be as they were supposed to be; creatures who followed their Father’s will. Never could Jehoel, nor any other cherub, imagine that their Father would ever want his children to be at odds. Not with each other and certainly not with His beloved humanity.
Castiel was one of the many, an ordinary soldier who had known very little of either Heaven or Earth. For the longest time he would have known only battle and discipline and absolutes, but even he had seen the difference between right and wrong. He had questioned and he had recognised the wicked, unholy ways of his superiors and showed compassion. And for all this the cherubs loved him and followed him. They were not made to fight, and they were not made to endure, but for this- to bring their brothers to peace and to ensure the preservation of humanity- they did what they could.
Jehoel, who had always been a negotiator, an intermediary, amongst his brothers and sisters, was charged with persuasion, brokering alliances, and with ensuring that Castiel did not drown in the endless demands and prayers and petitions of his supporters. Or more accurately, Jehoel charged himself with these things for Castiel would certainly never ask it of anyone. Castiel commanded his armies and he sent his brothers and sisters to war, but he would not seek his own comfort, as though he did not believe he deserved it.
Many times Jehoel wondered what could have happened on Earth, before his return, that had made Castiel so very cautious and so very reserved and solitary. It set Castiel apart more than anything else; against the very nature of angels it was almost as though Castiel could not trust his kin.
Perhaps it was understandable, because they were embroiled in a war with others of their kind, but Castiel did not seem to trust even his closest supporters. His reticence was plain to see in the way he disallowed anyone from going to Earth. In the way he would not reveal where he was going half the time, from the way he never spoke of Hell or Dean Winchester or Raphael or anything else which related to that failed Apocalypse. And Castiel made no secret of it.
For this reason, it was with much elation that Jehoel was asked to accompany Castiel to Earth.
It was the first time Castiel had shown even the smallest amount of confidence in another angel, and Jehoel tried not the think of how proud it made him that he had been chosen.
Castiel, chosen himself by their Father, one of the most powerful of the Host, and certainly the most head-strong, and he sought out the help of a lowly cherub.
"You are mediation," Castiel said, as though this explained everything, and took hold of Jehoel's hand.
***
There were many things that Jehoel wished that he had not had to learn.
What it felt like to see hatred and disgust in the eyes of his own brothers and sisters. Betrayal. Realising what lies were and how much they hurt. With the realisation Jehoel understood Castiel's reticence all too well.
That day, he came to understand the sorrow in Castiel's eyes as he fought the other angels off. Jehoel understood his desperation as Castiel grabbed for Jehoel's wrist and demanded he fly and now. The feel of his brother's blood on his hands, warm and sweet and so very red was something Jehoel would not forget. He had not been to Earth in a very long time, and he had not seen humanity in many centuries, but Jehoel recognised that the blood of an angel did not belong on Earth. It fell to the ground as they flew and from it nothing good could come.
Castiel, powerful and not at all proud, used his own vessel to keep the sharp swords of their kin- their enemies- away from Jehoel, and Jehoel knew fear and guilt and desperate grief.
"Faster," Castiel urged. But to where could they run?
Their brothers were many, and they were two. Their brothers were angry and fierce and there was no mercy in their Grace and it made Jehoel feel sick, that this was what they had become.
This, he decided, was even worse than before. This was more horrifying than the First War because there was no reason for this fight anymore. Castiel’s resurrection could only be the work of their Father, and could only signify his approval. This fight had become selfish, hateful, and Jehoel could see nothing to be gained from it. Only more dissonance between the angels. Only more discord in Heaven. Jehoel realised as he beat his wings faster than he had in his entire existence, that perhaps this was what Castiel had been keeping from them all. Perhaps his solitude had been a means to their protection.
Suddenly changing directions, Castiel wrapped Jehoel in his great wings and they fell towards the Earth faster than Jehoel had ever travelled before. So fast that he feared he could not possibly survive. Just as they were about to hit the ground they were suddenly elsewhere, transported to some other part of the Earth that was no longer the dense green forest they had been escaping from.
Still, they flew within the sphere of Earth and so they were bound to its physics and Jehoel and Castiel came upon the Earth at a painfully fast velocity, slowed only marginally by Castiel's outstretched wings. Jehoel felt the structure of them snap and tear and cried out, even though Castiel did not.
