And Grace Will Lead Me Home: 3/5

[epiphanyx7]

PART THREE
--
One year.

It has been one year. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Eight thousand, seven hundred, and sixty five hours. Five hundred and twenty-five thousand, nine hundred, and forty-eight minutes. It has been thirty one million, five hundred and fifty-six thousand, nine hundred and twenty-six seconds since Anna stepped into the bureaucratic office, and she has been filling out forms for every single one of those seconds.

She is seriously fucking sick of it.

"Excuse me," she says, politely, (because everyone in Heaven must be polite) "Do you mind telling me how long it's going to take for this request to be processed?"

The power-tripping principality behind the desk of Heaven's white room doesn't even look up, simply quirks her wings and parrots the same phrase she's been saying for a year. "All requests will be processed at the discretion of the management. I'm afraid there isn't anything else I can do to help you."

Anna places the pile of paperwork onto the desk. "I've filled out the required forms," she says, gritting her teeth and forcing a polite smile onto her face.

"Please have a seat, Seraph," the receptionist says smoothly. "I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

--

Sam teaches Cas to drive in an old, busted-up Honda.

"Pressing the brake? Okay. Now drop the emergency brake and put it into first."

Castiel follows directions wonderfully. For the first six minutes. After a few false starts and really awful turns, Castiel turns off the car and stares at Sam.

"It's fine, man," Sam assures him. "It's going to take you a few lessons to get the hang of it. Just... let's keep going for a little while."

"No."

"Castiel--"

"No, Sam, this is fruitless. It is without fruit. We ought to begin investigating the vampire nest in Delaware that you found last night."

Sam grins at him. "Wow Cas, you're giving up? So much for magic angel stamina. You're really going to let this rusty hunk of metal discourage you after ten minutes?"

Cas doesn't respond; he just stares mournfully through the windshield.

"Keys in the ignition, buddy, and let's get moving." Sam is still smiling, and still determined to teach Castiel to drive because he'd be damned if he was going to do it all himself for the rest of their lives. "What would Dean say if you flaked out on learning to drive because you think it's too hard?"

Castiel smiles a little at this. "He'd look at me cock-eyed and call me strange."

"Yeah, among twelve or so other names," Sam chuckles. "The key here is gentle, Cas, just work gently with the accelerator. Too slow and nothing will happen; too fast and you'll kill us all." He means it to be funny, so he laughs.

"That is not funny," Castiel tells him, easing his foot onto the gas. But secretly Castiel is glad for Sam's levity. It seems like the first time Sam has laughed this easily in a very long time.

It's three months of practice, two or three times a week, until Sam is satisfied that Castiel can actually drive. Not particularly well, and he's not very comfortable behind the wheel, but he can drive. Because Jimmy Novak's license has long since expired, Sam makes up a Nevada driver's license for him, with the hilarious alias of Eric Bragg. Castiel holds it up to the light. The plastic shines under the lamplight.

"Thank you, Samuel," he says, slipping it into the wallet he's taken to carrying.

"You earned it," Sam tells him, smiling.

--

Two people have died in the town by the time Sam and Castiel arrive, one completely drained of blood with his throat torn into pieces. The second victim was found lying in the last few ounces of her blood, the puddle not nearly large enough to befit a healthy eight-year-old girl.

Castiel stares down at the body of the child, sees her pale blond hair and her eyes closed on the cool slab she is lying on. "She's a child," he says, because when he looks at her he sees Claire Novak at the age of nine years, two months, eight days and fourteen hours, dancing a short piece from Swan Lake in her ill-fitting tutu. The memory is Jimmy's, but Castiel has not known many children.

"I hate vampires," Sam says. "Come on, Cas. There's nothing more we can do here. Let's just-- get the bastards, okay? I've got a lead on where they might be hiding."

--

"Ah. You are their leader, then. The leader of these fearsome vampires." Castiel sounds wildly unimpressed. "Is that so?"

"Yesssth!" the man exclaims around his fake teeth, clearly exasperated. "Bevare!"

"Have you ever even seen a real vampire before?”

Sam rolls his eyes. Cas has been trying with these people for forty minutes and Sam is getting impatient. "Cas, leave it."

"No no, Sam, I am trying to make a point. Vampires," he says again. "They kill people. Good people. People with families and loved ones and homes and lives. And you want to be one?"

"Fear our might!" the fake-vampire declares loudly.

Castiel's eyes narrow. "Do you know what we do to vampires?" he practically growls. "We pump them full of dead man's blood until they are as weak as newborn kittens, and then we pin them down and cut through their necks until we sever their heads from their bodies."

The man closes his mouth around his fake teeth, looking apprehensive.

"Perhaps we should give this one the same treatment," Castiel says darkly, looking at Sam. "If he is so determined to drink the blood of the innocent and take human lives."

"Uh," the man says. "You know I'm not really a--"

"No. But you want to be one, don't you?"

The man shrinks back a little. "No?"

"That's a very wise choice." Castiel stalks off, having finished terrorizing the small group of wannabe vampires. They were still hunting the real thing.

Sam smoothes over things as best he can, though he wants nothing more than to tell these people that Cas is exactly right and they are dealing with things they know very little about and that's not a good thing. They had actually provided some pretty useful information, so Sam thanks them and follows Castiel out.

--

Two.

Two years is a very long time on Earth, although it's but a negligible moment to the Heavenly Host. Anna remembers being human, and she finds it hard to sit still with these smooth expressionless faceless beings, wings all tucked in behind them and holding themselves still as pillars of marble.

"Seraph Anael," the receptionist calls, finally.

Anna stands. "Yes," she says, barely managing to keep her tone polite.

