Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I.

By the time Balthazar was done, Castiel was drenched, salted, and bleeding from a silver dagger-induced wound on his palm. "Satisfied, brother?"

Balthazar warily lowered the shotgun. "Assuming - and this is a very big assumption - that you're not a new sort of ghoul, or a zombie, or some sort of early morning caffeine-related hallucination... what the hell, Cassy?"

"Can I change my clothes first?"

"No. Talk." Balthazar scowled, clearly still suspicious. "And no sudden moves."

Then again, Balthazar had always had a streak of paranoia wide enough for three operatives combined; even when he had just been ordained into the 23rd Division, he had been widely known - and teased - for his tendency to salt doorways and hide hex bags, even in the middle of the City under the City.

"Fine," Castiel rubbed at his eyes, even as his cassock began to stick to his shoulders and his palm began to sting like the blazes. "I don't know why I'm back. But whatever happened... I woke up in a grave, Balthazar. I had to dig my way out. And around me? An entire forest had been flattened. It looked as though-"

"Like something big had crawled out before you," Balthazar finished grimly. "Also, we cremated you. Sent your ashes back to the City. There shouldn't have been anything left of you to crawl back out from, let alone in this bit of the world."

"Yes. I'm aware of that. And I'm also hungry, and thirsty, and I'll really like to have a shower now, thank you, before we think about what to do next."

Castiel cast a critical eye around the Vatican 23rd Division's Falls Church office, taking in the disarray of papers piled over what used to be his desk, the cracked frame of the first page of the Catechism that was now propped against his chair, the dusty haze obvious in the slats of light from the half-shuttered windows that indicated a painful lack of vacuuming, and most of all, the accusingly pristine desk down the end next to the coffee machine and the map.

"Where's Anna?"

Balthazar set the shotgun back on his desk, and slouched back into his chair. Coffee cups containing stained dregs in various degrees of fossilisation littered the surface, the window sill, and the bookshelf, and the usually fastidiously tidy operative looked rumpled, dark rings circled under his eyes. "She lit off over to Chicago. Hasn't been heard of since."

"When?"

"Five months ago." Balthazar narrowed his eyes. "We had a bit of a spat. Over, come to think of it, engaging possibly less-than-permitted methods of retrieving you from Hell."

"Heaven... and you let her leave?"

"You don't 'let' Anna do anything, remember?" Balthazar dropped the air quotes with a heavy drawl and a twitch of his fingers. "She nearly skinned me when I tried. And I tried."

"We need to find Anna." Sister Anna had always been rash. Brilliant tactically, and ferocious with both knife and pistol, but impulsive and occasionally prone to making the worst decisions. "Do you have a way of contacting her?"

"I'll try to call her." Balthazar drew his phone out of his jeans, and snorted when Castiel frowned at him disapprovingly. "Sorry that I wasn't collared up, Cassy. I wasn't exactly expecting visitors. And especially not people who should really still be dead. Not that I'm not happy that you're out of Hell."

"I... yes, I suppose." Castiel shook his head slowly. "It is good to see you again, Balthazar. And I forgive you for trying to kill me just now."

"I didn't say that I was sorry about that bit," Balthazar shot back, though he smirked as he started to thumb through his contacts list.

Another shock awaited Castiel in the shower - when he stripped off his clothes, he realized to his astonished horror that there was a brand of a handprint on his left shoulder. It seemed to tingle when he pressed his fingers to it, but it didn't hurt, and the print of the hand was slightly larger than Castiel's, with longer, tapered fingers, curled over his bicep.

Other than the brand - all the rest of his scars were gone, even the faint, pale white lines over his right bicep from the fencing accident back in the seminary, when he had been only a second year initiate at the City under the City. Stunned and a little frightened, Castiel turned the shower tap in a daze and dragged his eyes away from the mirror, his breath heaving out in a shallow, stuttered gasp. None of it made sense. Why had he been saved? Had it been monstrous coincidence? And what had saved him?