The ground, Jehoel learned, hurt.
For a long while Jehoel was too dazed to move. He knew they should keep moving, and he knew he should ensure that Castiel was all right, because their brothers had been cruel and ruthless in the way they had cut at him and there had been a lot of blood. But all Jehoel could do was lie upon the Earth and try to gather himself back together.
It was quieter here. More dry. There was none of the fertile plant life of before, and there was no sky here. Inside then, in some human structure which felt as profane as anything Man could create, and as ugly. The ground beneath them was carpeted in greens and browns that could never have been natural, and as Jehoel moved, testing the damage to his vessel and himself, he saw that Castiel was indeed bleeding all across the floor.
"Castiel," he whispered, and tried not to panic when his brother's eyes stayed closed and he did not move. Jehoel didn't know how to heal and he didn't know who he could trust and he had no idea where he was. And still Castiel lay, motionless and pale and probably dying and Jehoel felt utterly helpless.
"You have to tell me what to do," he begged, but all Castiel did was continue to bleed from his vessel. Not wanting to see any more spill, Jehoel pressed his hands to where the wounds were worst, against Castiel's stomach and his side, and wished that their Father had made humans with more hands so that he might cover the gashes on his shoulder and along his brother's back too. The touch caused Castiel to stir, breathing air he didn't need in short, pained gasps. Jehoel wanted very much to cry.
"Castiel," he called again, "Brother, please."
Jehoel was no warrior, but he knew enough to realise that they were not safe here. They were not hidden.
It was supposed to be a meeting for the brokerage of peace. It was supposed to be the end of the war, and the betrayal of it burned Jehoel's Grace in a way he'd never felt before.
It was anger, he realised, and felt ashamed.
Except Castiel's Grace was ripped. Slashed and torn by their own brothers and if he'd known how to, Jehoel would have cursed those who’d turned on them. Castiel had protected him, had saved his life, and Jehoel meant to do the same. So he pressed against the wounds more forcefully, willing the blood to stop spilling and the cuts to heal. He was only a cherub, but he was still an angel and he was not about to let Castiel die. Not here, on the dirty floor of some human structure, at the hands of treacherous brothers.
They were on Earth, and the only other angels here were those who followed Raphael, or who followed themselves. He could not go to Heaven for help without leaving Castiel alone and defenceless. To carry Castiel away himself- away from the strange human smells of decay and sweat and things Jehoel couldn't recognise- was impossible. And there was only Dean and Sam Winchester who Jehoel knew Castiel would trust. But they were just humans. What could they do?
"You must wake up," Jehoel insisted.
The bleeding, at least, had slowed with the application of Grace and pressure and hope. It was something, Jehoel thought, and moved around his brother's vessel to crouch by his head and wipe away the blood at his neck and from his mouth with the edges of his own vessel's shirt. Where once it had been white it was now a bright red, and Jehoel's hands were sticky and stained. It had been a long time since Jehoel had felt the physical sensations of their Father's world. He had forgotten how horrifying they could be.
Desperately trying to think of some way to fix this, or to call for help, Jehoel pushed aside the layers of Castiel's clothes to reveal a deep puncture wound low on his shoulder. If it had gone all the way through, Jehoel realised, if one of the angels had pierced through Castiel's vessel much deeper he would be dead. It was useless though, to agonise over what might have been. What could have been. This was something Castiel always said; that they could not help what had happened. They could only move forward, concentrating on what was in front of them. On the future.
Jehoel steeled himself, sick as it made him feel to see his brother this way and to feel so utterly inadequate. Castiel would not be so utterly afraid. So Jehoel pressed down on this wound too, pushing his own Grace within his brother and again Castiel stirred, shifting restlessly under his hands. His face showed great pain and distress but there was nothing Jehoel could do to alleviate that. He just wanted Castiel to live.
And then, Castiel's eyes opened, just a little, but it was something. Jehoel leaned over him, not letting go of the wound, but wanting to see his brother's eyes and to know he was helping and not making things worse.
"Castiel," he called, and watched as Castiel's eyes tried to focus on his face. Jehoel didn't know much about human physiology, but he knew enough to guess that this was not a good sign. "You must tell me how I can help you," Jehoel insisted.