"Your request has been documented," the principality says. "Requisition Number 106-453-332-476, please fill out the required paperwork." She waves her hand, and a clipboard appears.

Anna accepts it, her face no longer capable of maintaining the calm facade. "How long will this paperwork take me?" she demands.

"Please fill out the required paperwork."

"This is not a trivial request," Anna hisses. "This is urgent, and needs to be filled immediately. Can you even hear me?"

The principality pauses, tilts her head, inclines her wings respectfully. "I am sorry, Seraph. All requests are processed at the discretion of the management. I'm afraid there is nothing I can do to help you," she says.

Briefly, Anna considers killing her.

--

The hunt in Phoenix goes south right around the time Sam finds six women, two children, and four men in various stages of fucked-up-to-all-hell in the middle of the nest. It takes hours to get them free, even more time to get them conscious and moving, and they're more scared of him than they are of anything else.

"I will assist them," Castiel says, when he appears in trench-coat-swirling glory, his eyes narrow in the half-light. "You keep watch. Your aim with a shotgun is much better than mine is, especially in the darkness." He's bleeding, perhaps from the fight earlier, the poison in the monster's fangs slowing down his angelic healing to a crawl.

"You first," Sam says. "Then them."

"Acceptable," Castiel concedes.

"Go to it," Sam snaps, checking and double-checking his pistols. The group is still more than an hour away from the town, and he feels twitchy and anxious with dark falling on them. Not to mention, everyone is staring at him, like they think he's a psycho killer or something. Granted, bursting in on a group of drugged and half-conscious people while covered in mud and wielding an axe hadn't been his intention, but the end result is all their eyes on him as he checks the guns.

"What are you?" one of the women asks, wide-eyed, staring at Sam.

Sam doesn't look up, embarrassed by all the attention. He continues reloading his guns, rock salt rounds and carefully checking over the shotguns so he doesn't have to look at all the people staring at him like he's their saviour.

"He's a hunter," Castiel answers for him, taping down the bandage on his own arm. He moves on to the next person, cleaning the deep scratches on his back and dabbing antiseptic ointment onto the wounds.

There's a long, long moment of silence. Finally, the same woman asks, "What do you hunt?"

The chupacabra's snarl is barely audible before the thing manages to hurl itself right into the centre of the group. It's scary fast, leaping at one of the kids with its teeth bared, sharp and sickening in the half-light. The gunshot is too loud, ricocheting around the small space as the chupacabra's body is snapped to the side mid-flight, blood spattering the ground as it flops, heavy onto the ground.

Sam cocks the shotgun, shoots it once more in the head to ensure it's dead. He looks at the woman who is staring at him in shock, and then he transfers his gaze to the scaly creature on the ground. "Monsters," he answers, reloading the shotgun and shouldering it with ease.

Castiel finishes bandaging the man in front of him.

"We should move," Sam says. "The others won't be far behind."

--

"Excuse me," Anna says, politely. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I'm finished with my paperwork."

On Earth, it would take a stack of paper as tall as the Empire State Building in order to make the equivalent pile of forms, but on Heaven no trees had to die for the same result. The forms are redundant, irritating, require triplicate and duplicate copies, every single one signed with Anna's true name and each forwarded to and endless list of departments requiring authorization signatures, witnesses, and a hearing on the merit of each request; Heaven's bureaucracy is as ruthlessly effective as Hell's when it comes to killing hopes and dreams.

"Thank you," the principality says with a smile. "Your request will be processed as soon as possible. Please have a seat."

Anael draws her sword, neatly slicing through the feeble partition, ducking low to dodge the Principality's wild flailing, and sweeping her wings out to steady her as she drives the other angel against the metaphysical wall. The knife pressed to the other angel's throat, Anael snarls, letting the heat and depth of her fury seep from her skin and invade the room.

"You know who I am, and what I have done. I have killed more angels than any other still among our ranks. I do not like to be dallied with, and my temper has been sorely strained. So allow me to make myself clear." She draws the sharp edge of the blade slowly across the Principality's neck, just enough to break the surface.

She can smell the sharp stink of the Principality's fear, bright and rancid around them.

Anna puts on her brightest smile. "I do not want to have my request processed in due time," Anael says, enunciating her words clearly. "I do not want to fill out paperwork. I do not want to be told that my request has been noted. Push my paperwork through, or I will rip your grace from your chest and hurl you down to Earth to live with the humans you and your kind are so eager to look down upon." She puts down the sword, leaning in closer. "And if you are ever to ascend back to the Heavens I will, treat you to a thousand horrors a thousand times worse," she whispers, finally letting the receptionist go.

The Principality touches the very edges of her fingers to her throat, swallowing delicately. "I'll go check on those forms," she says, finally, her voice wavering.

"Thank you," Anael responds.


--

Dean's throat is hoarse from screaming when suddenly he tears himself free.

He falls off of the rack, finds himself standing in front of it with wide-eyed eager demons surrounding him. He's not on the rack, not being tortured, and the pain has been such a constant companion for him that he weeps in relief. Tears roll down his face, salty tears that don't burn because he doesn't have wounds for them to leak into, and the sudden absence of pain makes him giddy and happy.

"Winchester," a demon hisses, a smile spreading over it's face. It has too many teeth, all sharp and pointed where they're set in the skull, and the skin has been flayed from it's face so delicately...

Dean stares at the demon's face, sees his own handiwork. He remembers this one.

She shrieks and leaps at him, teeth and claws and her flesh blood-red, dripping and wet. He slams his head back, twists and knocks the bitch out of the air. Dean doesn't feel remorse, not when he cuts into her, not when he tears her to pieces and lets her corrupted soul disintegrating to ash in front of him.

A figure steps to his side.

