Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was nothing. All light was blotted out. All sound was smothered by the impenetrable tomb. There was nothing. Only Castiel’s regrets playing over and over again in his mind, taking shape before his eyes in the swirling darkness, becoming a thing with teeth and claws and a menacing laugh.

God will punish you, Anna had once said. Castiel would take that punishment, now that it had come due. But why did Dean have to be a part of that? Why did he have to pay for Castiel’s sins?

He was likely dead now. His friends slaughtered and consumed, his blood seeping into the pores of the stone altar, his beautiful soul cast away and his lovely body used by another. It was all Castiel could think about. The singular thing.

He didn’t know how long he’d been laying like that in the darkness. How long ago he’d stopped pounding his fists bloody on the stone and raging and shouting and wasting his breath.

Now, he had no hope of getting free. Whatever sliver of prayer had left went toward Dean. Hoping, beyond reason, that Dean and the others had somehow gotten free.

If they hadn’t—if they were dead and trapped in the forest—Castiel assumed he’d face their judgment soon enough. Blood was still sluggishly trickling from the wound on his side. It was still thick and tacky on his hands, when he’d still tried to apply pressure to stem the bleeding. When he’d still foolishly believed he could fight his way out of the tomb.

He’d been stabbed by his own blade. The Gatherer’s dagger. It pierced his grace as well as his vessel. It wouldn’t stitch back together.

He could feel his thoughts becoming hazy as they continued to circle around Dean’s name repeated in a mantra. His breathing had slowed, blood pressure dropped. The thump, thump, thump of his broken heart seemed close to stopping altogether. His feet were numb; the rest of him cold.

Soon, Castiel would be dead. What did it matter when Dean was dead already?

Castiel’s eyes slipped closed. The darkness stayed the same.

Then, suddenly, a loud groaning, scraping sound rattled the tomb’s lid.

Castiel’s eyes burst open. His heart kicked up a notch, adrenaline weakly making an effort to course through his veins and return feeling to his limbs. It carried with it the smallest dregs of fear, because if it was Michael and Raphael coming to punish him further, it would make no difference. There was nothing important left that they could take from him.

His only fear was looking into those familiar green eyes and seeing only cold wrath behind them.

The lid shuttered. An ear-piercing, teeth-hurting grinding noise sent a shiver down Castiel’s flesh. The stone moved unevenly, only the top part budging enough to let in a line of sunlight. Castiel’s retinas burned from the white glare after so long in the dark.

The lid moved again, half a centimeter, enough for Castiel to stick his fingers through if he tried. Someone grunted with exertion. A strained voice followed: “Little help here!”

Gabriel?

Castiel blinked, his mind kickstarting back into life. When the lid jerked open slightly more, this time near his feet, Castiel realized he should help.

He reached up, placing one hand flat on the bottom of the lid and, with the other, shoved his fingers through the crack of light. He tried to pry and lift at the same time. Atop, Gabriel kept pushing with all his might. Soon, Castiel was able to fit his whole hand through.

He twisted, having to grit his teeth against the sharp pain radiating from his side. He used both hands, exerting all his strength. He could already smell fresh air.

Planting his feet on the side of the coffin for leverage, he pulled. A shout punched out of him. He was nearly dizzy with pain. Sweat prickled on his brow and he could feel hot blood start oozing out of his side again. But he kept on going until he and Gabriel had moved the lid enough for him to fit his head and shoulders through. He used his chest to push harder, putting all his weight into it.

Suddenly, the lid tipped over the side, sparks flying as the stone ground together. One side of it crashed onto the ground, the other still propped up against the edge of the tomb.

Castiel put his hand over his chest and panted, trying his best to tame his wildly thrashing heart. He turned his eyes on Gabriel, whose hair was matted with sweat and whose chest was rising and falling swiftly. Gabriel winced and reached around to his lower spine. “Think I almost threw out my back.”

Castiel gaped at him, unable to say anything due to the wave of nausea setting in from the pain.

Gabriel stood up straighter, eyeing him in return. “Huh. So, this is what that view looks like from the other side,” he mused. Castiel must have looked a sight—his clothes covered in blood, his hands stained red, smears of it on his pale neck and cheeks, eyes wild.

Above, the sun had dispelled some of the stubborn clouds that had clung to the sky in the week leading up to the Solstice. The light warmed the earth, caressing Castiel’s cheeks. And still, there were still wisps of mist in the valley. It was dispersing, thinning more and more as the breeze dragged through the valley. But it gave them just enough of a cover from the town above. The buildings were blurred lines behind it.

He could hear celebratory music and laughter rolling down the hill as the townspeople took part in the festivities.

“What are you waiting for?” Gabriel said. “Get out of there.”

Castiel wrapped his hands around the stone and tried to pull himself up. Another sharp pain shot through him, as if the blade had lanced him all over again. He stifled an agonized yell and allowed fatigue to overcome him.

“Oh, right,” Gabriel said, seeming to only just remember. He reached inside his blazer, produced his golden blade, and sliced open his palm. “Watch out.” It was hardly much of a warning. Before Castiel could process it, Gabriel slapped his palm over Castiel’s wound. It stung, but only for half a second before it seared. Castiel’s vision whited out from it. His head spun.

When Gabriel pulled his hand away, the cut in his palm was gone. Castiel had to catch his breath again. Quickly, he pulled up the bottom of his shirt, finding the wound gone.

“Archangel grace,” Gabriel said, sucking his teeth. “No match for a Gatherer’s blade. Now, shake a leg.” He held his hand out, offering help. Castiel took it and got out of the coffin. His boots hit the grass with a muffled thump.

It occurred to him that he should thank Gabriel—for getting him out of the tomb, for healing him. But the only thing Castiel could eke out from his cracked, raw throat was, “Dean?”

He looked at Gabriel helplessly, praying for good news. Despite the sun high up in the sky. Despite the celebration happening in town.

Gabriel’s expression turned somber and remorsefully. “Sorry, kid.”

Pressure immediately stung in Castiel’s eyes. He closed them, turned his face away from the sun. The grief felt too big for his body. It devoured the air around him, spread over the valley and into the forest like a fire. It reached toward wherever Dean’s lost soul was, hidden among the dark trees, never to know the warmth of summer ever again.

Gabriel hardly gave him a moment to recover. He grabbed Castiel’s shoulder and shook him. “Look, you can torture yourself about it later, okay? Right now, we gotta go. While everybody up there’s still distracted by the festivities.”

Behind Castiel’s eyes, the image of Dean’s face warped, turning into something sinister and evil. The monster wearing his love’s face.

It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be. Dean couldn’t be dead, and Michael couldn’t be in his place. It was unacceptable.

“Go?” Castiel growled.

“Yeah! Get outta town—go to the human world. Living a mortal life’s a lot better than anything they have planned for you. And for me after they realize I broke you out. Now, let’s get moving.” He let go of Castiel and took a step in the direction of the forest.

But Castiel wouldn’t follow him. He wasn’t leaving. Not without Dean.

He stomped up the hill, through the mist, toward town.

Behind him, Gabriel whisper-shouted, “Cas? Cas! That’s the opposite direction from where we’re going!”

“I have to see him for myself,” Castiel said, not caring if Gabriel heard him or not. He needed to see Dean. See Michael. If there was even a chance that Dean was still, no matter how remote, Castiel would not give up. And he wouldn’t abandon Dean. Not ever.

“Cas! For the love of—” Gabriel’s footsteps quickly followed after him.

The celebration was held in the center of town, as it was every year. Castiel sidled along the outer wall of one of the nearby shops, close enough that he could peer onto the street and see what was happening. Gabriel hovered close behind him.

String instruments filled the air as angels danced on the cobblestones. The fragrant smell of meat lifted up from a pig being roasted on a spit. Lamb and chicken, vegetables and grains were served on platters. There was enough wine to go around. All of them laughed and smiled and sent up praise to God and the mountain.

Castiel gritted his teeth against it, fury burning in his chest. But, in the end, he was disinterested in any of the townspeople. He sought the long table set for the Elders. Raphael was sitting at it, a plate in front of him, his arm curled upward as he sipped his wine.

Hael was standing over his shoulder. She had the Gatherer’s blade back; it was sheathed at her waist. Her stance was proud and haughty now that she’s gotten everything she wanted.

A few angels were standing in front of the table, blocking Castiel’s view as they spoke to those who sat there. Castiel narrowed his eyes and waited for them to depart.

When they did, they revealed the man who was sitting at the center of the table.

Castiel’s chest caved in. Nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the sight before him.

Michael.

Dean’s body hung around him like a pelt. It was almost unrecognizable, the way he moved in it, the way it contorted and shifted. His posture was too straight, not with the relaxed swagger it should have been. His chin was held high, but too stiffly. The smile on his face was too sharp, lacking the way Dean would poke the tip of his tongue between his teeth or the way his eyes would glint.

And those eyes. They were more foreign to Castiel than the furthest reaches of the planet.

There wasn’t a trace of Dean left.

“There. Satisfied?” Gabriel asked sharply.

No, Castiel wasn’t satisfied. He felt like he was drowning. Gabriel should have left him to die in that tomb.

Quickly, he pushed away from the wall and fled to the back of the building. His feet came to a stumbling halt. The valley stretched forward. Beyond it, there was the dense, deep forest. Castiel wanted to run into it, to tear it apart for Dean’s spirit.

But it wouldn’t change anything. Dean was still dead. He was still damned to an eternity of suffering. Castiel would not allow it. He had to save Dean. He had to bring him back.

And he needed to end Nahaliel once and for all.

He heard Gabriel behind him. Castiel tensed his fists at his sides and firmed his jaw. He turned around and pushed all his resolve into his eyes. “I’m not leaving here without him.”

Gabriel balked. “What? Cas. He’s gone!”

“No,” Castiel said, refusing to even consider that possibility. “His soul is in the forest. It’s still here. So is his body.”

“Yeah, the body the most powerful guy in town is using!” Gabriel argued.

Castiel bristled, not allowing himself to be intimidated by that fact.

Gabriel sighed and stepped closer. “I get it, okay? It’s not fair. But you already killed two quarters of the town when you went rogue at the Communion! Isn’t that enough payback?”

“No,” Castiel answered fiercely. “They have to pay for what they did. We—We all have to pay for everything we’ve done!”

“You think I haven’t lost someone I loved because of them?” Gabriel challenged. “There’s nothing you can do! They won.”

He was a coward. Castiel wouldn’t be like him. “If you’re so hell bent on running, why did you even get me out of the tomb?”

Gabriel let out a frustrated sound. “Because you’re right! Happy? You were right about everything! I get that now. What happened today only cemented that. Michael, Raphael—all of them! They should answer for the things they’ve done—to you, to me! They took everything I cared about away. Do you really think I wanted that to happen to you? You think I wanted to stand there and watch it happen?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, wanting to demand why Gabriel had just watched it happen.

“And all those angels in the forest? Screaming for the rest of forever!” Gabriel continued emphatically, his eyes as sharp as a knife’s edge. “All the Gatherers stuck in there? Those are my people!” He jammed his finger into Castiel’s chest, tapping to punctuate every word. “You’re my people! And I can’t save the rest of them but I can still save you!”

Castiel’s anger dwindled. He saw beyond the fear and irritation on Gabriel’s face. Instead, for the first time, he realized how vulnerable his Elder Brother was. How full of grief.

It was the same burden Castiel carried within him.

So, he knew Gabriel would understand when he said, voice broken, “I can’t. I have to try.”