It was a long few minutes before Castiel could reply, like he found it difficult to understand the words. He looked around and Jehoel could feel his confusion.
"I couldn't return us to Heaven," he said finally. His voice was so very quiet. Not at all like the Castiel Jehoel had come to know.
"No," Jehoel said. "We were trying to escape. You brought us here."
Where here was, Jehoel still wasn't sure.
"I won't leave you. Tell me what to do," he asked again.
There was a strange smile on Castiel's face, something sad and resigned.
"There is no help for us here." Castiel took a deep breath. It stuttered in his human lungs, wet and strained. "You must return to Heaven."
"I will not." Jehoel might only be of a low Order, but he had listened to Castiel and he had understood very well and taken to heart the part about Free Will and choice. "There is Dean Winchester. He can help."
"He cannot," Castiel sighed, and his eyes slid away, closing.
Jehoel hated himself for it, but he pushed down on the wound under his hands. The skin felt warm and the blood slippery, but Jehoel was not about to lose Castiel to unconsciousness again. Castiel hissed and tried to pull away but he was weak, and that worried Jehoel even more. "Please, brother," he begged. "I can think of no one else on Earth. Just tell me how to contact him?"
There had to be some spell, or some messenger he could use. How else could Castiel have kept in contact with the Winchesters? They remained hidden from angels, and Jehoel has heard that it was Castiel himself who hid them, even from himself.
"I still have my cell phone," Castiel replied, his eyes mostly closed. Slowly, Castiel reached into the pocket of his coat, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries. He drew out something that Jehoel had never seen in his life, small and silver and black. Human technology.
Castiel looked at the object strangely, as though he couldn't quite remember why he was holding it anymore, but before Jehoel could ask how to use it, what he had to do, Castiel's eyes slid fully closed and his vessel became lax and unresponsive, and no amount of cajoling could wake him.
Picking up the thing cautiously, Jehoel decided that if a human could use it, then an angel certainly could.
***
Hunt followed hunt, mile are after mile of creatures more powerful than they should be, age-old habits all out of whack and tried-and-tested ways of killing them ineffective. They weren't getting any help from On High, and a whole lot too much interest from Downstairs and all Dean had to rely on was Sam. And Sam was about as reliable as a vampire in a blood bank. So yeah, Dean's life was fucked up.
Sometimes, Dean realised the strangeness of it. After a year in the suburbs, doing normal things, Dean had some reference from which he could look and see exactly how far from civilian life they really were. How far outside of what most people considered reality they were.
Dean couldn't even decide if he missed it; that everyday repetition where nothing unusual, nothing life-threatening happened. Somehow he'd known, deep inside, that there was no way that kind of life could last. Not for Dean Winchester.
Castiel had once told him that good things do happen, but Dean had yet to see much evidence of it. From what Dean had seen of Cas lately he wondered if the idiot angel even believed it anymore. And thinking about Cas these days just led absolutely nowhere.
The only guy in all creation who might actually have Dean's back and he wasn't around.
There’d been a time when Dean had liked driving along these long stretches between jobs. It'd been something simple, something he could control, where he could relax and just feel his car and the road under him and his brother next to him and know they were both, for as long as they drove, safe. The silence between him and Sam, now, was just a reminder of everything that was wrong. Tension made worse by the fact that there was nothing Dean could do about it, and that Sam didn't even notice there was anything wrong.
He was almost glad when his cell rang- something to break up the monotony and the constant feeling of wrongness- thinking maybe it was Bobby with some news, or at least a new hunt. But when he took his eyes off the road for just a moment to look at the screen, what he saw almost made him crash the damn car.
"The hell?"
Dean frowned, and saw Sam looking at him with his fake look of concern. He raised an eyebrow and Dean thought that the interest was real, at least.
"Cas," Dean said, and Sam actually looked surprised.
"Wow."
"Yeah."
Staring at Cas's name on his phone, Dean considered not answering. It wasn't like the bastard ever answered when Dean called. Still, he might have found something out, and there was always the opportunity to bitch Cas out if he hadn't, which was pretty much about the extent of their relationship these days.
Dean wondered if he should pull over for this conversation. There weren't many cars out this time of the morning, but still, he wanted all his concentration for this.