Dean stares. He doesn't know what he's seeing.

--

Five years after the apocalypse, Sam and Castiel save a pack of wolves from a bunch of crazed vampires who think they're living in Twilight. Castiel is furious, his eyes practically glowing when he strides into their midst, armed with his own invention: tranquilizer darts filled with dead man's blood and inscribed with the Enochian symbols to drive them to their knees with fear.

"Um, Cas," Sam says, after Castiel decapitates six vampires in as many minutes and doesn't seem to be slowing down. "Do you... want to talk about it?"

Castiel looks up, wipes a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. "These are God's creatures," he replies slowly. "Not unnatural abominations in the natural order. These are innocent creatures attempting to survive, and these wretched monsters have tortured them. Abused them. In order to see a human form that does not exist."

He turns back to his work, and Sam does the same, only mildly unsettled.

The wolves, freed now, do not attack either Sam or the angel. They sit, like well-trained dogs, and whine softly.

After the vampires have all been killed, Castiel goes to each of the wolves in turn, patting its nose and healing it as best he can.

"We should get out of here," Sam says, when Castiel spends too long hovering over a half-grown wolf pup.

"I cannot heal his leg." Cas says. When he looks up, it's to give Sam an all-too familiar expression.

It's the same one Sam gave to Dean when they found that kitten in an alley, back in '96. 'But he's hurt, Dean, we have to take care of him!' Hadn't worked at the time, although he'd managed to convince Dean to drop the kitten off at the closest animal shelter.

"Cas," Sam groans.

"He won't be able to walk," Castiel says, turning those absurd blue eyes at Sam, his lower lip trembling. "He'll die if we leave him in the wild."

"No," Sam tries to say, except what actually comes out of his mouth is, "Do you promise he won't eat me?"

Castiel looks at the wolf-pup. "He have given his word," he affirms.

Which is how Sam ends up camping for two weeks with Cas and a wolf puppy, which Sam has to pretend is just a normal dog to preserve what's left of his sanity.

Sam decides to call him Fido.

--

Cas has entire conversations with their wolf-dog, and Sam's not sure how much the puppy understands, but he doesn't try and eat the angel, which is a good sign at least.

Sam is the one who has to go into town to get a tent, and whatever other supplies they're going to need for their stay in the middle of the freaking woods, which is a relief because he's fairly certain that wolves are NOT supposed to get all friendly with people. And he's still pretty certain that he's going to return to like, Castiel's torso and a wolf pup with a bloody muzzle.

He stops at an internet café to do some research, which tells him that wolves are not pets and should be avoided at all costs. There's a small section in a wikipedia article about wolves being kept as pets, and he makes a note to never, ever mention that to Castiel in case he decides that the wolf-pup is trainable. (It's clearly too old to be anything but a wolf, in Sam's mind.)

Returning back to where he left Cas, he is treated not to the sight of a bloody massacre, but rather to a sleeping wolf pup and Castiel perched in a tree, for no reason that Sam can fathom.

"Uh, Cas?" he says, at the same moment that Fido wakes up and snarls at him.

Castiel jumps down from the tree, trench coat flapping in the breeze, and growls back at Fido. "You shouldn't have startled him," he says to Sam.

Sam closes his eyes and counts to ten, and then he opens his eyes and glares at Cas. "You know," he says. "I never had to deal with wildlife rescues when I was hunting with Dean. Or with Dad, for that matter."

Castiel nods. "It was a point sorely lacking in your education," he says regretfully. "All of my Father's creations are precious, Samuel, and should be protected."

"Yeah," Sam says, even though Fido still looks like he wants to eat him.

--

Castiel has named the pup Uzziel, which is apparently the name of an angel of protection or some shit. Sam steadfastly ignores this, because a wolf named Uzi is a hell of a lot scarier than one named Fido.

"How much longer are we going to stay here?" he asks, on his sixth day camping.

Castiel walks over to Uzi, who doesn't seem perturbed at all by his approach. Uzi treats Cas just the same way Sam expects he would treat another wolf, and Cas just prods carefully at the wounded leg, checking on what looks like a mangled mess of exposed tendon and bone.

"Perhaps another week," Cas says, frowning. "The leg is not healing as quickly as I had expected." He pokes the leg again, this time with his eyebrows creasing in concentration. The flesh underneath his hand shifts, unnaturally, and the wolf lets out a pained yip that makes Sam wince in sympathy.

"One more week." Castiel decides.

--

Sam's grateful to be out of the woods, to have a real bathroom and a proper shower, but Castiel gives him sad, puppy-eyed looks and goes quiet for a long time when they leave Uzi behind.

"Wolves are wild animals, Cas," Sam tries to explain. "It would have been cruel to keep him. He isn't meant for this kind of a life. And he would have destroyed the Impala's interior, you know that, right?"

Castiel looks sad, still, and Sam sighs.

--

The two of them take out a woman in white down in Boston, a poltergeist in Indianapolis, and a nest of ghouls in Kansas City before they decide to take a break.

"What's next?" he asks Cas, resting his head against the cool glass of the window. Castiel isn't a half-bad driver, he usually doesn't speed or do anything that might wreck the Impala. This is not because he doesn't have the ability to drive like a maniac, and more because he's not willing to do anything to hurt the Impala, even going so far as to call her 'she' and, on one horribly surreal moment, 'our baby'.

"I think we should stop in Sioux Falls," Cas says.

Sam turns to look at him, and Castiel is tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, a habit he picked up sometime after Sam taught him to drive.

"Bobby?" Sam says.

"He would be glad to see you," Castiel says.

Sam scoffs at that, but secretly he's glad. He hasn't seen much of Bobby, not since Dean died. But he kind of misses the old man.