Still, Castiel felt worlds better after a hot shower and a change of clothes: at least Anna, or Balthazar maybe, had been sentimental enough to keep his things more or less in their usual positions, although his part of the wardrobe had been partially invaded by Balthazar's jackets and there was a new poster of a child sitting on a small dog that had been taped to the door, likely a product of Balthazar's obscure sense of humour. His books were still in place, but his personal effects, like the bracelet gift from a little girl they had rescued from a nest of skinwalkers years ago, and his rosary, were all boxed neatly in a corner of the wardrobe, likely Anna's work.

It was a little unsettling to realize that the others had moved on, that he had been buried, mourned.

Balthazar was already packed and properly attired with his collar when he returned to their shared office; a small bag for clothes, a larger one for weapons, and he looked grim. "Guess who's been sticking her fingers into things she shouldn't have."

"You contacted her?" Castiel's heart sank. If Anna had made a crossroads deal, or worse-

"I didn't, but I did some snooping, and our darling little redhead's been going through all the nasty little circles." Balthazar looked weary. "Buying up things that she shouldn't be buying. Shouldn't have let her out of my sight."

"You couldn't have stopped her, once she made up her mind," Castiel reminded him quietly. "We need to find her immediately. Undo whatever she has done."

Balthazar opened his mouth, then caught Castiel's determined stare and closed it again. The other operative hesitated for a moment, then he set his jaw and stepped over, enveloping Castiel in a tight hug, slapping at his back hard enough that Castiel flinched and yelped from pain, then he tousled his hair and pulled back before Castiel could react, and looked away quickly, blinking hard. "Christ. It's really good to see you."

"Don't blaspheme," Castiel rebuked him automatically, and caught a quick flash of a grin.

"I even missed that, you uptight little sod. Right. Chicago."

II.

As it turned out, finding Anna was the easy part: as usual, they just needed to find the bit of Chicago that was on fire. Anna was standing at a safe distance outside a flaming warehouse, a crossbow in her hands and the quiver slung over her hip, and she whirled when Balthazar and Castiel got out of Balthazar's red 1960 Austin Healey, and some shred of a survival instinct made Castiel duck instinctively.

The crossbow bolt shuddered to a stop in the fence behind the car, and Balthazar yelped, "Anna!"

"Castiel is dead." Anna narrowed her eyes, stalking over, oblivious to how her fellow operatives automatically shuffled back against the car. Anna was dressed 'incognito', as Balthazar liked to put it, in a white shirt, bomber jacket and black jeans, but then again, Anna had never quite been one for habits. "What is this?"

"Was hoping that you'd tell us, darling," Balthazar retorted, even as he tried to edge behind Castiel. Father Balthazar had always been a little afraid of Sister Anna, even after all the time they'd spent hunting. "I've been hearing things about the company you've been keeping, and now Castiel's back, a hundred per cent human, just as annoyingly self-righteous as ever. Made any crossroads deals lately?"

"Watch what you're saying, Balthazar," Anna glowered at him, though she blinked, slowly, then her lip trembled, her eyes welled wet, to Castiel's sheer embarrassment, and she lowered her crossbow, stepping over in a rush to hug Castiel tightly, fingers curling sharply into his cassock as she let out a soft, choked sound.

"She didn't try to salt and burn me," Castiel told Balthazar accusingly, though he gingerly hugged Anna back, patting her shoulder. "I'm happy to see you too, Anna."

"I figured that if Balthazar's satisfied, then anyone would be," Anna admitted. "Sorry about the crossbow. I was startled. Nerves."

"And apologized for trying to kill me," Castiel added.

Balthazar sniffed. "I'm still not sorry. But moving on. If it wasn't you, Anna, who was it?"