Making his decision, Dean pulled over sharply, so that Sam had to put a hand against the dash to stop himself being thrown forward. Sam didn't make any comment.
It was weird, but as soon as Dean answered the phone he knew something was wrong.
There was a long silence, so long that Dean thought that maybe Cas's phone was still in Cas's pocket and had somehow accidentally dialled Dean, and any minute Dean was going to be assaulted with the high-pitched screeching of angels in their true forms. Except mostly all Dean could hear was breathing, and maybe some shuffling and clicking, like the phone being moved around.
"You gonna say something?" he asked.
Then, "Hello," and no way that was Cas's voice. Much higher, the voice sounded almost afraid, and definitely panicked. "Hello?" whoever it was said again. "Is this working? Is that Dean Winchester? Please tell me it's Dean Winchester."
"Who's this?" Dean asked carefully, trying not to think what someone else having Cas's phone could mean. Someone who knew Dean's name.
"My name is Jehoel. I serve Castiel. You are Dean Winchester?"
Dean ignored the question. "Where's Cas?"
"He's injured, and I don't know what to do. You'll help me won't you? Please tell me you'll help me."
The guy sounded convincing, and Dean shoved down the sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of Cas so busted up he couldn’t contact Dean himself. But Dean knew all too well just how good demons- and angels- were at lying.
"Let me talk to Cas."
"I can't..." The guy on the other end of the line broke off, tried again, "He's not awake. He won't stay awake. Please, Dean Winchester. You're the only one I could think would help us."
It reminded Dean of a time when Cas had come to Dean for aid, because there was no one else. This stranger had that same frustrated irritation, but also distress. Fear. But none of it made any sense.
"What do you expect me to do?" Dean asked. There were so many reasons not to get involved in messed up angel business, if that was what it even was.
"I don't know," the stranger told him. "I know nothing of Earth, and nothing about vessels, and I don't want to leave Castiel. We are unprotected here."
Fuck, but the guy sounded like he was about to burst into tears. If it really was one of Cas's followers, then Cas really needed to get better help. If they were all like that then the world was doomed.
He still hadn't a clue what this angel expected him to do, but forgetting for a second all the recent crap between them, Dean did owe Cas. There was no way he could take the chance that Castiel was dying somewhere with only some useless, panicking idiot for help. Dean didn't pretend to know what was going on with Heaven, but he was fairly certain Cas dying would not be good.
And even if it didn’t feel like it most of the time, Cas had become one of them somewhere along the line.
On the other end of the line, whatever-his-name-was had started pretty much begging. "Castiel would only trust you," he said and "The other angels might have followed us," and "I can't let him die."
There was no ignoring that.
Dean asked, "Where are you?" and that was how Dean met Jehoel.
***
Never before had time seemed like such a tedious thing. Never before, that he could remember, had Jehoel even thought about time at all. It was a human invention, meaningless to angels who had all the time in creation at their disposal. They knew it as what had happened, what was happening, and what would happen. Anything else was arbitrary.
Except where Jehoel had taken such a very long time to work out what to press on the telephone to make it work that Castiel's blood was dry against his neck and his vessel's clothes were saturated with it. Jehoel pressed down on what wounds he could, closing them as much as he knew how, but healing was not something cherubs knew much about. They knew love and friendship, companionship and the human heart. They didn't know what to do when that heart began to slow, its rhythm becoming erratic.
And then to have to wait for Dean Winchester's arrival, because he refused to tell Jehoel where he was and because he wanted to drive to them was pure torture. Waiting had never felt like this before. Like torment, every passing moment increasingly interminable and unending.
"Why do you trust him?" Jehoel asked, when he could no longer stand the quiet, filled only with the sound of Castiel's uneven, painful breaths. When he could no longer bear to sit and do nothing any longer. Jehoel held Castiel's head in his hands, trying to soothe him with his Grace and with a hand stroking through his human hair. It was soft, Jehoel thought. "He would not let me bring him."
Castiel was only half-awake, but this he heard. "He doesn't know you," he said, and Jehoel became even more worried because his words slurred together.