--

After the requisite holy water, salt, silver and minor Latin exorcisms (as a precaution), Bobby greets Sam with an "and damn, boy, you're starting to look old!"

Sam points out that he's only thirty three, and begins to point out that he's still the youngest in the room by twenty years, but instead switches tacks and says, "I'll go get some beers." There was no use starting a fight on his first real day off in three years.

Bobby is bent double over the table, laughing, when Sam returns with the bottles. Castiel is sitting across from him and frowning.

"Bobby?"

"How long did he have you living in the woods, Sam?" Bobby gasps, wiping his eyes.

He groans. "Two weeks, at least."

"Sam, you lead a very strange life," Bobby grins up at him. Sam agrees.

Castiel's frown deepens. "It was a reasonable solution. We could not take the wolf with us, but it needed care, so of course we stayed."

"Of course," Sam says tightly, glaring at Bobby. "It's fine Cas, Bobby's just jealous he doesn't get out camping anymore."

They stay up half the night, swapping information and hunter gossip. Bobby is ravenous for stories of recent hunts since he can't get out on his own anymore. There is more laughter in this one night than Sam remembers in the last year. He and Castiel have their own fun, now that they are spending more and more time together, he supposes, but it's always quieter.

Around three am, the atmosphere gets quieter. Castiel yawns, stretching like a cat in his chair and leaning his head on his hand. Sam watches him from the corner of his eye. As always, the angel is completely unreadable. He’s nodding along with Bobby’s recounting of a bodak hunt he’d been on in San Jose back in ’79, and Sam notices the light catching his eye, the sparkle of blue and the sense of calm.

It's those eyes that do something to Sam -- whatever nervousness or anxieties Sam is nursing about a hunt or a hustle or any other situation, Castiel turns those eyes on him and Sam is struck with a sense of peace, of confidence and of 'yeah, this will be alright.' Sam can't remember feeling anything like since...

He tunes back into Bobby and Cas' conversation and they're talking about Dean, some hunt in Deer Park, Ohio that had gone horribly awry in the most hilarious way. Bobby is laughing at the memory and Castiel was smiling right along. Sam misses the punch line, but he picks up the gist of it, so he grins too.

It hurts -- of course, it always will -- but not in the same way it used to. Cas tells them about the night he and Dean had tracked a restless spirit to an old warehouse and Dean had accidentally dumped a can of paint on his own head. Sam adds the story of the woman in white in Jericho, when Dean had taken a nose dive off the old bridge and landed in the river.

By the time they realise they’re still talking about Dean, the sun is well up.

“We ought to get a few hours sleep,” Bobby says, looking at his watch again. “Then I want your boys’ opinion on some lore I was looking at yesterday. Seems we might have a bit of trouble coming up soon.”

Castiel excuses himself and disappears of into the ether, or wherever he went when he wanted to be alone – Denmark maybe.

Sam heads upstairs to crash, but Bobby stops him. “You look good, Sam.” Sam doesn’t reply. He senses this is going to turn into a lecture or what Dean would have labelled a ‘chick flick moment’ or maybe both.

“Not so sad or angry, I mean. I got used to you being a certain way,” Bobby admits. “Back when we thought the world was going to end. And it’s not like that anymore. I guess I’m glad... Glad that you and Castiel have found something...” he trails off.

“You guess you’re glad?”

"Never thought you'd be able to make it without Dean, truth be told. But then you've always surprised me."

Sam hugs him, which makes Bobby swear and smack him in the back of the head, and hug him back for a second. “Get to bed, kid, or I’ll make you sleep in the junkyard.”

--

Once upon a time, an insidious, back-stabbing bitch of a demon had known fear. She/it said, 'Human souls don't just walk out of Hell and back into their bodies easy. The sky bleeds, the ground quakes. It's cosmic. No demon can swing that. Not Lilith, not anybody.'

In the wake of Lucifer's death, that is still the case.

Dean is kneeling in a pool of his own blood, instruments of torture scattered across the almost-room, the room that stretches out infinitely on all sides. The demons crowd around, closer and closer, their grasping greedy claws reaching out, voices hissing and growling and spitting his name. "Winchester," they whisper, "Dean."

And then an angel appears.

The demons scatter like roaches.

"Dean Winchester?" the angel says.

"Yes," Dean croaks, his voice rasping.

"We apologize for the inconvenience. Due to an oversight in our Soul-Claims and Returns Department, your sentence has been retracted on a technicality." It looks at him, tilting its faceless, expressionless head thoughtfully.

Dean almost expects it to ask him to please hold, and then start playing elevator music. It doesn't. Instead, the angel spreads its wings, looking around the now-empty circle of blood-soaked nothingness, and then it speaks again.

"Your transfer has been processed," the angel says. "Please follow me. It is my pleasure to relocate you."

--

If hunting things and saving people is the family business, then Castiel deserves to be a honorary Winchester at the very least. He's an Angel of the Lord, no doubt about that, but the way he does this job -- the way he focuses, so intent and determined, almost as if he wants nothing more than to destroy the monster at hand... it's humbling to see him at work, to see the way he's more than willing to risk his life to save even a single human soul.

"Cas," Sam said, once, "You know you don't have to --"

"It is my choice," Castiel responds, cleaning blood from his blade. He doesn't look at Sam, but Sam doesn't need to look at him in order to know the expression in his eyes. It's the same look that John had always had, the same one that Dean had burning behind his eyes when he stared at yet another monster that was threatening women and children, threatening innocent lives.

"This is my job, Samuel," Castiel continues, almost as an afterthought. "I have chosen it." He looks at Sam, his blue eyes intent and clear.