Gabriel’s expression evened out, as if Castiel had worn him down. Or convinced him. Either way, he exhaled in surrender and said, “Okay. You want revenge and your boyfriend back? Fine. I think I might know a way.”

Castiel pounced on it like a dog. Quickly, Gabriel held up a finger and said, “Might.”

It didn’t matter. Castiel would try anything. “How?”

Gabriel pulled his shoulders back slightly, seeming to prepare himself. He said, “Follow me.”

“Where?” Castiel asked.

Gabriel paused momentarily. He said, “The Reading Room.”

The words sent a tremor through Castiel’s chest. Ice touched his spine. But he would push past his fear—for Dean.

He followed Gabriel through the remaining wisps of fog up to the Leader’s house, and then to the wing where Naomi’s Reading Room was housed. When they reached it, Castiel’s eyes automatically flickered to the fireplace, part of him thinking Anna would be there. However, the room was empty.

Above, the mural of the forest seemed to bear down upon Castiel—as if the trees would grow out of the painting and snare him in its endless warren of gray trunks and spindly branches.

Gabriel lit a candle on a table before he moved to the shelves toward the back of the room. One of them had a long, polished wooden box on it. Castiel had always assumed it was just decoration, like the busts and vases scattered around the room, but Gabriel picked it up and brought it back to the light. He set it on the table. Castiel watched him place his hand on its lid and close his eyes, seeming to focus.

A moment later, the golden latch clicked open. Gabriel lifted the lid.

Castiel stood close, their shoulders brushing, as he looked inside.

A line of basins was arranged on a bed of silk. Each bowl was made of a different material: iron, bronze, copper, gold, ebony, and silver. Castiel almost couldn’t believe what he was looking at. “The Bowls of Wrath.”

“Yep,” Gabriel said. “The failsafe dear old Dad gave us in case the humans strayed too far from Him. But, now, we’re the sinners defying him. So, I figure—” he shrugged and made a faux-contemplative whine, “they’ll work on the town.”

He gestured down to them, going down the row. “That one’s called the Loathsome Sores. Pretty nasty. Makes people break out in painful boils. If they don’t die of blood loss, the pain gets ‘em a little later. And this one’s the Seas of Blood. It’s supposed to be poured into the ocean, but the main objective is killing off all the things people use as food. So, it’ll work on the crops and livestock.”

Getting to the bronze bowl, he explained, “River of Blood. Kinda a copy of the last one, if you ask me. Pretty uncreative. Anyway, it’ll contaminate all the fresh water. And that’s the Scorching Sun. Punishes with a burn as hot as the sun. That was something Naomi liked to use on angels who rebelled. Made a spectacle of them.”

“I remember,” Castiel said, recalling what had happened to Gadreel. There had been others before him, but few. As it turns out, they’d been right to try to run.

“Uh-huh,” Gabriel said. “The next two are Darkness and War. You can guess what those are. But it’s the last bowl you really want. God’s Fury.” He oriented his body away from the table to look at Castiel. There was a severity in his eyes that Castiel rarely saw in him.

“Pretty much what it says on the label. Once you pour it out, we’re talking earthquakes, fires, mudslides—you name it. Basically, it’s what happens when you piss the mountain off. And then, when it’s done, death follows. Every living thing in the vicinity will kick the bucket. That means, all the angels will be ripped from their vessels and trapped in the forest forever.” He eyed Castiel up and down. “That means you, too.”

Castiel’s skin tightened around him. He didn’t want to die, but if this was the penance he needed to complete in order to atone, he would. So long as it got Dean home. If one of them deserved to live, it was Dean. Castiel didn’t care about what happened to himself.

But that didn’t explain Gabriel. He pointed out, “And you.”

“Hell no,” Gabriel scoffed, some of his glibness back. “Once you kick it off with the first bowl, I figure everyone will be too busy to wonder where I went. I’m booking it out of here ASAP before midnight, while I still can. Like you should be doing.”

It was a valiant attempt, but Castiel wouldn’t change his mind. He looked down at the bowls, trying to come up with a plan. “How do they work?”

“You have to bleed in them before you use them. They’ll fill up, and you pour them out where you want to direct the plague,” Gabriel instructed.

Castiel nodded, ready. Except, there was only one issue: “There are only six bowls here. Where’s God’s Fury?”

“In town,” Gabriel told him. “In the church.”

Castiel frowned. That couldn’t be right. He’d never seen anything like that in the church before.

Then, reality dawned on him. “The basin we use for the Weekly Offering.” Gabriel nodded in confirmation, and Castiel shook his head. “I don’t understand. We’ve all bled in it many times. It never sends the town to ruin.”

“Yeah, because it’s dormant,” Gabriel said. “It’s got just enough magic in it to give our grace a boost and make the humans follow our will, but that’s not even a fraction of its power.” He looked back into the box. “You don’t have to do the six of these in order, but you do have to do all six before you can use the seventh bowl.”

Then, Castiel knew what he had to do. He would bring Nahaliel to justice. But that was only half of his goal.

“How can any of this help bring Dean back?”

“I said might, remember?” Gabriel reminded him. But Castiel didn’t care. He raised a demanding brow, impatiently waiting for Gabriel to explain. When he did, he said, “That’s gonna be the tricky part. After Michael is pulled out of his vessel, it’s technically up for grabs. Winchester should be able to slip back in—but not for very long. He doesn’t have any grace to heal himself, so he’ll have to get in there while the heart’s still beating.”

It wasn’t a very long window. If they didn’t time it right, Dean could still end up dead. Or perhaps even braindead. Castiel didn’t know which was worse. But, at the moment, that wasn’t the most pressing issue on the matter.

“That means Dean’s soul will need to be there,” he realized.

“Bingo,” Gabriel said, wiggling his bushy brows. “You’re gonna have to go into the forest and get him.”

Castiel braced himself with an inhale. He wasn’t certain he was ready to face Dean’s judgment. After all, Castiel had failed him. He’d gotten him and his friends killed. Dean might not want to listen, even if Castiel was trying to redeem himself.

Furthermore, if Castiel truly was going to die at the end of this, he didn’t want Dean attempting to talk him out of the plan.

Still, it was the only way. He tried not to think of seeing Dean with dead eyes and translucent skin.

“How can I find him?” he asked, unsure where to even begin.

Gabriel pressed his lips together, suddenly sober. He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, then offered it to Castiel. “Here. I took it after the ceremony. Figured you’d want it.”

Castiel looked down at the pocketknife in Gabriel’s hand. It was suddenly difficult to swallow. Grief pushed up inside of him again, choking him. He reached out with a shaking hand and took it from Gabriel.

“That belonged to Winchester, right?” Gabriel asked. Castiel nodded, unable to speak, unable to take his eyes off the knife. “Good. That’ll help you find him. Follow it.”

Castiel didn’t know what that meant, but he’d figure it out. He had to.

Silence hung for a long moment. The room was dark, all but for the small circle of candlelight the two of them stood inside. The dancing light glinted off the bowls.

“You sure you wanna do this?” Gabriel asked softly. “I mean, like I said, I get it. But… The others will know you’re the one who poured the bowls. You’ll be trapped in the forest with them when it’s all over. They’re all gonna want a piece of you.”

Castiel had considered that. But it was a fate he was willing to meet. All that mattered was Dean.

“Is he really worth that?” Gabriel asked.

The answer was simple: “Yes.”

Gabriel didn’t seem to like it, but he didn’t try to talk Castiel out of it again. He must have known it wouldn’t work. Instead, he took out his golden dagger again and placed it on the table next to the case housing the bowls. “You better take this. You’ll probably need it more than me. Just… remember: when you pour out the first bowl, the town’ll be on high alert. They’ll be looking for you. So, lay low. Try not to get caught.”

Castiel nodded. Part of him wished Gabriel was staying, just so he wasn’t in this alone. But he wouldn’t be. He’d have Dean. And this was solely Castiel’s cross to bear, anyway.

Gabriel puffed out a breath. “Okay, then. I better get out of here.” Never one for sentimentality, he turned around and headed for the door.

Castiel remained in place, looking down at the knife in his hands. Then, he realized he still hadn’t expressed his gratitude. He looked up, seeing Gabriel almost at the door. “Gabriel.”

Gabriel stopped and looked over his shoulder—and there was something in his eyes. Maybe hesitant hope that Castiel would go with him, after all. It occurred to Castiel that Gabriel didn’t want to be alone, either. But Castiel couldn’t go with him.

Earnestly, he told his old mentor, “Thank you.”

Gabriel nodded once, hiding the emotion from his expression again. “Don’t screw it up.”

Castiel wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Dean’s life depended on it.

Gabriel left then. Castiel allowed himself one moment to feel the weight of his solitude, and to understand the severity of what he was about to do.

He put the knife into his pocket and turned his attention to the bowls. It was time to come up with a plan. And then, Nahaliel would know not just God’s wrath. They would know Castiel’s.

///

“Dean.”

Dean pulled in a sharp breath. It pulled him into a sitting position, and it took him a second to realize the shout echoing back at him had come from his own throat.

He didn’t know where he was, or what the hell had happened to him. He was disoriented in a way that only happened after a nightmare. The last thing he remembered was Cas giving him his knife.

Blinking, Dean tried to catch his bearings. He was in the forest, that was for sure, sitting on the dead leaves and rocks. But the place looked different. He couldn’t tell if it was day or night. The world was thick and gray, like he was sitting inside a cloud. Or mist. It was everywhere, overwhelmed everything. Around him, the trees were slightly blurred lines which loomed like phantoms in the fog, stretched upward forever. Their thick trunks took on the white hue.

There was a sharp, persistent pain in his chest. Dean laid his hand over his heart and rubbed it, only to realize he couldn’t feel his own palm. Or his chest, for that matter. There was no sensation in his fingers or toes. Not even pins and needles telling him one of his limbs had fallen asleep. His body didn’t even quite feel numb. It was hard for him to find a word for it, or to wrap his head around the non-feeling.

The only thing he came up with was cold.

It wasn’t a bone-deep, shivering cold. The kind that wrapped around his spine and pulled his skin painfully tight. Instead, it was like he was made up of the stuff. Nothing but cold, empty air. That, and the constant twinge of pain in his chest.

Panicking, Dean looked down at his hands. His skin was ashen, appearing almost the same color as the mist that collected thickly around his fingers. Dean moved his hands through it, only to find the fog following the movements as if it was attached to him. “The hell?” he muttered. Jarringly, his voice sounded far away. Almost muffled, like wool was in his ears.

It only made him freak out more. He expected to feel his heart thumping in his chest, but even that was gone. His panting breaths fell like lead whether he inhaled or exhaled.

There was something he was missing. Something he was forgetting. He could feel it there, but it swirled around his brain, too out of reach for him to grab onto. Every time he thought he caught it, it slipped further away.

Quickly, he pushed up his sleeves, finding the same corpse-pale tone on the skin there. Blue veins ran down his forearms in the spindly patterns of sharp tree limbs. Dean touched his cheeks and felt nothing.

“Dean! I’m here!”

Dean jolted. The leaves beneath him shuffled audibly in the movement. That sounded like Cas’ voice.

“Cas?” he called as loud as he dared. Stiltedly, Dean climbed to his feet and squinted ahead. All he saw through the trees was more light gray. It almost looked like shadows, but someone had placed a film over the darkness.

“Dean?” Cas’ voice came from right behind him. He sounded wary now.