They weren't far, Dean Winchester had said. They wouldn't take long. But it felt like it'd been eons, and now the sun was setting and Jehoel didn't think he liked the dark very much. He was scared, he realised. He was scared for Castiel, and for himself, and he was scared that he didn't know what was going to happen next.
Castiel's human eyes were unfocused and his Grace was dimming by the time the Winchesters finally arrived. No matter how much of his own Jehoel offered, Castiel would not take and Castiel won every argument Jehoel tried to make, every method he could think to urge Castiel to allow him to help, by virtue of closing his eyes and not responding.
It was, Jehoel decided, very unfair.
He was scared, too, of Dean Winchester. Jehoel didn't really know what to expect because Castiel would speak of him only rarely and he wasn't given to spying on humans as some of his brothers and sisters were. Really, he didn't know what to expect.
Jehoel was even more afraid of Dean Winchester when he finally came face-to-face with the human. As soon as he set foot inside the room, he brandished a weapon and a bottle of what smelled like holy oil at Jehoel menacingly.
They were in a motel, Jehoel had learned when he'd been trying to explain where they were. It was a human place, obscure and unimportant, and Jehoel could see why Castiel had chosen it.
"Why are the lights off?" Dean Winchester asked, and Jehoel didn't understand because he had no control over the sun. And then there was light of a different kind; a glowing, artificial thing that made his human eyes hurt. Jehoel pulled Castiel closer. It may have been some time since Jehoel had interacted with humans, but he knew at once from his soul and his heart that this was Dean Winchester. In his arms, Castiel stirred and it was the most movement he had made for a long while.
"Dean," he called, and Jehoel watched, strangely fascinated, as Dean Winchester took in the sight of Castiel, his eyes widening and his lips thinning out into a tense line. He glanced behind him, back towards the door, and for the first time Jehoel noticed the other Winchester brother. It was strange, he thought, how he hadn't even noticed him before.
His attention returning to Castiel, Dean approached slowly, still cautious. "You okay, Cas?"
Castiel let out a long breath. "I have been better." It was more mumbled then anything and Jehoel wondered if Dean Winchester could even hear him.
It seemed he could, because he replied, "Yeah," and crouched down beside them, laying the oil on the floor but not his weapon. It made no sense, Jehoel thought, that he would discard the one thing that could actually do him harm. Sam Winchester, though, stood tall and alert behind them.
Castiel opened his eyes as much as he seemed able and Jehoel could tell that he was trying to focus on Dean Winchester. The human stared right back, and Jehoel was sure Castiel actually relaxed a little, like the pain was less. Or perhaps he just felt safer now, with someone who knew how to fight and how to defend them.
"I've done what I could," Jehoel offered, because there didn't seem to be any end to the look his brother and Dean Winchester were sharing. "We've been here too long. I should like to leave."
He was ignored.
Instead, Dean Winchester placed a hand lightly on the shoulder of Castiel's vessel, moving fabric aside to look at his wounds. Methodically, efficiently he checked Castiel's arms and neck and chest. "Who is this guy?" he asked, glancing up at Castiel.
"Jehoel. He is my most trusted ally. You can trust him."
To hear Castiel speak of him this way made Jehoel's stomach strangely warm, his face hot. To be called ally and trusted, when Castiel never seemed to trust anyone, was such a very great honour.
"He's an angel," was Dean Winchester's reply, and it sounded like an accusation.
"A cherub," Castiel confirmed, and Jehoel was surprised to see Dean Winchester grin.
"Seriously? He's wearing clothes."
Jehoel wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but he didn't like being talked about as though he wasn't there, and he didn't want to stay in the same place any longer.
"My vessel has clothes," Jehoel said irritably. "Now please can we leave."
At that Dean Winchester actually looked at him, and he didn't look amused any more. There was suspicion written on his face. "Some of this is half-healed." He gestured to Castiel's chest. The bleeding had stopped, but some of the wounds had become red and inflamed. There was only so much Jehoel knew how to do against heavenly weapons. "You do that?" Dean Winchester asked.
"Yes."
"He doesn't know how to do more," Castiel said, then turned his head slowly to look up at Jehoel. "You did everything you could."
Dean Winchester watched him for another long moment, his gaze still unfriendly, but maybe a little less hostile. Jehoel squirmed under the attention.