"Yeah," Sam says, finally realizing why Dean had been so adamant about this -- about being a Hunter.

"It is the job I chose," Castiel says.

"Thanks," Sam says, knowing it's a non sequitur but unable to help himself. "Thanks for doing this with me, Cas," because he knows that he couldn't do it on his own. Sam has always been able to be a hunter, he's always had the skill and the drive, but not the heart. Dean was that part of him, and without Dean he wouldn't have managed.

Except for Cas, who gives him a fond look and pauses his work in order to wrap reassuring fingers around Sam's forearm. "You are my friend, Samuel, and my partner; we are a good team." He puts the clean blade down, picks up a pistol and begins to disassemble it, methodical and relaxed.

"I still miss him," Sam admits. Dean is on his mind a lot.

Castiel pauses, and then he looks down at the Glock in his hand. "I miss him as well."

They continue working in silence. For the first time in eight years, Sam feels at peace.

--

"Thank you for being so... patient." Raphael says. "Of course, we'll approve the request." He smiles at Anna, although it's hardly comforting. "In due time, of course."

"Now," Anna snaps.

"Impatience doesn't suit you, Anael." Raphael comments. He stands very still, as do all the angels who have met with her before. "Of course, we'll have to search for a suitable candidate, ensure that she is of age, meets the right person -- these things take a long time to arrange, you realize."

"I've been filling out paperwork and discussing the relevance and implications of my request for the equivalent of eleven years on Earth. I realize that your priorities differ from mine, but time is of the essence."

"I can't allow you to reunite him with the other," he inclines his head to indicate Sam Winchester.

"I understand," Anna sighs, looks down. "Raphael, I will observe the appropriate protocols, I promise you that. I had think that my willingness to do this the proper way, instead of bypassing our bureaucracy, would have shown you just how much I mean do to the right thing."

"You are very noble, Anna. I'm not sure that nobility is an appropriate trait among angels." Raphael frowns, considering. "Perhaps your re-indoctrination was not as thorough as it ought to have been." There's a subtle twitch of his lips, something in his eyes that seems almost gleeful at the prospect. As if she ought to be punished for daring to have any thought, any motivation.

Gritting her teeth, Anna put her hand on her sword, ready to draw it from her sheath with a moment's notice. "I serve God," she tells him coldly. "I do God's will. And I am determined to do so at any cost."

Raphael's hand goes to his own sword, grasping the hilt. It's his eyes, Anna sees, his eyes that betray his eagerness. Raphael, the healing hand of God, so eager for a fight -- there is something in here that is ironic, or perhaps simply sad.

"So be it," Raphael says.

The clash of swords ring loudly in the otherwise empty room, Anna's hand nearly as quick as Raphael's in bringing her blade from the sheath. The force of the first blow nearly sends her to her knees, but for all of Raphael's power he lacks Anael's swiftness.

He also lacks her conviction.

She counters his next thrust, parries and sweeps in close, inside of his reach to where his sword is useless against her --

And then she is driven back, the sword spinning out of her hand and clattering loudly on the hard marble floor. The metal sings, ringing in the sudden silence, and when Anna looks up -- she does not remember being thrown to the ground - she sees Michael crouching between them his sword held firm in one hand, and Raphael's in the other.

Her brother has not fared nearly so well against Michael as she; he has been driven to his knees, one hand pinned to the floor by Michael's sword.

"What," Michael says, and his voice is dark with thunder, "is the meaning of this?"

--

"You idjits," Bobby groans, throwing a book at Sam's head. "How in the hell did you manage to get yourself into that kind of a situation? How much easier could I have made it?"

"They insulted Castiel's trench coat," Sam explains, for the hundredth time. "He had to defend his honour."

Castiel crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"I don't know why I waste my time with you fools."

"Because we're adorable?" Sam suggests brightly.

"Because if you do not, you'll be forced to suffer amongst the truly moronic proletariat?" Castiel suggests.

Pointing at Castiel, Bobby growls. "Don't you get smart with me boy, I'm not the one who nearly got himself flattened by the Faerie Court, now, am I?"

--

"The matter is simple," Michael says. "The request must be processed. Immediately," he says, glaring at Raphael. "It is not for us to question God's plan. And this is part of God's plan."

Raphael looks as if he means to protest, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"You know this to be true, for it is God's will that the soul of the Righteous Man be plucked out of the fires of the deep and returned to human life on Earth." Michael continues. "Therefore, any more of these... roadblocks... will be considered a direct attempt to thwart His will."

"She attacked me first," Raphael says, obviously choosing to fight a battle that he can win.

Nodding, Michael turns to face Anna. "I will ensure she is properly punished," he says. "Process the request, Raphael. I will meet you after I have dealt with Anael's insubordination."

When Michael leaves the room, Anna follows him.

--

Sam presses his pistol into Castiel’s hand, glaring when the angel tries to refuse. Castiel is more than competent with a firearm, he's had enough practice. That doesn't mean that he likes using them. He wraps his hand around the handle and pouts, but after the nasty crack he’d just taken to the back of his head, he's willing to follow Sam’s implied order.

Sam edges around the door frame, shotgun leaning on his shoulder. He motions for Cas to stay put and as he whirls around the door and brings the shotgun level, it is evident there is nothing in the storage room.

“I injured it, whatever it was,” Castiel says, when they stop to regroup.

“What was it?” Sam asks him.

Castiel shrugs, scowling darkly. “I do not know." He pauses, and then adds, "It was big. Strong.” He rubs his fingers gingerly over the still-bleeding gash at the base of his skull. “It caught me by surprise.”

They find the creature ten minutes later, huddled under an old crate.