Dean jerked around, startled. Cas was there, but he was almost translucent. He was darker than the rest of the world around Dean, too. A shadowy figure who was both there and not there at the same time. Like a ghost.

Fear struck Dean. What if Cas was dead? What if someone found out he was helping Dean and killed him?

“Cas,” Dean heard himself whisper through the fog. His petrified eyes traced downward, and he noticed the pocketknife clutched in Cas’ hand. But that wasn’t right. Dean had the knife.

Cas had what appeared to be a leather duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

His eyes were big and sad as he looked at Dean, seeming like he might cry. Dean could barely see the blue of them in the haze. And Dean didn’t know why Cas was looking at him like that, but it only amped up his fear and confusion.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas said, still staring at him, words choked like he was standing over someone’s grave.

“How’d we get here?” Dean asked.

Cas tilted his head, still giving Dean those despairing eyes. “You don’t remember?”

Dean shook his head. “I remember you giving me that.” He nodded down at the knife in Cas’ hand.

Cas folded his long fingers over it and put it into his pocket. He pressed his lips together, seeming guilty about something. “You… You don’t remember the ceremony.”

Flashes of memory sparked in Dean’s head. They were disjointed, none of them making sense. Screaming. Blood. A golden dagger. Cas calling his name.

“The ceremony happened,” he realized.

Cas nodded severely. “I tried to stop it.”

Dean barely heard him. Suddenly, things were starting to make sense. He knew where he was, and he knew Cas wasn’t the ghost in this situation. Dean was. He was one of those things that haunted the forest.

He had the urge to swallow hard, but he still couldn’t feel a damn thing.

“I’m dead.”

Cas didn’t say another for a long second. The emotion in his eyes deepened. “Yes.”

Dean snapped his head up, suddenly alert. “And the others?”

Cas’ eyes averted to the ground, and it was enough to tell Dean that they hadn’t survived, either.

Dean exhaled heavily, grief settling in. “Son of a bitch.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas said softly.

Swiftly, sorrow erupted into anger. “Yeah, well, maybe if you hadn’t brought them here in the first place!” He stomped a few paces away from Cas, showing Cas his back. Dean ran his hand down his face, trying to compose himself.

He realized Cas hadn’t said anything in response. He looked over his shoulder, finding self-flagellating regret written all over Cas’ face. Remorse bloomed inside of Dean, even though it was Cas’ fault.

“I can’t take back what I did,” Cas started slowly. “But maybe there’s a way to fix this.”

“Fix it?” Dean demanded, his anger still thrumming like a bruise. “Fix what? I’m dead!”

“I might have a way to get you back into your body,” Cas told him, “and to make Nahaliel answer for what they’ve done.”

Dean turned around fully. It might have been stupid to hope for anything—but if Cas had a way, Dean was all ears. “How?”

“With these.” Cas slid the duffle off his shoulder and let it drop to the floor. Whatever was inside clinked noisily together. He dropped down next to the bag and unzipped it to reveal six bowls inside.

Dean popped his brows. “You wanna throw them a dinner party?”

Cas lifted his chin to shoot Dean an unamused glare. “No. They can set off a plague on the town.”

“What, like the Bible?”

“Exactly. When it’s complete, Michael will be pulled from his vessel.”

“You mean my body?” Dean almost didn’t want to think about that creep walking around in his skin. It made him feel dirty. Violated.

“Yeah,” Cas answered, standing up again. He left the duffle on the ground. “You’ll be able to occupy it again, but it has to happen quickly.”

Dean stared down at the bag, mulling it over. “What about Charlie and the others?”

Cas sighed forlornly. “No.”

Dean didn’t know how he could accept that. How he could walk away from this place knowing his friends were still trapped here, dead. That his dad was here—somewhere. Tormented forever.

But then he thought about Sam and Mary. John would want Dean to go home to them. To take care of them. Dean couldn’t just disappear on them, too.

Cas stepped closer to him, only an inch away. So close, Dean could almost feel the warmth of his body heat, the way his skin responded to Cas being near like a gravitational pull. But maybe it was only a memory.

“I’ll never be able to forgive myself for everything I’ve done,” Cas said again. “But I can try to make it right. And I can try to redeem myself to you.”

Dean clamped down on his numb jaw. Part of him already forgave Cas for everything. The other part knew he shouldn’t have.

Cas reached up slowly, like he wanted to give Dean plenty of time to pull away before his hand rested on Dean’s cheek. Dean braced himself to not be able to feel it. But then Cas cradled his jaw—and there it was. The gentle press of his hand, the warmth, the tender comfort.

Dean’s breath tripped out of him. He closed his eyes into the touch.

He remembered when he’d tried to fight the ghosts in the forest. His hands had gone right through them.

“How can I feel that?”

“I’m an angel,” Cas reminded him. And how the hell could Dean forget?

He opened his eyes. Tentatively, he put his hand on Cas’ face. Cas shuttered and leaned into Dean’s hand.

“What do I feel like?”

“Cold,” Cas answered. He pulled away. “But you won’t stay that way, Dean. I promise.”

Dean really hoped he was right. His eyes strayed back down to the bag. “You sure those will work?”

“Trust me,” Cas said.

Dean’s eyes flicked back up to his face. Cas’ expression was open, earnest. Dean figured he could give Cas his trust just one more time.

“Okay,” he decided. “Start talking.”

///

The clouds in the heavens above broke apart, letting in patches of the bright summer stars. The distant light winked down upon Nahaliel as if their father was letting them know their praise and exhalations were received. That the mountain would usher in another year of peace.

The music played. Cheerful chatter and laughter lifted up through the streets. The gas lanterns were lit, their orange glow banishing the mist that still lingered in the navy shadows. The frost that had been carried on the breeze as of late was thawing away.

Suddenly, there was a low tinkling of silverware on a glass. Others took up the motion, until it sounded like bells were chiming through the valley. The music and the dancing ceased. The chatter died away. The Eldest stood up from his seat at the long table at the front of the festivities.

“Brothers and sisters, a good Solstice to you all,” he said, projecting his voice. The timbre of it was deep and rough, as coarse as the bedrock of a raging river. It was as commanding as always. It suited him. He wore his new vessel well, with poise and steely elegance. The fine suit he’d changed into underlined his regal authority.

“Good Solstice, brother,” the angels returned in near-unison.

“As we celebrate and give thanks, we remember those who are not with us tonight,” Michael addressed. “The tragedy that took place this morning is felt deeply through Nahaliel. We honor the dead and praise their sacrifice. Be assured the perpetrator of these sins has been dealt with. Do not allow it to shake your faith. Instead, let the events of the Communion strengthen it. God has once again allowed us to prevail.”

The crowd cheered in response. When Michael raised his glass of wine, so did the others. There was plenty of the drink to go around. The casks were lined up like soldiers in a nearby alley, waiting to be rolled out to take the place of an empty barrel.

“Oecrimi Ashcha!” Michael toasted.

“Oecrimi Ashcha!”

They sipped their drinks, and the lively music began playing again.

It wasn’t until minutes later that the first scream broke through the merriment. More followed from different sections of the crowd. Then more. There were pained, agonized yells, and there were the shouts of fear. There were the sounds of rushing footsteps as others tried to get away.

Many of the afflicted fell to their knees, their hands clawing at their necks and faces where angry red boils swelled on their flesh. Their eyes bulged. Some of them dropped and writhed on the ground.

Those still with wine glasses in hand yelped as the red liquid inside turned to foam and rose up in the glass. It spilled over, dripped down onto their hands. The sounds of smashing crystal erupted against the cobblestones.

Some of the afflicted had stilled, either dead or unconscious. Others cried out as the boils burst, oozing thickly with blood that ran down their faces and dripped onto their clothes, soaking them with it. The horrid stench of iron filled the air.

Michael and Raphael were on their feet, watching as many of their brothers and sisters fell, understanding what was happening. The fury of the stars filled their hearts.

Brother Gabriel was nowhere in sight.

///

FRIDAY

The town had woken up to find pools of blood seeping out of the animal pens. It was bright against the straw and hay, heavy on the blades of grass. There were still stains of blood on the cobblestones from the massacre the previous night. The red would not wash out.

Word had spread quickly. Brother Castiel was to blame. The tomb he’d been locked in had been found empty. At once, Brothers Ishim and Benjamin recruited others to scour the forest for the rebel. So far, he hadn’t been apprehended, and now Nahaliel would reap the consequences of his continued freedom.

The animals were all dead. Their bellies burst, letting the wet organs stream out of them like small rivers. The insides were black with a festering disease. The pigs’ tongues lolled out of their slack mouths. The lambs’ black eyes were milky white. Every single one of the chicken eggs in the coop had gone rotten.

The rancid stench of decay was trapped in by the heat. Flies buzzed as they feasted on the contaminated flesh.

Castiel still hadn’t been found.

///

SATURDAY 

All the wells in town had dried up overnight, leaving mouths parched and throats cracked dry. It got worse as the day went on. Some of the brothers and sisters in older vessels passed out from the heat with no relief.

Scouts had been sent to the stream to bring back fresh water. When they arrived back in town, the water had turned to blood inside the pales.

The townspeople fled to the Leader’s house, crying for answers, asking why God and the mountain allowed such horrors. The Elders told them to pray. That God was testing their loyalty. That the marshal was still searching. That Nahaliel would prevail. If only they kept praying, the mountain would provide.

///

Castiel opened the door to his residence. The hinges gave off a creaking moan, and he tried not to wince as it seemed to echo through the dark forest. He and Dean had carefully checked the perimeter, ensuring no one was around, before they went inside. Upon a preliminary inspection, it seemed everything was just as he’d left it. The bed was still even unmade.

The interior was washed with the nighttime blue darkness, and that’s the way it would remain. Castiel would leave the ashes in the fireplaces; he wouldn’t dare light any candles. They were unnecessary risks. Besides, now that the mist had all but abated, the nights were warm even without a fire. Sweat clung to the fabric of Castiel’s shirt and caused dirt to cling to his face. His skin itched from days without bathing. He considered getting water from the well to fill his tub, but he wouldn’t be able to heat it. He supposed he’d just have to make due.

“You sure no one’s gonna find us here?” Dean asked, stepping in behind Castiel. He peered around the room. Without any real light, Castiel could barely see Dean. When Dean walked farther into the house, he was all but a smudged silhouette.

“None of them would expect me to come back here. It’s the last place they’d look,” Castiel assured him, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He dropped the duffle bag with the Bowls and Wrath onto the floor, then went to the small pantry cupboard in the corner, finding only stale bread and a half-empty jar of strawberry preserves. It would have to do. He was starving. The tough bread crunched and crumbled when he ripped it apart.

While he uncapped the preserves, he added, “And the place doesn’t look like it’s been touched in days. All my things are still here. That means Hael hasn’t moved in yet. We’ll be safe here. It’s only for a night.” He wasn’t certain if he was trying to calm himself or Dean on the matter.

After days of moving through the forest, dodging patrols and the spirits of the forest alike, Castiel thought they could both use a roof over their heads. And a bed.

Dean grunted, seeming to accept it. The bed springs whined when he sat down on the edge of the mattress. He bounced up and down slightly, as if testing the comfort. Castiel tore into the red-smothered bread with his teeth. It went down too dry when he swallowed, sitting like a lump in his throat. He paced closer to Dean.

“Gotta say, Cas, I kinda like your place back home better than this,” Dean commented. “Never thought I’d see an apartment less decorated than that, but here we are.”