"I can't fly with him," he explained, and had no idea why he suddenly felt nervous. "I couldn't leave him to get help. We just need to hide, somewhere safe, while he heals."
Again, Dean Winchester glanced down at Castiel like he was looking for affirmation, and Castiel nodded, once, before his eyes closed.
Jehoel understood; Dean Winchester had little reason to trust angels, considering the way he had been lied to and all the things that were once asked of him in the name of Heaven. It was cruel and it was unfair, and even now there was reticence in the way the human looked at Castiel, like he wasn't quite sure of him, either.
For a moment, Jehoel considered the possibility that Dean Winchester was going to refuse to help them, and Jehoel didn't know what he would do then. But then Dean Winchester said, "Fine," and slid a hand around the back of Castiel's shoulders, finally putting his weapon away and using both hands to haul Castiel up into a seated position.
Castiel hissed in pain, but made no complaint.
"Help me get him to the car," Dean ordered, and Jehoel obeyed.
***
Rest
Castiel awoke in Dean's car.
He didn't need to open his eyes to know where he was. The smell of leather and exhaust fumes and Dean would have been enough, but Castiel could also hear the steady roll of the engine, the feel of it under his back.
His head was lying, he realised, against someone's thigh. From the curled power beneath it, the proximity of Grace, Castiel thought it had to be Jehoel. His friend was also arguing with Dean, and it was loud.
"If you would just tell me where we were going," Jehoel asked, and he sounded truly annoyed, which was really something of an achievement for a cherub.
From further away, Dean replied curtly, "No."
Castiel supposed he was driving.
Jehoel gave a very deep sigh, and Castiel felt Jehoel's arms tighten around his shoulders.
Castiel would have reassured Dean that Jehoel would not betray them. That he was safe. He would have asked Dean to trust Jehoel as he trusted Castiel- though now, with this war and with Sam as he was, and with all the other hundred things between them- Castiel was no longer sure of how much Dean trusted in his judgment.
He would have spoken, but he was tired and the car felt safe, a place he could finally rest, and before Castiel could bring himself to speak he had fallen to sleep.
When he awoke for the second time, Castiel was no longer in the car, but instead felt a bed beneath him, iron walls around him, surrounded by the power of sigils he had once drawn with his own blood and his own hand.
Bobby's.
The cuts that had been made in his Grace and in his body were finally healed to a point at which they no longer caused him such pain that it was hard to think, and Castiel was glad that he had not been conscious for most of that time. Still, his limbs felt stiff and heavy, his head hurt; the damage to his angel self manifest in his human body.
His shoulders felt cold, exposed, and Castiel realised that someone had removed his coat and jacket and shirt. Castiel could feel bandaging wrapped around his arms and hands and around his chest. That had to have been Dean's doing, because Jehoel would not have known how, or even that it was necessary. There was a scratchy blanket covering him, and Castiel wondered at the sensations, at how weakened he was.
Close by, Dean and Jehoel were arguing again, in low voices, and Castiel wondered if that was what had caused the pain in his head.
"I won't leave," Jehoel was saying. There was anger in his tone.
"We don't need you here," Dean hissed back, and from the annoyance in his voice Castiel thought the argument must have been going on for a long time. "Bobby doesn't want you here."
"I do not care what you want," Jehoel shot back stubbornly.
His loyalty was always a source of strength for Castiel, but Castiel could also understand Dean's reluctance. Even so, Castiel had neither the strength nor the patience to deal with their differences.
"I would prefer if neither of you were here," Castiel cut in before Dean could argue back. His mouth was dry, and he did not think about the last time he had felt thirst. It was a time he did not like to remember.
Slowly, wearily, Castiel opened his eyes. There was little light in the room, but he could still see Jehoel and Dean by the half-open door staring at him.
It was Dean who spoke first. "Cas." He began moving towards Castiel, Jehoel following behind. "Didn't realise you were awake."
"It is difficult to rest with you two arguing."
Jehoel looked contrite, but Dean just frowned. Castiel didn't miss the way his eyes flicked to Jehoel.
"I told you," Castiel said, because as much as he could sympathise with Dean's mistrust, he had already assured Dean once. "Jehoel is loyal, and is no threat to you."