Sam puts two bullets into it before it can launch itself at his face, two sweet headshots that would have made his father proud. He nudges it with the toe of his boot, raising a sarcastic eyebrow in Castiel's direction. "Wow," he says, deadpan. "That thing's a real beast, Cas, it’s a wonder you’re alive at all."

It maybe three feet long, and has a fluffy, cuddly sort of look to it. It could almost pass for a Muppet, if it weren't for the prominent bullet holes through its face, and the bloodstained fangs that wouldn't have looked out of place on a sabre tooth tiger. The fact that ragged bits of the creature's last meal (a beloved local nun) were caught in it's teeth didn't help, either.

“It looked bigger when I couldn’t see it,” Castiel declares unrepentantly. He pulls a lighter from his pocket. "We must destroy it, so that nobody will see."

They burn the body and head back to the motel.

Sam cleans the wound on Castiel’s neck, but before he can get a bandage on it, it’s healed. “Why do I even bother?” Sam asks, dropping his first aid kit into his bag.

“Because you only thrive when you have something to take care of?”

"You're a dick."

"I am an Angel of the Lord," Castiel intones, using his Serious Voice.

Sam hits him in the face with a pillow.

--

"How are you holding up, sweetheart?" the nurse asks with a smile as he quickly check the woman's chart. "I'm Ethan, by the way. You can just yell if you need me, I won't be more than a few seconds away at any time." He pats the patient's hand reassuringly.

"Well, hello there," the redheaded woman on the bed says with a little breathless laugh. "I'm doing alright, I hope."

"Mmm," he says, nodding as he quickly double-checks the monitors. "Well, you look like you're about ready to go. The doctor should be in soon, though. How's the pain? On a scale of bearable-to-unbearable?"

"Well," she says, still a little breathless. "I never would have guessed it by the name, but labour is not easy. Did you know that?" she giggles. "I'd say it's... bearable. For now." She takes a moment to breathe deeply.

"I've been working at this hospital for the last seventeen-and-a-half years," Ethan replies. "I have to say, most women aren't nearly as happy about it as you are, darling."

"Oh, I'm not happy, I'm giddy," the woman counters. "In between contractions, I'm feeling great. Kind of like someone's sitting on my stomach, but that isn't so bad, really." She blinks up at Ethan, dark hazel eyes surrounded by dark lashes. "Hey, are you checking on everybody as closely as you are on me?"

"Nope," Ethan says, grinning. "Today's a slow day in obstetrics, so you get special treatment."

"You could take a break," she offers.

"Don't be silly. It's boring enough here. And it's not hard to be nice when a sweet lady like you is in here, giving birth all by herself." He gets her a new bottle of water. "Do you want to get up and pace a bit?"

"Yeah," she nods, frantically. "That would be great." Before she can get off of the bed, though, she cries out, another contraction stealing away her breath.

"It's okay darling, just breathe through it--" Ethan says, giving her his hand to hold. "Breathe, baby. In and out, there you go."

She squeezes his hand hard, He checks the chart again. "I'm going to get the doctor," he says.

Things after that start to blur together. Her contractions get closer and closer together, the doctor pronounces her fully dilated and speeds her off to another room, where people start talking too quickly for her to properly process. There's a a lot of noise, and then Ethan is sitting right next to her, holding on to her hand. "Hey, what's your name?" he asks. "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask earlier."

"You can call me Anna," she replies, gasping. Ethan winces a little bit at the strength of her grip, but he doesn't let go. "I'm-- pleased to meet you, Ethan."

"You too, Anna," he replies. "Okay, this is the hard part. When the next contraction starts, you're going to have to start pushing, okay?" He pushes her hair back behind her ears, holds up her water bottle for her to take a few more sips.

"This is going to hurt," Anna says, gritting her teeth. "Okay, Ethan, let's do this thing."

She screams when the contraction starts, because it hurts. It hurts a lot, and it only gets worse and worse and worse, and Anna screams and squeezes Ethan's hand and then finally the doctor says she can stop pushing. Gasping for breath, she lies back, exhausted, barely swallowing any of the proffered water. "I don't think this was nearly as fun as it seemed in the advertisement," She says, grimly.

"Look on the bright side," Ethan says, grinning at her. "After the workout you're getting, you won't need to hit the gym for a month. This has got to be equal to what, ten hours at the gym?"

Anna blinks. "I have been in labour for fourteen hours,"

"Six weeks without a workout, then."

The next contraction is worse than the first.

Afterward, Ethan pulls his left hand out of her grip, replacing it with his right. "You're stronger than you look, Anna. Come on, put some of that strength into pushing out that baby. Don't you want to meet him?"

"It feels like the baby is having a bonfire in my tummy," Anna pouts, slumping backwards, limp with exhaustion. "I don't want to meet him if he's gonna be a pyromaniac."

"But fire is pretty," Ethan jokes, before her next contraction.

The contractions are practically right on top of each other, barely any time for her to catch her breath. Anna can’t resist screaming out in pain, and then she lets go of Ethan's hand because she's afraid she's going to break his fingers.

"Damn it," she yells. "A baby is not a reward! A baby is a punishment! Ethan, get me a phone, I'm going to call Michael and scream at him until his eardrums shatter."

"Michael, huh?" Ethan asks, as Anna practices her breathing techniques. "He the father?"

"All--" Anna gasps, "His--" another gasp, "Fault." She screams again.

"I can see the head," the doctor yells, his voice practically obscured by Anna's screaming. "He's crowning! Almost there, Anna, push, push!"

"Push!" Ethan says, encouragingly. "You can do it, darling!"

Anna replies by screaming again, a long wordless wail of anguish, and then the doctor says "He's out," and she's collapsing back down onto the bed.