Castiel let the comment slide. He looked Dean over instead, taking in the state of him. Shrouded in darkness, he could almost pretend that Dean was still alive. That the color and warmth had returned to his skin; that his lips were blush-colored and soft instead of thin and blue; that the green of his eyes would stare back into Castiel’s whenever they locked gazes. Every time Castiel looked at him, guilt and sorrow too large to name overwhelmed him. It was a difficult sight.

He reminded himself that, after tomorrow, Dean would be alive again.

Castiel finished the rest of his bread and, brushing his hands on his pants, joined Dean on the bed.

Silence fell for a long moment. Castiel missed the sounds of Dean’s breathing.

Dean said, “Hey, you know what I’m in the mood for? A burrito from the taco truck by the park.”

It was so ridiculous, Castiel couldn’t help but to laugh. “Dean, you’re dead. You don’t eat.”

“I can still get cravings!” Dean defended, his voice going up an octave. Castiel rolled his eyes, considering Dean might have been the only ghost with an appetite. It was almost comforting.

However, the feeling faded when Dean added, “That’s gonna be our first stop when we get outta here.”

Castiel looked down at his lap, rueful sadness curling inside of him. “I’d like that,” he whispered, hoping he didn’t sound too choked. He’d give anything to stroll through the park with Dean, to get food, to drive around aimlessly in the Impala, to go back to Dean’s apartment, crawl into his bed, watch a movie, make love. But he’d never get to do any of that again.

It was worth it. If Dean lived, Castiel would make that sacrifice a thousand times.

But now, in that moment, all Castiel felt was hollow. This was to be their last night together—and Dean didn’t even know it. Castiel wished he could tell him, but Dean would only try to stop him. To find another way. But there was no other way. This was their only chance of getting Dean home.

“Can’t wait to get back into my body,” Dean said, holding up his hands and looking down at himself. He let his arms fall back down before kicking one knee up onto the bed and turning toward Castiel. He placed a hand on Castiel’s thigh. Since Castiel had found him in the forest days ago, Dean had barely stopped touching him, clinging to Castiel like moss on a stone. As if he believed Castiel was his only tether to the world.

“Do I still look hot as a dead guy?”

Castiel pulled his brows together and gave Dean an incredulous look. “I much prefer you alive.”

Dean huffed. “Dude! You’re supposed to say yes!”

Of course. Now he wanted Castiel to lie to him.

“Then, yes. You still look… hot.”

“Thank you. See? Was that so hard?”

It wasn’t much of a lie. Dean was still Dean, even in death. That alone made him the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever seen.

Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s over his leg. He ignored the frigidness of it, the stiffness of his flesh, pretended he still felt like himself.

Dean bent his head down, looking between them. His voice was softer, more honest, when he said, “So. Guess we should talk about tomorrow. You really think it’s gonna work?”

“It has to,” Castiel answered, unable to conceive of anything else. “Just remember to be ready the second Michael vacates your body.”

“Yeah, but how do you know he’s gonna follow us to the church?” Dean asked.

“He will.” That, if nothing else, Castiel was certain of. “First, we need to find Raphael so I can use the Scorching Sun on him.” Tactically, it was their best course of action, but Castiel couldn’t deny his desire for vengeance in making Raphael pay with his own two hands. “After that, Michael will be the only Elder left. That should weaken him somewhat, but he’ll be looking for us. He’ll try to stop us from completing the seventh bowl.”

Dean nodded. “And then we use it on him.”

Castiel didn’t say anything. He allowed Dean to continue to believe that the bowl would only work on Michael.

Dean slipped his hand out from under Castiel’s and laid down on the bed. He shimmied to the side closest to the wall, making room for Castiel, who watched Dean for a moment longer before lying beside him. Their shoulders touched.

Castiel stared up at the ceiling, thinking about tomorrow. About tonight. The final night he’d ever have with Dean beside him.

“Dean,” he said into the darkness. The words almost didn’t come out. “I love you.”

Beside him, Dean stilled. The bed creaked when he picked himself up by the arms and stared down at Castiel with a hard expression.

Castiel frowned, wondering if he’d done something wrong. But then Dean asked, “What aren’t you telling me?”

He sounded afraid. Castiel was, too, but he couldn’t let Dean know that.

“Nothing,” Castiel told him. “I just… wanted you to know. In case something goes wrong tomorrow.”

“Nothing’s gonna go wrong. We’re going home, Cas,” Dean said willfully, as if he could command the fates. “And even if something does…” He sighed, turned his head away. “I forgive you.”

Castiel hadn’t expected that. His heart skipped hopefully. “You do?”

Dean shrugged before laying back down, this time on his side. Castiel rolled over to face him. Dean said, “Yeah. Look, it’s not your fault they played you—and brainwashed you.” Castiel wished it was that simple. “But you broke out of it in the end. No matter what happens tomorrow, you tried, Cas. We tried.”

Castiel swallowed hard, hoping Dean still felt that way in tomorrow’s aftermath.

“Guess I’m trying to say,” Dean finished, “I love you, too.”

A small smile pressed against Castiel’s lips. He let the words wash over him, even if they were to be the last time he ever heard them.

He filled the space between them to kiss Dean slowly, savoring it. Dean was still freezing, and he didn’t taste like anything, but Dean grunted softly into the kiss—and it was enough. And not nearly enough.

Castiel wished they had more time. He would have spent lifetimes with Dean if he could. He would have spent one mortal life with him.

When the kiss broke, they rested their foreheads together. Castiel kept his fingers splayed on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s hand wrapped around Castiel’s side.

“Cas?” Dean asked, tone serious. Castiel lifted his eyes to look at him. Then, “You think I’d give you hypothermia if I tried to suck your dick right now?”

Castiel let out a strangled grunt, not quite sure what to say to that. When the surprise wore off, amusement and curiosity replaced it. He wondered if they should try it, just to make sure. He hummed noncommittally, weighing the options.

Dean chuckled teasingly. “You horndog.”

“It was your idea,” Cas reminded him. But he supposed it was better not to risk it, as much as he wanted to. They needed to rest for the day ahead.

He brushed his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Maybe we should just lay together.”

Dean hummed, sounding a little sad. “Yeah,” he said.

Castiel’s heart could break all over again, but he tried not to dwell on it. He was content enough just to have Dean, to hold him. Just one last time.

///

SUNDAY

The fog that had lingered over the town had all but drifted away. Dean could only see a thin film of it still clinging to the air like a specter that refused to leave its haunt. The morning sun had even managed to break through the thick, fluffy clouds that hung like cotton in the sky. But Dean couldn’t feel the warmth of it on his skin. Actually, he could barely even see the blue. Just like everything in the living world, it was shrouded under a constant veil.

Dean wished he could bask in the sunrays. Instead, all he felt was the cold of the fog that packed the forest. It was like he was made of the stuff. The only time he felt even a little solid was then he was touching Cas.

Standing just inside the tree line, Dean watched while Cas took the duffle off his shoulder and crouched over it on the ground. He fished inside before pulling out the ebony bowl, then set it on the ground. Next, he took out Dean’s pocketknife. The blade clicked into place when Cas opened it.

He paused, the blade poised over his open palm. There wasn’t so much as a scab raised on his skin from all the other times he’d slit his hand open to activate the bowls.

He turned his head up at Dean, his muddy visage shimmying slightly in the haze. “Are you ready?”

Dean would brace himself if he still had a body. If he thought positively, he’d have one again soon. He’d have something else, too: payback. For Charlie and Jo, Victor, Benny, and Garth. For Dad. For Mom and Sam for tearing their family apart. For every life these monsters ruined. “More than.”

Cas nodded and looked back at the bowl. He chanted a few words in Enochian, then brought the blade down on his hands and sliced. He balled his fist and squeezed the blood into the bowl. Dean watched the droplets plunk downward. Their shadows were barely distinguishable against the black of the bowl.

From thin air, water filled the bowl, taking on the color of the basin. It sparkled somewhat in the low sunlight. Cas stowed the knife back into his pocket and picked up the bowl with bowl hands. Still crouching, he tipped the water out in a line, going back and forth, in front of him. When it was empty, he placed the bowl down and stood back up, hitching the duffle back onto his shoulder as he went.

“What about that one?” Dean asked, nodding down to the bowl Cas just used.

Cas kept his eyes toward the town, scanning around, waiting for something to happen. He said, “We won’t need it anymore.”

There were already three bowls left to use. Cas had left the previous three back at his house, either to keep the bag lighter so he could run or because he wasn’t worried about another angel getting their hands on them anymore. Maybe a little bit of both.

“So, what does Darkness do?” Dean asked next. From what he could tell, daylight was still upon them, but he could be wrong. He was still trying to tell the difference.

Cas didn’t answer. The line of his mouth became thinner as he pressed his lips tighter together. He squinted in the direction of town, waiting.

It took a second for Dean to realize something was happening. There was a shift in temperature, and a weird tugging at the center of him. He raised his splayed fingers and looked at the ever-present mist collecting around it. But it was different this time. It swirled between his fingers, circled his wrist. He turned his hand over and twiddled his fingers.

It felt like something was brewing. Like atmospheric pressure before a thunderstorm.

“Dean, look.”

Dean’s eyes snapped up, and it didn’t take him long to see what Cas was looking at.

Mist had appeared high up on the peaks of the mountains. It rose up from the canopy to drift over the forest. Dean watched it roll downward, as if pulled by gravity, in the direction of the town. He could feel it moving around him, going straight through him, emerging from the trees to converge on the valley.

The fog crept up toward the sky until the sunlight was blotted out.

Distantly, he heard the ringing of a bell coming from town—like the angels knew something more than fog was coming. They’d be on high alert, if they hadn’t been already.

Dean could imagine it: the townspeople coming out of their homes, watching with growing dread as thick tendrils of mist curled around their fence posts and walls like icy fingers. Coming up from behind and skimming its touch around their shoulders. Forcing itself into their lungs with every breath. Until it became so thick, the angels could hardly see the person standing next to them.

Dean shared a look with Cas, both of them knowing it was time to make their move. Cas lifted one long finger in front of his lips, telling Dean to stay quiet. Dean nodded. He reached between them and curled his fingers around Cas’ wrist, and he was able to feel Cas relax marginally. It strengthened Dean’s resolve.

Ahead, the town was now so swallowed by the mist, only the vague impression of the buildings must have remained. But Dean could see through the fog, as if the density of it hadn’t changed at all. He tugged Cas forward and guided him through the mist.

When they reached the cobblestone streets, Dean watched as the angels scrambled to light the gas streetlamps, or to bring out lanterns and candles. The light was barely able to penetrate the fog. It created blurry halos glowing in the darkness, but nothing more.

The closer they got to the town center, the more people there were on the streets. They walked in groups, holding their lanterns up high and trying to peer through the mist. Some held their hands in front of them as they walked so they wouldn’t bump into anything. All of them looked like they were searching for something, and Dean had a pretty good idea of who.

His suspicions were only confirmed when a muffled disembodied voice shouted through the fog, “Find him! He’ll be close!” It sounded like Ishim. His voice echoed, “Castiel? Come out! We know you’re here. Show yourself, or we won’t go easy on you! Not that we would anyway!”

Dean tightened his fingers around Cas’ wrist. He glanced around, wanting to make sure Cas wasn’t having any second thoughts. Luckily, a dark mask of wrath was set on Cas’ face. He had Gabriel’s gold dagger clutched in his hand.