"I wasn't worried about us." Dean shook his head. "He wouldn't tell us what happened to you."
"And you wouldn't tell him where we were going," Castiel pointed out. He turned to Jehoel. "Would you leave us? I am safe here, and we should have returned to Heaven some time ago. You know the orders I meant to give."
It bothered Castiel that he was not actually sure how much time had passed since the fight. Since they had run to a motel which Castiel had once stayed in with Dean and Sam. It was impossible to even tell the time of day hidden within Bobby's panic room.
Jehoel didn't look convinced. "Are you sure? This place is-"
"I set the wards myself," Castiel said.
"The others won't-"
"Explain to them." Castiel reached out to take his brother's hand. "They will follow you."
It would, Castiel thought, be a good thing for a cherub to lead. For someone else to have authority in Heaven.
"If you're sure-" Jehoel looked to Castiel's hand on his, held his human fingers tightly. "I could send help."
"I will heal here."
He gave a blessing, the oldest and strongest he could think of, and Jehoel nodded his head and wished him well. "And to Dean Winchester," Jehoel added. "May he be well, so that he might look after you and stop being so stubborn."
And with that he flew, leaving Dean frowning into the empty space, and leaving Castiel's hand to fall to the bed.
"I don't get angels," Dean said, and he wouldn't meet Castiel's eyes. "I can't trust them."
Castiel had suspected it, but it still hurt to hear.
"And now that I have returned to Heaven-"
Dean didn't reply, but Castiel could see it in the way Dean turned away. He looked towards the door, as though he was considering leaving.
"Then why help us?" Castiel asked.
"I helped you. I'm not that much of an asshole."
There was an awkward silence, Castiel unable to decide what he should say, if it would not be best to remain silent and leave things as they were. But they had barely spoken since Castiel had returned to Heaven, and it was as though during that time they had forgotten how to be friends.
"Dean." Castiel would have liked nothing more than to rest, to let go of the world for a while and heal, but this too was something that needed to be taken care of. He didn't want for this coldness and distance and mistrust to remain between them. There were so few opportunities for them now to have anything more than moments together.
They rarely talked to each other about anything beyond business, necessities, but that was Dean's way, and it was also Castiel's. For them, their friendship had always been in the way they worked together, in the way there was trust between them when they fought at each other's side. In the way Dean looked at Castiel and Castiel looked back and neither of them had to explain it.
"You should sleep, or whatever it is you do now." Dean turned back towards Castiel, looking him over with an unreadable expression.
"I haven't changed," Castiel told him because, in essence, he hadn't and at times it felt as though Dean treated him like a stranger.
"You have," Dean argued.
Castiel tried to meet Dean's eyes, wanting him to understand. "I still remember everything."
What it was to be human; to hunger and to want and to feel uncertain and alone. What it was like to be hopeless and helpless. These things Castiel still felt, sometimes.
Before, when Castiel had wanted to make a point, to make sure that Dean understood, he would have stood close- uncomfortably so for Dean- so that he couldn't look away or ignore Castiel. Castiel thought that perhaps this was what he needed to do now, and attempted to push himself upright. He could not even sit up before his half-healed wounds pulled in a way that hurt.
"Idiot," Dean chastised. "Lay back down."
As pathetic and irritated at himself as Castiel felt, it did at least bring Dean closer, who perched himself on the edge of the bed and pushed Castiel back down.
It was embarrassingly easy.
With anyone else, Castiel would have been ashamed to be so weak, but Dean had seen worse of him, and if there was one place in the universe Castiel could feel safe it was here. This was something Castiel could never forget.
From his attempts to move, the uncomfortable blanket had fallen to Castiel's waist.
"I feel cold," he told Dean, and was pleased when Dean breathed a laugh and smiled, just a small thing, but real.
"Dick," Dean said fondly, and pulled the blanket up over Castiel's shoulders. "Shut up and go to sleep."
Nothing had been resolved. Nothing had changed, and maybe that was the point.
They were the people they had always been; angel and human and neither of them having much use for sentimentalities. Dean was here, sitting beside Castiel, and he stayed even when Castiel closed his eyes and sought rest. The warmth of Dean's body beside Castiel's meant more than any words he could ever have said.
***
Part 2 >>