Anna's expression froze for a moment, then she pulled back, nibbling on her lower lip, looking away, back at the burning warehouse, then at her feet, and finally, she exhaled loudly. "All right, fine. Maybe I made some enquiries. Did some experiments. But nothing worked. And no, I didn't make any crossroads deals. I just dug up the old archive that the 23rd locked up in Chicago and did some reading."

"That archive was locked up for a reason, Anna," Castiel groaned, even as Balthazar pressed his palm against his face.

"I didn't read the copy of the Black Book, if that's what you're implying," Anna glared at him. "I just... I think it's better if I showed you."

Anna had rented out a disused, small metalworking factory, the walls still bared brick, old wiring in loose, looped cables from the drafty ceiling. Sigils covered the walls and the ceiling, all painstakingly painted in Anna's steady hand, and old books had been kept in a locked, pressure-sealed cabinet set up against the wall. An armoury of weapons covered a long workbench opposite it, and another bench was filled with stacks of neat notes and scribbles. Near the end, a square partially cordoned off by a cloth screen showed a sliver of a small cot and a washbasin.

"The 23rd keeps its oldest records in the archive," Anna padded over to the workbench papered with notes. "Some dating back from the time of the Great Flood."

"I'm aware of that," Castiel noted warily, even as Balthazar cast an eye over the probably illegally-obtained weaponry with a low whistle.

"Then you're also aware that angels exist."

"Yes. I've read some of the old scriptures and catechisms in the Great Library and came to that conclusion. But they usually do not interfere directly with human matters. Anna. What did you do?"

"I know better than to make deals with demons," Anna folded her arms across her chest defensively, "But the catechisms said nothing about angels."

Balthazar looked up sharply from the weapons table. "You summoned a what?"

"I thought that it didn't work. Nothing happened. I tried a few times, at that. Used a lot of materials, some of which were remarkably difficult to acquire." Anna smiled slowly, warmly. "I guess I was wrong. I'm so happy to see you again, Castiel."

"No, no, no," Balthazar threw up his hands. "You can't just summon angels like a demon! Besides, I've never heard of them interfering like this before. You probably lit on something totally different and very bad. Cassy here woke up at the centre of a wide-scale deforestation. Angels wouldn't do that."

"And how would you know?" Anna scowled at Balthazar. "How else would you explain this?" She gestured broadly in Castiel's direction. "Castiel is alive, and the same as ever. And no one's had to make any deals. I never even got past the summoning part of the process to the asking part."

"Whether you summoned an angel or not," Castiel interjected quickly, as both operatives bristled, "You should not have done this, Anna. This is not natural. There is an order to things. All people must die. That is God's will."

"And what part of your death was natural?" Anna shot back. "Eaten alive by hellhounds? Dragged down into Hell when you should have ascended to Heaven?"

"Natural or not, I died." Castiel replied calmly. "You should not have brought me back."

"Somehow, I expected gratitude for your second chance. Not a lecture," Anna closed one of the books on the workbench, her fingers jerky and sharp like her tone. "But I guess that I should have known."

"Anna..."

"Those are the notes that I used," Anna pointed at a stack of crabbed scribbles on a stool beside the workbench. "Help yourselves. I'm going hunting."

"Anna, wait-" Castiel tried again, but Anna had already stalked out of the factory in one of her fine tempers; the sort that tended to get well-meaning interlopers mauled or shot if they tried to come close. He sighed, even as Balthazar visibly deflated in his peripheral vision.

"She's even scarier than bloody ever."

"Help me with those," Castiel muttered, jerking a thumb at the notes. He hadn't meant to seem ungrateful. Anna had only had the best of intentions, and Castiel did like being alive again. "We need to find out what worked and what didn't."

"Latin's not my strong point, old boy," Balthazar reminded him, though he lifted the notes onto the workbench even as Castiel carefully cleared a space. "By the way, what was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"Hell, Cassy." Balthazar had said that offhandedly, but Castiel knew that the other operative was watching him carefully. Along with his paranoia, Balthazar's mind was always razor sharp.