Dean turned his head forward and kept going, trying to keep away from the others prowling the streets. A few times, when it looked like someone was getting too close, Dean had to jerk Cas in another direction, or some to an abrupt halt until the angel passed them by.

Soon, they made it to the street the marshal’s office was on. The angels moved about the fog near the row of shops, still searching.

“Here good enough?” Dean whispered as low as he could.

Cas nodded. Quietly and slowly, so the bowls in his bag wouldn’t crash together, Cas crouched down again, unzipped the bag, and pulled out the silver bowl.

Dean kept an eye on those around him, wary of anyone who even looked like they were blindly staggering too close. Metatron was in the crowd. Dean puckered his lips in disdain at the guy.

Cas tugged at the bottom of Dean’s jeans to get his attention. Dean looked down at him, his eyes sweeping to meet Cas’, so big and already full of anxiety; and Dean swore, if he focused hard enough, he could make out the blue of them.

“Be ready,” Cas said. Dean didn’t know what exactly the War bowl would bring, but he knew things were about to get loud.

Cas’ old cut hadn’t gotten the chance to heal yet. He reopened it with Gabriel’s blade and started chanting in Enochian again. The deep gravel of his voice resonated through the particles of fog. Dean could practically feel the sound in his chest like it was a physical thing.

“You hear that?” he heard someone say. If Dean still had a heart, it would start rampaging now. That didn’t stop his apprehension from the mountain. He looked around to find the other angels listening intently, trying to pinpoint Cas’ voice.

“Cas, might wanna hurry up,” Dean said out of the side of his mouth.

Thankfully, Cas had stopped chanting. Drops of his blood rolled down the inside of the bowl and collected at the bottom. It filled up with clear water.

“I think it came from that way!” someone said while Cas picked up the bowl and tossed the water out in one go. It splattered on the cobblestones.

Cas stood up and let the War bowl clatter to the ground. He raised his dagger, ready for whatever was to come.

“I think I see him!” someone shouted. Dean’s eyes snapped in the direction of the angel who, sure enough, was pointing in their direction.

Dean stepped backward, wondering if he should try to find a weapon. Even if he did, how would he pick it up?

His hand reached out, fumbling for Cas’. Their knuckles knocked together before Cas laced their fingers. Dean exhaled heavily, even though he didn’t need to. It made him feel a little more like he had a grip on the world, anyway.

The angels were advancing toward them, coming from almost every direction. The marshal’s office at his back, Dean started to feel like a cornered animal. “Any day now,” he gritted out. On the inside, he was begging for the bowl’s magic to kick in soon.

Suddenly, one of the nearby streetlamps sparked. The glass case around the flame shattered. All the angels on the street came to a stop.

The gas in another streetlamp exploded, sending down sparks and glass. Then another a little further down the street. And another.

The fog closed in even more, getting so dense, it almost felt like it was trying to squeeze Dean out of existence. He held onto Cas tighter—and then released his grip in shock when a streak of intense white light ripped through the street. Dean almost didn’t see where it had gone—not until someone cried out in anguish.

The light was forcing its way down an angel’s throat. For a long second, nothing happened. And then the man’s eyes lit up with that same blinding white-blue. Lines of blood started leaking from his eyes like tears. It came from his ears, rolled down the side of his face. He sputtered it up from his mouth.

He threw his head back and screamed—only for the sound to be cut off by a loud bang, like a bomb had gone off. The light exploded out from the man. He dropped to the ground, his eyes liquified, deep black sockets filled with blood. Beneath him, a scorched pair of wings burned themselves to the cobblestones.

The angels started running in all directions, panicked.

More lights started zipping through the street. But that wasn’t all there was. Dark figures began forming in the fog. They grabbed the angels and tore into them with hands and teeth. Blood and gore sprayed up, painting the white air.

“It’s the spirits of the angels from the mountain,” Cas said, eyes wide as he watched the carnage around them.

Dean stood there, too stunned to move for a second.

There was the crack of a gun, the whizz of a bullet. The mist shuttered through Dean, and for the briefest second, his vision whited out, and he blinked out of existence.

“Dean!” he heard Cas yell in terror. His hand grasped Dean’s shoulder the second Dean reappeared.

Dean’s hands flew to his own chest, where the bullet had pierced through. But he was fine. There was no damage. The bullet had gone right through him and lodged itself in the wall of the marshal’s office.

He snapped his head up to find Ishim and Benjamin storming through the chaos in their direction. Ishim was holding an old six shooter. “Stay where you are, Castiel!” he ordered.

“Come on, c’mon!” Dean urged, grabbing Cas’ vest with both hands and manhandling him toward cover. They ran around the corner of the marshal’s office to shield themselves.

Dean looked out, seeing the marshal and deputy still coming. They weren’t going to stop.

“Cas, you gotta go,” Dean said, hating the idea of splitting up. Even as he said it, he pressed his hands tighter on Cas’ hip and ribs. He felt Cas take in a sharp breath.

“Dean—”

“No time to argue,” Dean interrupted. “You gotta find Raphael and use the Scorching Sun. I’ll take care of these assholes.”

Cas gave him a harried look. “How?”

Dean had no idea, but he’d figure it out. “Just go!” He pushed Cas away. “I’ll meet you at the church. Go, Cas!”

Cas still didn’t look like he was on board, but he knew it was their own shot. His expression hardened, and he quickly turned and rushed away, through the mist. Dean already felt unmoored without his presence.

He told himself he’d see Cas soon.

Tentatively, he stuck his head out from behind the corner. A bullet immediately splintered the wood above his head. Dean leaped back, hissing, “Son of a bitch!” Then, he remembered the bullet couldn’t kill him.

Because these assholes had already killed him.

Now was the time for payback. Where Ishim and Benjamin were concerned, it was personal. Dean would be happy to kick their asses—somehow. If the dead angels could do it, so could he.

If he could touch Cas, he could touch them.

Dean opened his hands, willing the fog to weave tighter around him. He had no idea if it actually worked, but the boost of determination was good enough. He stepped out from behind the wall, his sights set on Ishim.

///

Castiel wasn’t certain how he’d find Raphael in the opaque mist that choked the air. As it continued to build, he could hardly see his own hand in front of him. He tried to keep close to the buildings, using the walls to guide him forward.

Occasionally, a vague shadow passed in front of him, and he didn’t know if it was a ghost or a living angel. When it was the latter, they usually tried to attack him. He’d killed some with Gabriel’s angel blade and managed to knock a few others unconscious. He’d tried to interrogate each of them on Raphael’s whereabouts without luck. Hot blood was splattered on his clothes and smeared on his face. His fist was in a vise grip around the strap of his duffle bag hoisted over his shoulder, not wanting to run the risk of someone taking it from him.

The bag was lighter than it had been in days, with only one bowl left inside.

Around him, the screams of the dying and bloodthirsty howls of the ghosts taking their revenge pierced through the blanket of fog. And he knew he was the cause of it. Perhaps not everyone in Nahaliel deserved this fate. They had been manipulated by the Elders just as he had, after all. But it was the only option. Nahaliel was a blight on the world, a disease that continued to spread. And if Castiel was to be its necrosis, the guilt of so much death on his hands would putrefy along with his corpse.

Letting his determination carry him, he kept up his search through town.

Castiel was coming to the end of the building he was currently creeping along. He felt his way to the corner of his, his fingers wrapping around the wood.

A figure stepped in front of him. Castiel reeled backward, ready to defend himself, but then he realized who was there. The mist hovered over her red air like a crown. It was the only shock of color Castiel had seen in what felt like ages.

“Anna—” Castiel began.

Anna held up her hand swiftly, silencing him. Castiel stilled at once. There must have been danger lurking. Perhaps even Raphael.

He squinted around, trying to spot the threat. His eyes landed on two shadows passing through the mist.

“How will we find him like this?” Hael’s voice came from one of them. It caused Castiel’s heart to freeze over.

The ice thickened when Michael’s voice returned, “He’s headed for the church. Our aim is to get there first.”

Their shadows were fading into smudges as they retreated back into the ether. Hael’s voice was muffled now, nearly lost to the screams. “Why is he going to the…”

Castiel was running out of time. He needed to find Raphael. Now. Before Michael and Hael beat him to God’s Fury.

His eyes flicked to Anna, beseeching help.

Anna said nothing for a few long moments, her hand still raised. When she lowered it, the intent focus that had been lining her brow smoothed out. She told Castiel, “Raphael is still in the mansion. He’s preparing a spell to undo the bowls’ effects. You have to hurry.”

Castiel’s hammering pulse broke through his icy fear. “Can you see through the mist?” Dean had been able to. It stood to reason that Anna could, too.

She nodded, then turned around. “Follow me.”

She guided him through the haze, keeping him far from any living angels. The dead passed him by in zipping white lights of grace and the dark silhouettes of their former vessels. It wasn’t long before he and Anna were winding up the slope toward the house.

The entrance gate came into view, its rod iron workings stark against the otherworldly gray that surrounded it. The hinges creaked when Castiel opened it enough to squeeze through. On the other side, he was able to see the looming shadow of the obscured house.

He was so close now. Trepidation gnawed on his bones with canine teeth.

“You’re sure he’s in there?” Castiel asked, but he didn’t receive a reply. Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder. Anna was gone, leaving only the swirling mist in her place.

Castiel bit down on his jaw, steeling himself. He told himself that he would not fail.

He let the duffle slide off his shoulder enough for him to reach inside and pull out the Scorching Sun. After he tossed the bag to the side, he pulled Gabriel’s blade from his waistband and gripped it tightly in one hand. The bowl hung at his side in the other.

As stealthily as he could, Castiel made for the house. The porch steps groaned under his boots. The lock clicked when it unlatched on the front door. He placed the flat of his palm on the wood and pushed it open enough to squeeze through.

The chandelier was burning in the foyer, illuminating the paintings on the wall, casting shadows on the stairwell. After so long stumbling around blindly, it was jarring to be able to see so clearly. The mist outside pressed against the windows, trying to find a way in. He turned his face in the direction of the Leader’s office. The double doors were closed, and a fire from the hearth spread out from the cracks beneath them.

Raphael would be on the other side.

Castiel pulled his shoulders back and readjusted his hold on the blade. His stomach knotted in anticipation; his skin prickled. He silently paced toward the doors.

“Castiel,” a voice came from behind him.

Castiel halted immediately. He ground his teeth ruefully.

“This has gone far enough,” Naomi told him. His expression darkened. He turned around to glower at her. She stood in the threshold of the sitting room across the foyer, her hands folded in front her. Holding her hand out for the bowl, she came forward, her shoes clacking on the hardwood. “Give that to me.”

Castiel swiveled his left shoulder back, keeping the bowl away from her. He held up his blade in warning, which must have been received because Naomi stopped walking abruptly.

She sighed, “Take a moment. Think about what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he told her clearly.

“Then, you understand how this will end,” Naomi said, her voice ever so reasonable. A teacher explaining the facts of the world to a pupil. “Not only in the death of everyone here, but in your death.” She held out her hands before folding them back together. “What good will that do?”

Someone stepped out of the sitting room behind Naomi. She settled along the wall. Castiel didn’t allow his eyes to flickered toward her, not wanting to give her presence away.

He raised his chin. “It will put an end to everything we’ve done,” he answered. “It will save Dean Winchester.”

Naomi shook her head, almost pitying. “You can’t help him, Castiel. He was brought here for a reason. It’s God’s will.”