There's noise and confusion and she is vaguely aware that her face is wet, although she doesn't remember crying. "Where is he?" Anna asks, confused. She can't hear a baby crying. Babies are supposed to cry, when they're born, she had done her research.

The doctors are saying things, but Anna can't hear anything other than the rapid, too-loud beating of her own heart. Her baby isn't crying. Something is wrong, something's horribly wrong. "Where is he?" Anna says, and now tears are falling down her face again, blurring her vision. "Where's my boy? I want to see him."

And then she hears a baby start to cry.

"It's okay," Ethan says, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. "It's all right, Anna, he just had a blockage in his airway, the doctor had to suction it. Happens all the time, he's fine," and then they're handing him to her, a tiny squirming mess of wrinkled, slimy infant.

He's covered in blood and amniotic fluid and his skin is wrinkled and his face is screwed up as he screams angrily at the world. He's a bald, wrinkly, skinny baby, and he is the most beautiful thing that Anna has ever seen. "Oh wow," she says, staring down at him. "Wow, would you look at him?"

"Ten fingers, ten toes, one penis." Ethan tells her, impressed. "And one hell of a healthy set of lungs. Good job, mom."

Anna swipes anxiously at the tears on her face, smiling the smile of the exhausted-yet-deliriously-happy. "He's perfect," she says. "Look at him, Ethan, he's absolutely perfect. Remind me to thank Michael, okay? He's perfect."

Laughing, Ethan pats her shoulder and stands up. "Have you decided what you're going to name him?" the nurse asks, curious.

She stares down at her son, exhausted but happy. He's asleep in her arms, a tiny precious bundle. Ten fingers, ten toes, a tiny perfect shell of an ear that she traces lightly with one fingertip. "Yes," Anna Milton says, her lips curving into a sweet, gentle smile.

"His name is Dean."

"That's a nice name," Ethan says. "How did you pick it out?"

"It's a family name," Anna answers, truthfully.

--

"I really like him," Claire says, sitting quietly on the park bench. She kicks idly at the ground, scuffing her shoes. "He's nice. He's... he reminds me of Daddy. He's real sweet, too. Mom says he's a gentleman."

Castiel isn't sure what he's supposed to do, at this juncture. "I'm glad," he says, hesitantly, "That you have found someone... That you have found someone to spend the rest of your life with."

"Yeah," Claire mumbles. "Um. I may have. I mean. I didn't lie, or anything, it's just that Frankie and I have gotten to talking, and I may have told him that my dad didn't die."

"Jimmy is with me, though."

"Yeah," Claire winces. "About that..."

"No," Castiel says, eyes widening. "Claire-- you cannot ask me to--"

"Please, Cas?" Claire's lower lip trembles. "Please? I just want-- I always wanted my dad to walk me down the aisle, and I mean--"

"Jimmy is with me, Claire." Castiel tells her, softly. "If I could leave this body and let him have this day with you, I would. You know that I would. I would do anything for... I would do anything in my power, to ensure that you are happy."

"Yeah."

"But I cannot leave this vessel. Not without obtaining another one, and-- even if I did, your family would wonder why this body hasn't aged at all."

They look at each other. Claire bites her lip, staring directly at Castiel.

Castiel sighs. "You've already planned for this contingency, haven't you?"

She tugs nervously at the end of her braid, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "It's-- Um. Just. That I may have learned some makeup tips, and stuff." Claire admits sheepishly. "Back in college? So that I could. Uh. If it came down to it, I mean."

"You are asking me to walk you down the aisle," Castiel realizes, staring at Claire. "Not Jimmy. You're asking... me."

"Dad's with you, now." Claire shrugs. "And you've been taking care of me for so long. I kind of want you there. You, and daddy, and mom."

"Very well."

"Really?"

Castiel glares at her. "I said yes, Claire," he replies, firmly. "Leave it at that."

--

"You want to kill the babies," Castiel repeats, slowly.

Snarling, Sam attempts to make the same point he's been arguing for the past hour. "They're basilisks."

"Samuel. They are babies."

Sam resists the urge to tear his hair out. He hasn't been this frustrated since August of 1988, when John Winchester had refused to buy him a family-sized bag of skittles. Sam had pitched an epic temper tantrum, culminating in a screaming fit in the grocery store aisle while a nine-year-old Dean attempted to drag him out of the store by his belt loops. "They turn people to stone by looking at them."

"They haven't turned anyone to stone. They're innocent lives." Castiel holds one of the fat, chubby-looking basilisk babies in one hand, tucking another into his coat pocket.

"They haven't turned anyone into stone yet, Cas. They're going to. It's not their fault, but we have to protect--"

"Innocent lives." Castiel cuddles one of the basilisks.

"You're the most infuriating man in the world," Sam tells him. "In the entire world."

Castiel levels a stare at Sam. "I am an Angel of the Lord."

"The basilisks have got to die. Or we have to blind them, which seems kind of cruel to me." Sam replies. "Because if we don't, we're going to have to do this hunt all over again, and this time we're going to need to bring backup for the five basilisks we let live."

Castiel looks really sad. "Are you sure they can't be trained to--"

"We are not keeping a pet basilisk," Sam snaps at him.

"I'm not going to kill them," Castiel says, pouting. "If you want the babies to die so much, then you can kill them yourself." He scoops the pudgy, sleepy basilisk out of his pocket and deposits it in Sam's cupped hands, stomping off while still cuddling the other one.

Sam stares down at it. It's kind of cute. "Fine!" he shouts.

"Fine!" Cas shouts back over his shoulder.

--

Castiel walks Claire down the aisle at her wedding.