"I don't remember. Not really," Castiel forced his voice steady. "It was cold."

III.

When they finally called it a day, none the wiser, Balthazar took the couch in the warehouse and Castiel the ripped old armchair with the suspicious pockmarks that smelled like gunmetal. Anna had calmed down enough to feed them, albeit by clear afterthought in the form of flagrantly oily Chinese take-out, and perched by a laptop for the rest of the night, ignoring them, apparently researching a rash of poltergeist problems a few hours' drive south.

Whatever she had used, it could have been anything in the set of priceless, ancient scrolls, but Castiel suspected that they were from the Red Sea set, the scrolls of old animal skins that contained words transcribed from a language that did not sound remotely human, all sharp, unpronounceable consonants. 'Enochian', the language had been named; the skins were the first draft of the Book of Enoch, far removed from its current form. Trying to understand it had been an exercise in frustration.

Castiel closed his eyes-

The Hollow Rooms smelled always of copper-bright blood, viscera, and the bursting rot of ruptured intestines, and it was cold, like the back of a butcher shop, cold enough that it had sunk right through to his bones. He stood on a grotesquely uneven floor that looked fleshy, corded and struck through with pale pink tendons, and his hands were shaking, clasped tight around scalpels, bloody to the elbows. There was a blur before him, a rack, something amorphous and white pinned to it, twisting, its screaming in a dull throbbing buzz in the background. Castiel took a step back, swallowing a choked sob-

He was in a park, a playground, a snapshot of a good memory from four years ago, when they'd just taken Anael - Anna - under their branch. Raziel had been cremated for a month by now, his ashes returned to the Martyr's Room in the City under the City; she was his replacement. They were outside a church, and there had been children playing in the sand, laughing, ignorant of the threat that had hung over their head for three weeks, of the wendigo that they had slain in the woods, and Anna had turned, smiled, and said this is why I fight.

It had been blasphemy, in a sense. They were meant to be God's warriors. They fought for God and His glory, not for a handful of nameless children in a park, but neither Castiel nor Balthazar had corrected her. It had been a good day.

The park was empty now, except for a stranger sitting on one of the plastic swings, watching him. The stranger was dressed in a leather jacket, a black shirt and scuffed, faded gray jeans, and he could only be called 'handsome' the way the sun could be called 'warm': he was stunningly gorgeous, from the vibrant green of his eyes to the quirk of his sensuous mouth, the way the jacket was obviously stretched over broad shoulders, the slender, graceful fingers curled over his arms with just the hint of hidden strength.

Castiel breathed in, and couldn’t breathe out, awed, floored, urges that he had long thought suppressed under responsibility and enforced celibacy slowly waking, insidious in their inexorability.

"Hello, padre," the stranger drawled, and his voice was sin itself, a dry, amused rasp, rich and playful, just deep enough for Castiel's heart to beat a little faster. "I'm Dean. What did you want?"

"What did I want?" Castiel repeated, bewildered, even as he had to swallow hard as his body tried to stir. He had never seen - or dreamed - anyone so beautiful before.

"You've been calling my name all afternoon, Cas. Pronunciation's a little bit better than that red-headed chick, but it didn't seem like you needed anything. Still, points for effort, and I thought that I'd better check." Dean grinned when Castiel gaped at him.

"You're... you're really an angel?"

"Yeah. Halo, wings, the works." Dean scuffed his shoes in the sand, then he scoffed when Castiel belatedly kneeled down. "Oh, don't do that. Come here. Sit there."

Nervously, Castiel sat in the other swing, as Dean indicated. This close to Dean, he could feel the heavy weight of the angel's... aura, like a warm presence, a blanket that radiated peace. Power. As though 'Dean' was something far more, something far greater than Castiel's comprehension, stuffed into a make-seem of a human. It made him breathless. Humbly, he murmured, "I... I am not worthy, Lord."