Anna’s visage shivered out of existence; as it did, Castiel flexed his grip on his blade in preparation. She reappeared right behind Naomi—and grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her still. Naomi gasped, her body reacting, trying to break out of Anna’s hold.

Castiel charged forward and drove his dagger into Naomi’s gut.

Naomi’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open. Behind her, Anna placed her face close to Naomi’s ear and said, “This is our will.”

Castiel retracted the blade, and Naomi grunted as her body jerked. Anna kept her upright as the light of her grace filled her eyes. The white glow radiated off of Castiel’s skin. He watched it explode outward, the blowback sweeping through his hair and ruffling his clothes. The candles in the chandelier blew out, plunging the room into darkness.

When it was over, Naomi’s body was broken on the floor. Her wings spread outward on the wood and rug. Anna was gone.

Castiel blinked, his eyes adjusting to the lowlight. He turned around again, finding the flickering fire still painting the floor on the other side of the doors. He’d lost the element of surprise, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t fail.

He pushed into the office to find the one perfect arrangement of the room out of sorts. The furniture was moved to the far walls, and the carpet was rolled up to reveal the floor beneath. A giant Enochian sigil was painted on the hardwood in wet blood that shimmered in the lowlight. Raphael was crouched down before it, adding the finishing touches with two red-soaked fingertips. His back was turned to Castiel, but Castiel wasn’t naïve enough to think his presence wasn’t known.

“Excellent. You’ve arrived,” Raphael’s voice slithered along the heatwaves of the fire. “Just in time. The sigil is complete.” He rose to his feet and turned around slowly to face Castiel. The firelight behind him outlined his silhouette in a nearly blinding halo. Every time Castiel blinked, the image of his Elder Brother was tattooed on his retinas.

Raphael’s vision moved down to the bowl in Castiel’s hand. He continued, “All it requires now is a divine blood sacrifice.”

“You think you can use me?” Castiel challenged.

“I will,” Raphael corrected. “And, if not, you’ll kill me with the Scorching Sun.” He stepped backward until he reached the center of the sigil. “Either way, the spell will be complete. It will banish the mist and the spirits back to the forest.”

Castiel eyed the sigil, trying to come up with a way around it. His only options were to destroy it or to get Raphael away from it long enough to kill him. Both were much easier said than done.

But he would not fail.

He prepared himself for a fight. Through his teeth, he said, “Then, I’ll have to drag you from it.” He stormed forward, his blade raised. Raphael didn’t flinch—not until Castiel was close enough to drive the blade down on his chest. He caught Castiel by the wrist midway. Castiel’s arm shook as he strained against the hold.

Raphael twisted Castiel’s arm down and behind his back, forcing Castiel around. He grunted loudly as pain flared in his shoulder. Raphael snatched the bowl out of Castiel’s hand, then swiftly kicked the back of his knees, sending Castiel to the floor. He fell hard on his face when Raphael kicked him between his shoulder blades.

While Castiel was still trying to recover, Raphael ripped Gabriel’s blade from his hand and threw it to the side with a clatter.

“You must have known that wouldn’t work,” Raphael taunted. “I’m stronger than you, Castiel.”

Yes. Castiel did know that.

He groaned, tried to rally himself, tried to get up. All he managed to do was roll over onto his back. He was rewarded with Raphael’s shoe pressing down on his chest. Raphael stood over him, the golden bowl held in his hands.

“Now. It’s time to end this,” Raphael said. He squeezed his cut palm over the bowl and chanted, “Lrasd a lansh c Ascha, feel tia unph.” The rounded metal of the basin reflected the raging flames in the hearth.

Raphael lifted his foot off of Castiel and stepped back slightly.

Castiel drew in a few sharp breaths, preparing himself. He only had one shot at this.

“Goodbye, brother,” Raphael told him. He tipped the bowl, letting the water flow out.

Castiel rolled out of the way. The water splashed onto the center of the sigil. At once, flames leaped up from the sigil. They spread from the center of it outward in a rampage, catching Castiel’s leg before he was able to fully roll out of the circle.

He cried out from the searing, overwhelming burn. He heard Raphael scream, too. In the corner of his eye, the fire blazed brighter as it consumed Raphael.

Castiel rolled again, snuffing out the flames dancing on his skin, leaving his pants blackened. He jumped up to his feet.

Raphael was still screaming as he fell to his knees. The brightness of it flayed Castiel’s eyes. The flames licked around the bowl. Then, finally, the anguish shouts stopped. Raphael collapsed forward.

The flames had spread. They climbed up the velvet curtains and used the furniture cushions as kindling. The crystal decanters on the drinks table exploded. Black smoke filled the room and caught in Castiel’s throat, making his choke.

He needed to get out before the entire house burned down. He needed to get to the church. To Dean.

Quickly, he turned for the double doors, leaving Raphael to burn.

///

All around Dean, the wailing anguish that usually shook the forest echoed down Nahaliel’s streets. More and more angels were dropping every second, burning their wings onto the cobblestones, the grass and dirt, walls and fence posts. But enough of them were still standing. They kept the ghosts at bay with axes, shovels, hammers, and anything else they could swing. The tools ripped through the ghosts’ visages, making them blink out of existence long enough for the living angel to run away. Some of them were stopped in their tracks when a bodiless angel forced itself into their vessel and tore them apart from inside.

Dean wasn’t so focused on the carnage around him. His eyes were on Ishim and Benjamin. He kept trying to steal away into the mist, far enough that they couldn’t see him, and then pounce. A few times, they managed to get him by surprise—like now.

Ishim, blood running from his nose and staining his mustache, barreled toward Dean. Dean focused all his energy on blinking out of sight, going back into the mist and letting it carry him. He’d figured out how to do that by accident about five minutes ago. Now, he was thinking he had the hang of it. He still mostly just ended up reemerging in the same spot he’d been in before, but thankfully this time, he managed to end up behind Ishim’s back.

He grabbed the marshal by the back of his jacket and threw him in the direction of somebody’s fence. Ishim crashed into it hard into the horizontal planks, making the wood snap. Splinters fell down with him. One side still stuck out from the post, ending in sharp, ragged fractures.

Ishim must have been the distraction though, because Dean felt Benjamin come up from behind him. They grabbed Dean by the shoulder, wheeled him around, and landed a punch across his face. Dean’s head reeled, and for a second, the only thing he felt was ice. He thought, maybe, he’d slipped out of reality. But he must have still been visible, because before he could recover, Benjamin kicked him toward the fence. Dean doubled over from the blow.

Ishim was back on his feet. He took a fistful of Dean’s hair and yanked his head up. Dean watched Ishim spat blood to the side, then grin with crimson-stained teeth. “Tell us where Castiel is,” he demanded. “Tell us where we can find the Bowls of Wrath.”

Dean wanted to tell him to go fuck himself—but the faint sounds of whispers suddenly rasped across his ears. A smile cut across Dean’s face.

“What’s so funny?” Ishim said, yanking Dean’s hair again.

Suddenly, a dark figure flickered over Benjamin’s shoulder. Two hands grabbed their neck and twisted it into an unnatural angle. The bones cracked audibly.

Ishim gave a surprised yelp.

Dean didn’t wait for the body to fall. A battle cry ripped from his throat as he grabbed Ishim by the front of his jacket and pushed him forward with all his might. Ishim stumbled, losing his footing. Dean shoved him backward into the sharp fragment of the fence still sticking out of the post. A squelching sound followed, and then Ishim’s gasp of shock.

Dean gave one last push, making sure the marshal was impaled all the way through. The blood-soaked ends of the wood stuck out from his stomach. Ishim coughed, spewing blood. Dean watched his eyes flood with white light, and he took that as his cue to stand back. Ishim’s grace exploded, leaving only a slouching husk in its wake.

Dean pulled back his shoulders, trying not to think of the poor bastard the angel had been possessing. He’d been long-dead, anyway.

Instead, he turned head, wanting to see who had come to help him.

Benjamin’s body was on its side on the ground, torso twisted awkwardly and arms curled out. The only thing left of the angel was their wings.

Someone was standing over the corpse. A proud, sad smile was on his familiar face. Behind him, people were still fighting and dying, but Dean suddenly felt like he was in the eye of a hurricane. Strangely calm.

“Dad?” he eked out, unable to believe his own eyes.

“Hey, son,” John said, still smiling. His gaze moved up and down Dean, either searching for injury Dean could no longer sustain or looking at how much Dean had grown since the last time they saw each other.

Dean wanted to run forward and hug him—or at least try, even if it didn’t work.

But the glint in John’s eyes faded, and so did his smile. He said, “You have to go, Dean. Now.”

Dean didn’t want to. There was so much he wanted to say, to ask, to do. But Dad was right. Dean needed to get to the church. He and Cas had to end this.

“Go, Dean,” John urged. Then, he blinked out of sight.

Dean stumbled backward slightly, the pain in his chest deepening. He shook it away as best he could—and ran in the direction of the church.

///

Castiel’s heart was beating with the rhythm of war drums as he reached the church. All his doubts and fears had been cleansed by the fire that burned Raphael. Whatever came next, he was ready. He would be Dean’s salvation.

He opened the door, wisps of mist curling in after him. It lingered, thin traces of it hovering over the floor, even after the door fell heavily closed behind him. The inside of the church was silent and cast in shadow.

“Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes followed the fog toward the altar at the front of the church, where Dean’s voice had come from. His face was still pallid, eyes still bleak. Soon, that would all change.

Dean rushed down the pews. Castiel paced forward quickly to meet him. He let Gabriel’s blade hang loosely at his side now that he was out of harm’s way. For the time being.

“You okay?” Dean worried, grasping Castiel’s shoulders with both hands. His eyes scanned Castiel’s body, no doubt taking in the singed clothes and blood. Part of Castiel wanted to collapse into Dean, to let Dean hold him upright, to rest. He held himself rigid. His mission was almost complete.

“I’m fine,” he said. “The blood isn’t mine.”

Dean seemed to settle somewhat. He let one hand slip away from Castiel. The fingers of his opposite hand tightened around Castiel’s sleeve. “Okay, then.” He peered over his shoulder at the stone basin on its pedestal at the head of the aisle. Castiel’s eyes remained on Dean, taking in all the lovely curves of his profile, wanting to burnish the image into his brain. “Six down…”

“One to go,” Castiel finished. Determination driving him, he marched toward the final bowl.

Dean followed after him. “How d’we know Michael will come here?”

“He will. I overheard him and Hael in town. They’re making their way to us,” Castiel assured him. He was slightly surprised they weren’t there yet. It was likely Michael got held up. The townspeople would be throwing themselves at him for rescue.

Castiel added, “I don’t know how much time we have. We have to assume it isn’t much.” He settled on one side of the bowl. Dean stood across from him.

“Okay, great,” Dean replied. “So, he gets here and we toss the bowl at him, and he gets knocked out of my body?”

Castiel shook his head. “No. God’s Fury will disrupt the mountain. It will cause disaster. Earthquakes, who knows what else. When it’s complete, death will come. Michael will be forced from his vessel.”

Dean knitted his brows together, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. Castiel didn’t need him figuring it out before it was too late.

He held his hand over the bowl and brought the tip of Gabriel’s blade to it. Suddenly, his dormant fears exploded inside of him once more. For his own fate, certainly. But also for Dean’s. If Dean didn’t get his body back, all of this would be for nothing.