"We are gathered here today, to witness and celebrate the joining of Claire Novak and Franklin Robert Carlisle in holy matrimony. With love and commitment, they have decided to live their lives together as husband and wife," the minister says, smiling broadly.

Amelia is the only one who doesn't think he's Jimmy. She smiles at Castiel, kisses his cheek, and says, "How are you?"

Castiel's smile is not forced. "I'm well," he says. "You look beautiful, Amelia, as always. And Claire is absolutely radiant."

"Yeah," Amelia laughs. "She looks like quite the angel, doesn't she?"

"Yes," Castiel says seriously. "She does."

Before Castiel leaves, Amelia catches his hand.

"Thank you," she says. "For what it's worth-- And I know it's not the same. But Claire is as much your daughter, now, as Jimmy's."

She turns and leaves before he can respond, but something inside of him aches at her words. Castiel can feel Jimmy's presence, proud of his daughter and elated at the chance to be here.

After a moment, the ache subsides, and Castiel returns to Sam.

"Have fun?" Sam asks.

"Yes," Castiel replies, truthfully.

--

On his fiftieth birthday, Sam decides to retire. It takes a few months for him and Cas to find a proper house, one with a fenced-in yard and a front porch. It's big and open and he likes it, even has a room set aside for Bobby, when the other hunter decides to visit.

"This is nice," Sam says, when they unpack their meagre belongings. "I like this."

Castiel hasn't ever lived in a house, but he's happy because Sam is happy. He helps to paint walls, sand floors, fix up the roof and a hundred other things he doesn't really understand, but the work is intriguing and Sam seems to come alive as they fix up the house.

Their furniture is ugly and second-hand, but comfortable. Castiel protests the need for him to have a bedroom, because he doesn't sleep, but Sam insists that he at least have his own room in the house. "Even if you don't sleep in it," Sam says firmly. "You've gotta have your own space."

"Fine," Castiel bitches, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Fine!" Sam shouts.

Castiel's room has a large oak desk and a comfortable chair, and a wall papered with postcards from all the places he's been. It doesn't take long before the wall is full and the postcards start to overlap, but Cas refuses to put the postcards on another wall.

--

"Hello, Mr. Winchester." The agent is wearing a very nice suit with a very ugly tie. "I'm Special Agent O'Malley, with the FBI. May I come in?"

Sam stares at the man standing on his porch, and then at the big, black car idling in the driveway. "I really hope you're not here to arrest me," Sam says, seriously. "Because I'm too old to be a fugitive. It's hell on the knees." He opens the door, and waves the man in.

"There's no need to worry about that, sir," the agent says. "Your record has been expunged. You're no longer wanted for any crimes in any of the fifty states."

"Oh," Sam says. "That's good news. "Well, that's worth celebrating. Tell your partner to come on inside. You want a beer?"

"No thank you." Agent O'Malley says. "This is official business, if you don't mind."

"Official business."

"Yes." Agent O'Malley looks deadly serious. "I am not sure how much you know about the events that happened towards the end of the year 2009, but our sources say that you were apprehended on two separate occasions, with your brother, Dean."

Sam cracks open a beer. "This about Dean?"

"We need to know everything that you know about supernatural phenomenon, how to identify, hunt, and kill them, as well as any information you may have on the necessary safety precautions when doing so." Agent O'Malley says. "The FBI has been ordered to open a branch for Special Investigations, and as far as we can tell you're the authority on the subject."

"Me? Seriously?" Sam takes a long swallow his beer leans over and grabs a notebook from the counter. "Boy are you guys barking up the wrong tree," he says, shaking his head. "Give me your pen, Special Agent. I'm going to do you a favour and put you in touch with someone who knows about six thousand times more than I ever will."

--

Bobby calls to yell at Sam, but Sam only laughs at him.

"Do you have any idea what kind of idjits they have working with me?" Bobby shouts. "These morons can't even lay a proper salt line!"

"Don't shout so much, Bobby!' Sam replies, trying to hold back his tears of laughter. "Think of your blood pressure!"

"I never had problems with my blood pressure before you sent me a bunch of idiots to train!" Bobby roars. "Not a single decent hunter in the lot of them! I'd trade my left nut if it meant I didn't have to keep correcting them on every little detail. Basic Latin, Winchester. These useless lumps of clay can't even get basic Latin down."

"Perhaps I should help him," Castiel says, frowning at the phone.

"Don't you dare," Sam protests, covering the receiver with his palm. "This is the most fun he's had in years!"

--

When Sam is diagnosed with cancer, Cas sells the Impala.

"Wow," Sam says, staring at the hospital room around him. "This really, really sucks."

"Indeed," Castiel agrees. "This sucks."

--

Sam holds on as long as he can, because he doesn't want to leave Cas alone. The angel -- and he is still an angel, despite everything, despite his betrayal, despite his conviction, despite his choice to carve out a place in the cosmic order for humans to stay and fight for their own existence.

But three years of increasingly hopeless cancer treatments have taken their toll, and some things cannot be overcome by willpower alone.

Castiel watches him with a sad smile. "It is okay," he says. "Thank you, Samuel, for these thirty years." Unlike Sam, Cas hasn't aged a day. Sam remembers that, remembers Cas in another body, telling Jimmy 'You won't die, or age. If this last year was painful for you, picture a hundred. A thousand more like it.'

Never had Sam expected that Cas would have to spend those years alone. It doesn't seem fair, somehow, even as he looks up at the blank white ceiling. He thinks he needs to hold on, for a little while longer - a few more minutes. Hours. Another day -- Sam can feel it, he needs just a little bit longer --

And Sam Winchester dies, thirty years after his brother lost his life fighting for Humanity.

With his passing, Castiel is alone, for the first time.

--


illustration by epiphanyx7

Next: Part Four