"Don't start with that, either," Dean rolled his eyes. "Call me Dean."

"Did you save me?"

"Took a bit of doing," Dean shrugged. "Haven't been down in that bit of real estate for an age. Held your soul in my hand and pulled you out, then I rebuilt you. Sorry about waking up underground, but I figured that you'd be able to dig yourself out fine. Your red-headed friend buried some of your ashes in there, and I thought that you'd prefer to wake up there than in the locked vault in the City under the City."

"What I did in Hell..." Castiel faltered. "I have sinned."

"Tends to be the norm with your kind," Dean told him, not unkindly, "And you held out for longer than most. Also, if it's any comfort to you, it was preordained."

"It was?"

"When the Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell," Dean glanced away, out at the silent, sleepy neighbourhood in his dream, "That's when the first seal is broken."

"The first seal?"

"Of Lucifer's prison," Dean clarified. "And when sixty-six seals are broken, the apocalypse comes. Revelation. The Four Horsemen, Abbadon, the Beast from the Sea... You know. The works."

“I... I didn’t mean, I didn’t realize,” Castiel couldn’t lie, not under that steady green stare, couldn’t lie and said that if he’d only known, he would have tried harder. It would have made no difference. In the end, he would still have given in to Alastair. He had doomed far more than his soul, it seemed. Guilt settled over him, chokingly, making his chest ache and clench. "I'm sorry."

“And I told you that it was preordained. You were always gonna break.” Dean reached over and squeezed his palm, ignoring how Castiel visibly flinched. Dean’s hand was hot - hotter than normal, feverish. “And it’s not done and dusted yet. Sixty-five seals to go, and the last one’s a bitch.”

Castiel stared down at his hands, twisting his fingers together, then he took in a deep, shaky breath. “Tell me what I can do to make amends.” When Dean merely arched an eyebrow at him, he added, hastily, “Please.”

“I didn’t raise you to do things for me. I did it so that your red-headed friend would stop wearing my name out.” Dean, however, grinned when he said it. “Nothing for you and the rest to do now than hold the fort. Let the Host do the heavy lifting.”

“So angels will walk the earth.” Castiel recalled something of this, from the older, non-public versions of Revelation.

“Yeah.” Dean hesitated for a moment. “Oh, and you might want to keep out of our way. Not a lot of the rest are as nice as I am.” He smiled as he said this, warm and perfect, the edges of his gorgeous green eyes crinkling in humour, and Castiel knew then, immediately and hopelessly, that dream or otherwise, angel or not, he was going to wake aching with a blind and painful longing, damn his vows and his determination.

“I’ve never heard of an angel called Dean,” Castiel mumbled, to distract himself, then he blushed when Dean laughed, startled. “I mean, I didn’t mean any offence.”

“Sure you didn’t, Cas,” Dean drawled, if teasingly. “I’ve got other names. I just like this one, s’all. Now I’ll better get going. Things to do, people to see.”

“Wait. Um,” Castiel faltered when Dean glanced back at him, curious. “Could you bless me? That is, if... you...”

“Sure.” Grinning again, Dean reached over, and pressed his too-hot palm against Castiel’s forehead, and spoke a word in another language: it was like listening to the whisper of an oncoming storm, the echo of a fragment of creation, it shook him to his very bones, to his soul, and even as he opened his mouth to cry out, the dream burned silver.

Castiel jerked awake with a wordless shout into the dark, even as the brand on his shoulder seemed to throb, white-hot like a newly blistered burn, before abruptly fading.

Shaking, he pressed his palms against his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees. Had that been... real?

"Cassy?" Balthazar asked sleepily, from the couch, one hand groping for his shotgun, even as Castiel saw Anna glance out worriedly at him from behind the screen that cordoned off her sleeping space.

"Bad dreams," Castiel forced himself to smile, knowing that it was all too brittle. "Get some rest. We're going to have a lot of work to do in the morning."