“Dean,” he said, lifting his eyes to meet the memory of verdant green. He pretended it was still there. “Whatever happens, you need to take your body back from Michael. That’s the most important thing. Do you understand?”

Dean gave a wry chuckle. “Yeah, you don’t gotta tell me twice.”

Castiel nodded, praying it was enough. He was just about to press the knifepoint down when Dean urgently asked, “Wait, Cas? What happens after Michael dies? What, the other angels are just gonna give up, or are you and me not gonna hang around long enough to figure it out?” It didn’t sound like the real question he wanted to ask.

Castiel kept his eyes downcast, staring at the spot where the golden metal met his palm without truly seeing it.

He shook himself from the stupor, told himself to press on.

A hot, stinging pain radiated from his hand when he cut a slash across it. He squeezed the blood into the white stone, watching it soak up. “Lrasd a lansh c Ascha, feel tia unph.” Seconds later, the bowl filled with water.

Castiel could still feel the weight of Dean’s eyes on him.

“Cas,” he said, more hesitant that time. “You gonna answer the question?”

He must have known the answer he sought by now. He was just in denial.

The bowl was full. There was no turning back.

Castiel met his eyes again. “It won’t be only Michael. Death will sweep through the valley. It’ll kill every living thing in its way.”

Dean blanched, his brows popping and forehead wrinkling. “Everything? Including you?” Even veiled, Castiel could see the ire building behind his eyes.

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed, trying his best to keep his voice as unwavering as possible.

Dean scoffed. “How long have you known about this?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed on Dean.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed out. “The whole time?” Emotion filled his voice now.

Castiel’s gut coiled. He didn’t want Dean to try to talk him out of this. “We don’t have time to discuss this.”

“I don’t care!” Dean yelled. “We’re not doing it. Reverse it.” He gestured wildly down to the basin.

Castiel shook his head forlornly. He hoped, one day, Dean would understand. Castiel was doing this for him. “It’s too late.”

“Then, wait for it to evaporate!” Dean shot back, baring his teeth in anger. “We’re supposed to get away from this place together, Cas!”

“We can’t,” Castiel argued urgently. He needed Dean to understand. “Only one of us can survive. It has to be you. This will save you.”

“And kill you!”

He was stubborn, bullheaded. Castiel loved him.

“Dean,” he said, frustrated.

“How am I even supposed to leave without you, huh?” Dean asked. “It’s not the Solstice anymore. I won’t make it past the arch.”

“Yes, you will. With all the angels dead, there will be nothing left for the forest to trap inside Nahaliel. You’ll be able to leave. When you do, follow the animal trails back down to the trail. Head south. Find a ranger or other hikers to help, if you can.”

Dean had been shaking his head petulantly the entire time. “I’m not leaving here without you.”

“You have to!” Castiel shouted, finally losing his temper as his fear blazed through him. “You deserve to live! You have people who need you.”

“What about me? I need you,” Dean said, expression open and beseeching. It nearly rendered Castiel’s mute.

He pulled in a deep breath. He didn’t want to leave Dean, but this was the only way. Castiel cared for him too much to leave him in this state. He’d made peace with that. Dean had to, as well, otherwise he’d never go back into his body. It was their only chance.

“This is my penance,” Castiel said.

It only made Dean angrier. “Fuck your penance!” He jabbed a finger toward Castiel’s face. “I’m not letting you do this. Too many people have already died because of me this week. Now I’m supposed to let you, too?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel ordered. “You need to go home. To your mother. To Sam.” Castiel didn’t have a home, or a family. But Dean did, and if he wouldn’t live for himself, he might for his brother.

Dean’s mouth hung open, jaw working as he tried to come up with an argument.

Before he found the words, the church doors opened up again. Both of them jerked their heads in that direction, finding Michael and Hael striding inside. Castiel’s eyes landed on the object in Michael’s hand. A fire-blackened bowl, bits of its gold still fighting to shine through.

The Scorching Sun.

Why had Michael gone back for it? The question paralyzed Castiel momentarily.

“Castiel. Mr. Winchester,” Michael said, his voice so unlike Dean’s. So foreign. He stopped halfway down the aisle. Hael stood beside him, Castiel’s old dagger raised in her fist.

Dean’s face had hardened. A muscle in his cheek spasmed with contempt. “Well, aren’t you a handsome bastard?” he said, tone dripping with scorn.

Michael leveled him with a look—intent, unyielding.

Suddenly, Dean let out a sharp grunt. It made Castiel’s adrenaline spike. Dean clutched his chest and doubled over, face twisted with pain. His visage flickered in and out of existence.

Castiel’s wide eyes swept back to Michael. There was only one way to stop him. He knew what he had to do.

He grabbed the top of the pedestal with both hands and pulled. The stone came crashing down to the floor with a loud crack. The bowl toppled over, flooding the floor with its contents.

“Castiel!” Michael shouted. At the same time, Dean’s voice overlapped: “No!”

Hael’s mouth hung open, her chest inflated with a frozen breath as she watched the water darken the floorboards.

There was fury in Michael’s eyes, but there was nothing he could do now.

Castiel’s voice echoed off the vaulted ceilings: “It’s done!”

Nearly as soon as the words left his mouth, the candleholders on the altar began to rattle and shake. Castiel looked down at the pool of water at his feet. Ripples formed in it.

A rumbling sound was building—higher and higher. The walls quaked. Castiel felt the violent tremors rising up from the ground under the soles of his boots. It sounded like the mountain might split into two.

But it wasn’t the mountain that cracked first.

A fault line sprang up from the place the bowl had landed. Wooden floorboards warped and splintered as the fracture branched out. It jig-jagged down the aisle.

The ground lurched. Castiel stumbled, trying to catch his balance. Dean’s hand flew toward him, grabbed the front of his shirt. Without thinking, Castiel palmed Dean’s shoulder.

The walls coughed dust as they trembled.

“Out of the church! Go!” Michael was shouting to Hael. Together, they ran for the exit.

Dean’s fingers twisted the fabric of Castiel’s shirt tighter. He yelled, “We gotta move!”

They sprinted for the door. The widening fissure running like a lightning bolt was always ahead of them. For a second, Castiel didn’t think they’d make it time. He pushed himself faster, keeping in stride with Dean.

When they got outside, the tear ripped through the grass and gravel between Castiel’s feet. He jumped to one side of it, pulling Dean with him.

Wind whipped all around, making the fog swirl and lift. It beat against Castiel’s clothes, rattled in his ears. As the mist retreated back to the forest, he watched the gash move up the hill in the direction of town.

The crack of the earth resounded against the sky. Just beneath it, there were the sounds of screaming. All those angels, crying to God for salvation. None of them knowing they’d been damned for centuries.

Castiel held fast to Dean, trying to keep them both from falling, until the last of the shockwaves rolled away. As the wind died out, the mist was nothing more than wisps now, allowing the sun to cast the looming shadow of the mountain over the town.

It was a warm summer day, Castiel realized. The sun was bright.

From the distance, he saw three separate fires cropping up from the rubble of buildings. They steadily climbed higher, using the wood that made up the town as fuel.

For a long moment, relative silence skittered like static in Castiel’s eardrums. The world remained still.

Then, a loud scream echoed down the hill from the town. A bubble of white light burst over the roofs like a bomb. The sonic boom of dying grace pressed against Castiel’s chest like a boulder.

Seconds later, another angel died. And then another.

A chaotic, panicked din sounded in the distance as, one by one, the angels met their fate. With each one, the ringing in Castiel’s ears built louder and louder. His chest tightened so tightly, it was difficult to breathe. He tried his hardest to drag in deep inhales of the burnished, copper-scented air.

He looked at Dean, knowing these would be their last moments together. Dean kept his terrified eyes ahead, his jaw tightening. Finally, he turned his face to Castiel. His lips parted to pull in a shaking breath, as if he wanted to say something. He hung onto Castiel like he could shield him against destiny. Castiel couldn’t help but to smile gently at the thought of that.

Behind them, in the shadow of the church, Castiel was vaguely aware of Michael slashing open his palm and chanting the Enochian prayer to activate the Scorching Sun. He didn’t try to stop him, even though he knew Michael would likely use the bowl on him. Michael wanted to kill Castiel himself. It would be slow and agonizing—but what did Castiel have to fear? He was dead already.

“What did you do?” Hael shrieked. Her voice pierced through the white noise filling Castiel’s skull to the brim. He and Dean whipped around to face her. “You ruined everything!” Teeth bared, she held up the Gatherer’s dagger and rushed forward, intent on Castiel.

Dean stepped in front of Castiel immediately.

Less than halfway to them, Hael jolted to an abrupt stop. Intense blue light filled her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, and the glow of her grace spilled past her lips. She threw her head back as her grace burned out.

Castiel threw himself at Dean and forced him to double over to protect his eyes.

The static roar of Hael’s grace split Castiel’s head, stuck a knife into his brain matter. A hand wrapped around his ribcage and snapped the bone, allowing the swelling of his heart to push out further, to beat against the barrier of his skin. He grit his teeth against the pain of it and looked up.

The light faded from Hael. Her body crumpled to the grass, where she lay like a discarded toy soldier.

Castiel loosened his hold over Dean and straightened out to stand. Slowly, Dean removed his hands from his ears and followed.

Michael stood a few feet back from Hael’s body. He had the bowl between his hands. Castiel eyed it—and he tried to be brave.

“Go ahead and kill me,” he said, despite the urgent way Dean grasped his sleeve. “You already lost.”

Michael’s gaze flickered between the two of them. He didn’t look away, even when another boom sounded from the town. His fingers flexed around the sides of the bowl.

“We’ve both lost, Castiel,” he said steadily. He lifted the bowl up over his head and poured the water onto himself.

Castiel’s grace was in a frenzy inside of him. Static stabbed at his temples. But none of it was as painful as watching the steam rise up from the face Michael wore.

“No!” Dean shouted.

Castiel tore out of his grip and ran forward—as if he could get there in time, as if he could stop it.

Michael’s skin reddened and blistered as the water rained down on his face and neck, seeped down the front of his shirt. Blood mixed in as the blisters burst.

The bowl slipped from his hands and landed with a thud on the ground. Michael’s smoldering body fell after it, landing on its side. It rolled hard, lifelessly, on its back, unrecognizable face turned to the sunlight.

Castiel stumbled to a halt. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. All he could do was stare helplessly at that horrible face.

The static of dying grace had moved down his throat, filled his heart. He couldn’t hear or feel anything beyond it. And he realized it wasn’t the effects of the other angels dying at all.

It was his own grace.

He looked around, finding Dean’s eyes fixed on his own corpse. When Dean’s gaze snapped up to meet Castiel’s, that shock quickly transformed into horror. “Cas.”

Castiel lifted his palms and looked down at them. White light coming from his eyes refracted off his skin, twinkled in the wet blood of the cut there.

He could still fix this. He could make it right. He could save Dean.

Dean could have his vessel. He could go home. He could live!

Castiel didn’t know if such a thing was possible for a human soul, to enter a vessel other than their own. But it was their only choice. They had to try.

His grace pulled him in every direction, like teeth ripping meat off of bone. It chewed him up, swallowed him in pieces.

Desperation filled Castiel. He broke into a dead sprint toward Dean. He stretched his arm out, doing all he could to reach Dean before it was too late. A cry tore from his throat.

“Dean—”

///

MONDAY

The helicopter touched down on the valley right outside of the decimated crater that had once made up the town. State Sheriff Jody Mills watched as the green grass bent around them in a perfect circle until the rumbling of the blades slowed to a complete stop. She took off her headset, unclipped her seatbelt, and jumped outside. She squinted in the bright summer sun baking down on the land. Not even the mountain casted a shadow to block it—which would have been nice.

Oh well. She wasn’t there for a picnic, anyway.

She headed toward the cobblestone streets, or what was left of them. Most of it was chunks of rock with giant fissures running right through it. A fire had rampaged through the towns, too, reducing most of the structures and houses to ash. That wasn’t very helpful, seeing as it left fewer clues as to who had lived in this town. Up until yesterday, no one had even known it was here. How that was possible, Jody had no idea.

They’d only discovered the place thanks to the earthquake so powerful, it had nearly split the mountain range in two. The aftershocks were felt as far as Waterville about seventy-five miles away. But the epicenter had been right here, fixed on this very spot, almost like a hole was trying to open up right under the town. Nobody could explain it. If you asked Jody, she’d say the people here must have seriously pissed off God.

A bunch of choppers and ground teams had been in the area already, searching for the two missing persons that Sam Winchester had reported a little under a week ago. After the earthquake, teams were rerouted to figure out what was going on and if any hikers needed help. That’s when they saw the fires springing up from the valley—and the horror show that had gone along with it.

Now that she was standing there, she realized they weren’t kidding when they called it just that. A horror show. It looked like something out of a movie—or no. Scratch that. Something out of the Old Testament. Jody wasn’t so much of a churchgoer, but she remembered the stories of Sodom and Gomorrah. She remembered the plagues of Egypt. This was just like that, but on a smaller scale.

She took off her sunglasses and eyed the rows of white sheets lined on the side of the road. Bodies were mounds beneath them, some of them still staining the cloths red in certain places. More bodies were being dug out of the smoldering heaps of wreckage. Teams of people in head-to-toe white protective gear were carrying them. A few of the bodies looked like they’d had a chunk or two bitten out of them. Others were covered with festering boils. According to the primary report she’d heard on the way over, the latter had been dead for at least a day longer than the others.

She believed that. The place reeked of rotting death under the sharp scent of smoke.

But, hands down, the weirdest part of it all, was the scorch marks that had been burned into the grass and cobblestones and dirt. Wherever anyone had fallen. Giant wings stretching out from each of the corpses, the span of them at least twice the size of the actual bodies. In areas of mass casualties, the burn marks overlapped.

She came to a stop in the center of one of them and looked down at her boots. The markings spread out in perfect symmetry, cutting through the cracks and rubble on the street.

“Hey!” she called to the first person she saw passing her, one of the local firefighters who had been on the search and rescue. “Any idea what caused these?”

The woman shook her head. “I think they’re still trying to work that out.”

Jody frowned and put her hands on her hips, not knowing what to make of it. “Huh… Okay.” Before the firefighter left, she asked, “Where’s Sheriff Hanscum?”

The firefighter pointed a little way down the hill, where the spire of a church was still proudly erected. The rest of the building had crumbled.

Jody headed in that direction, leaving the teams to clean up. So far, there hadn’t been any signs of survivors. Another team had gone up to the house that overlooked the town to pick through the wreckage. Jody didn’t expect to find anyone alive in the structure, which was now little more than a blackened husk of beams and jagged wood where it was still standing. But the place looked pretty important, so hopefully they could find something pointing to who the residence of this town had been.

As Jody walked down the path to the church, she squinted in the direction of the cemetery. Some of the monolithic gravestones over the tombs had crashed down, many breaking open the tombstones beneath and rendering them into crumbling rock. The tallest one at the end was still standing, somehow, but the lid was off, leaving the tomb wide open.

Jody grimaced, remembering the bite marks on some of the bodies. “Geez, don’t tell me we’re looking at zombies,” she muttered to herself.

She found Donna, the sheriff of the town where Sam Winchester lived and had first reported his brother missing, and a few of her deputies near the chasm that had opened up in the ground, running from the doorstep of the ruins of the church and cutting up the hill to the center of town.

They were standing over three bodies—and apparently, the teams hadn’t gotten this far out of town yet, because none of them were covered. The corpses were laid out exactly where they’d fallen, including that of what appeared to be a teenage girl. Jody noticed the silver blade still clutched in her fist.

All three of them had those same strange burn markings stretching out from them. They were burned into the grass like a tattoo. Around them, the verdant green rustled slightly in the pleasant summer breeze.

The body beneath Donna was almost unrecognizable as a human being. But the victim appeared to have been a male of indeterminate age. His skin was nearly entirely burned off, but not by a fire like some of the others found in town. It looked more like an acid burn. Flesh drooped like sludge, revealing bone in certain spots. The rest was angry red, raised with blisters and burst contusions. Most of the hair was gone. The fine suit—old fashioned, like the rest of the clothes seemed to be—was burned off in patches.

“Hey,” Jody said when she got to Donna.

She expected a cheerful greeting in return, as was Donna’s usual smile. But she was only met with a grimace. She said, “Think we might’a found out missing hikers.”

Jody’s expression dropped, hoping it wasn’t true. She’d been pretty sure that the hikers they’d been searching for had died of exposure or starvation a few days ago. But she still kept the faith. After all, one of them was supposed to be some kind of ranger. Maybe they’d survived.

But, if what Donna was saying was true…

“What makes you say that?” Jody asked.

“This.” Donna fished out a sterile glove from her pocket and slipped into it. She crouched down next to the body and carefully fished something out beneath the collar of the shirt. A pair of dog tags. “Says Winchester on it. We’ll have to do dental scans… But a team found a few of his belongings at the town’s inn. Wallet, driver’s license. Actually, they found a lot of people’s belongings. We’re gonna have to sort through them. But, who knows? Might help us close a few other missing persons cases.”

She put the dog tags back under the shirt, which she didn’t have to do—but that was Donna’s way. She was kind, respectful. She stood up again.

“We’re gonna have to inform the family,” Jody sighed. Then, “What about the other one? Castiel Novak?”

Donna turned her head toward a nearby corpse. The man was stomach-down on the grass, his arm stretched out toward nothing, almost like he was still reaching for something or someone. There was another one of those odd-shaped daggers, this one gold, held loosely in his hands. As far as Jody could tell, there were no fatal wounds on him, despite some smatterings of blood on his clothes. No cause of death—like he just dropped dead out of nowhere. It was the same for a lot of the bodies up the hill.

She and Donna walked over to the corpse. Jody beckoned over a few of the men in protective gear nearby and said, “Turn ‘im over.” She stood back, giving the men room to work.

Carefully, they turned the body onto its back, revealing the face that Jody could ID from the photographs Sam Winchester had provided. They’d need a next of kin to identify him in a morgue, but Jody was pretty sure that would just be a formality.

She sighed through her nose despondently.

“Yeah,” she told Donna, looking down at the man’s dark, blood-matted hair and dirty, rugged face. His blue eyes were still open, but clouded by death’s thin veil. “That’s him.”

///

THE FOREST

Castiel’s eyes burst open.

He couldn’t feel his body, almost as if he didn’t have one at all. The only thing he felt was cold.

But he could see his hand on the forest floor in front of his face. He curled his fingers, bunching up the dried leaves under his palm, hearing them crinkle as they fell apart. He smelled their sharp, decaying scent. But he still couldn’t feel them. Nor was there the press of the soul against his cheek.

He remembered the earth shaking beneath him, so loud it was as if the valley had been roaring. He remembered Hael’s grace burning from her. The look of terror in Dean’s eyes. The horrible stench of burning meat as Michael destroyed his vessel. The pain of a supernova in Castiel’s chest.

And then nothing.

He didn’t understand. How had he survived? And where was Dean?

Slowly, he sat up and peered around him at the gray, hazy hue that permeated the air. It made the entire forest look like a ghost.

He looked down at his palms, flipped them over to look at the back of his hands. They were pale, too. As pale as the mist. As cold.

Bit by bit, realization dawned on him like the sunrise he’d never again see.

He hadn’t survived.

A twig snapped behind him. Castiel gasped, but no air entered his lungs. There was no rapid pulse. There was just the cold.

He whipped around quickly, just in time to see a shadowed figure emerge from the mist.

And perhaps he’d never see the sun again, but there was still light. If Castiel could feel anything, he’d feel a relieved smile come to his face.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, eyes wide. But the green of them was still shrouded like a corpse. His flesh was still pallid. All the relief drained from Castiel. Dean was still dead. They were trapped in the forest forever. 

He’d failed.

Dean didn’t seem concerned with that at the moment. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He rushed closer and crouched beside Castiel.

“Dean,” Castiel said. His own voice had an echo in his head, like it was being shouted from somewhere high up on the mountain. One day, it would drive Castiel mad. So would the lack of sensation. So would the cold. He would become one of the wailing ghosts of the haunted trees.

It was no more than he deserved.

But not Dean.

“Oh, Dean. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t—”

“Hey, c’mon.” Dean put his hands on Castiel’s face, and perhaps God had allowed him one small slice of paradise in eternal hell. Because Castiel felt Dean’s touch. He leaned into it desperately, even if he didn’t deserve it.

A shaky smile came to Dean’s face, like he was glad he could still feel Castiel, too.

“Dean,” Castiel said again, voice low and wet. He brought his hand up and stroked Dean’s corpse-like face, felt the press of it beneath his palm. There was no warmth to it, like he remembered. But perhaps the memory alone would be enough.

Either way, he had Dean.

Dean pulled away long enough to stand up. He held his hand out in offering. Castiel reached for him, clapped their palms together, and let himself be hauled up.

Once on his feet, Castiel took his eyes off Dean and glanced around. They seemed to be alone, even though it wasn’t true. The forest was packed with souls—and dead angels. A town full of them, and Castiel was the reason for their demise.

For the first time, Castiel took Gabriel’s words from days ago to heart. He was a target. All the other angels would be looking for him.

He wasn’t certain what they could do to him. But, if there was anything worse than this, he didn’t want to find out.

“What happens now?” Dean asked, stealing the question straight from Castiel’s head. “Should we find Charlie and the others?”

Even in death, he was trying to come up with a plan. Castiel wasn’t quite certain that Dean yet fully understood that this state they were in was permanent.

But maybe it would be best for Dean to find the others. To stay with them.

“I don’t know,” Castiel told him. “But if the other angels find me… Dean, the safest place for you is far away from me.”

Dean grabbed his shoulder, like he was afraid Castiel was going to run off. “Too bad!” he yelled, ferocity lighting his tone. “They come for you, they’re gonna have to go through me.”

A lifetime of regrets filled Castiel to the brim, but none so poignant as casting Dean into this damnation. “Dean…”

“Trust me,” Dean told him.

Castiel closed his mouth, unable to argue. He was unable to save Dean in life, but he vowed he’d do everything in his power to protect him now. To keep him from slipping into madness. Whatever it took.

Dean’s grip on him loosened somewhat, but he kept hanging on as if it was his only lifeline. And it was Castiel’s, too. “So, come on. Options. What do we do now?”

Before Castiel could answer, a piercing scream tore through the trees. The mist around them reverberated, shifted like a living creature waking from sleep.

More agonized shouts and moans followed. With every one, they seemed to be getting closer. Advancing on the two of them.

Castiel grabbed Dean’s hand, clinging to it, promising never to let go.

“We run!”

Together, hand in hand, they ran through the endless maze of trees and the ceaseless, devouring mist.

END.