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Cassiel was the Archangel to preside over those another would overlook. He meddled with the humans as an Archangel should not, lent to them his grace, and loved them as his own.
Cassiel was undeniably odd - where Angels were cold, his touch was warm. Where they did not pay attention to the woes of humanity simply to listen (Not for their Father's will, or a coming prophecy.)- Cassiel was there to hear, lending them the flaring burst of hope for the fickle lives of humans. But he never intervened - not when they were ordered to burn or raze a city or save God's plan. He was always a watcher, to perch on the walls of heaven high above the grasp of mortality.
So when it changed, Heaven did not know how to react in return.
He finally fell for a man clasped within the chains of hell, screaming wrought from his lips. If one were to ask him his thoughts when he chose his destiny - he would have claimed that he was tired, to see humanity damned by prophecies older than even their cities. Yet for a being of such pure light to engage within the halls of Hell, his status was lost and he became simply another angel in the midst of many.
His wings seared and burnt, left with only two pairs to aid his flight as his fingers clenched to remain with the Righteous man. Within his gaze burnt the wrath of heaven, even as his grace was infiltrated with countless smoke of demonic nature. Now, the Archangel of humanity’s tears was merely another soldier to use.
When he returned to the gates of Heaven, he met the scolding gaze of the eldest Archangel. Michael uttered to him then,
Love the human as you did, Brother. But let it be without my own love to grant, for such you shall be merely another pawn. When the end be nigh, then we shall see what your love grants you.
Forsooth, he was lost to heaven in such a mourning Thursday. Stricken bare of is status and knowledge, merely another pawn in the game of Kings.
“Hello, Dean.” Those were his first uttered words to Dean Winchester, and the first he’s verbally spoken from a vessel.
His time with the Winchesters lasted for what should be a blink to an Angel’s gaze. He went against the wishes of his brothers and sisters, labeled a traitor; fallen by the whispers.
He was content, nonetheless. He stayed to guard the two Winchesters within his hold, shielding them as much as he could. He stayed with them even when the Righteous man slaughtered those he called brothers, when he himself took their grace and ripped it away.
But he remained. He did not weep as his title would befit him - however, merely a soldier from the host of heaven, he still felt the compassion he should not have towards humanity. He felt and he became.
Perhaps they made the doors to doubt and feelings - further plowing the seed and allowing them to grow. But Castiel relished the feeling; the songs of The Angels could not capture what humanity saw.
So he felt his grace drain. He felt himself become mortal for the Winchesters - the boys so focused on their task. Still, he remained and shielded them. Until his hands were held down, and he was but a mortal in the realm of angels.
The end was indeed beginning. The Righteous man agreed to the eldest son of God, his body overwhelmed to engulf the Archangel Michael.
Castiel watched in silent woe, hands tied behind him by his own brethren to witness the two favoured sons of God tear at each other. He bowed his head, the crown of his hair falling to cover his sight.
Yet he gasped. When he felt Michael shed his form as his duty was complete, leaving his vessel bare - he watched the Righteous man dive to hold the younger Winchester as he began to fall through the depths of what would be hell. Dean Winchester craddled the lifeless body of his cherished sibling as they fell to the pits, and Castiel screamed.
He laid at the floors present before the thrones of the Archangel. Michael towered over him, flanking behind him were the other Archangels; their expression a mirror of each other's, perfectly practiced and distant.
And Castiel would then proceed to return to be Cassiel, and he wept. For the song of the Seraph became an Archangel’s woes, as the Angel of solitude and tears watched once more the fall of another king. A king without a crown, but a king nonetheless - to fall in the depths of hell with the body of lifeless brother.
Then Paradise would surely come. The buildings at the hands of the humans torn asunder, as they returned the land of God to it’s former glory. The mountains reaching its peaks, and the green of the Mother’s dress spreading once more as it should.
But Cassiel still mourned for the lives lost, the humans slowly dragged to insanity at the sight of angels in their midst. He wept for the Winchesters - the Righteous man, and even the boy with the Demon blood.
The second and last time Castiel fell was when the Righteous man had crawled himself out of hell. It was the beginning of the new era, and the demons had rose once more from the depths of Hell that Heaven failed to obliterate.
The Archangel stood at what should be righteous and just. The black eyes, the true face of a demon, greeted him in it’s stead. Perhaps it was the lack of emotion in his gaze, void of the Dean Winchester he once knew, that made him snap.
His wings ached at his back - and for the first time he truly questioned his father; Why?
The Righteous man deserved the glories of Heaven, the trumpets to blow upon his entrance and the light the Angels were given.
The Righteous man did not deserve his fate.
So when he charged - when he wielded within his grasp the weapon he had scarcely used; Cassiel did not weep for Dean Winchester. His times of weeping had been put to an end, and finally he would interfere as he once should have. Properly.
Cassiel - no, Castiel - reached to merely block every blow Dean Winchester gave with his weapon - a spear of pure grace, searing through the Demon’s skin at every touch. The demon clawed, spat insults and mockery in the voice too familliar. Castiel curled his lips, lowering his head as his eyes burnt with the vibrant hue of blue.
Finally, he held Dean with his hands firmly around his shoulders - as he did when Castiel took Dean Winchester from the clutches of Hell.
It tugged at his heart - it made him ache and burn. No Angel would have admitted to succumbing to feelings; to their heart, or the cries of woes when the prayers filled their thoughts. But with Dean Winchester in his grasp, Castiel recalled every pained prayers he’s ever heard and deemed easy to ignore. Humanity was so fragile.
Thus with the last touch the Archangle would offer, he placed a hand upon Dean’s forehead - turning the demon’s body as he would replace the hand with his own forehead. Dean clawed; scratched at him within their close proximity but Castiel felt little in comparison to the guilt.
He did not want to see those black eyes anymore.
Parting his lips, his grace left his body willingly. The aura manifesting in his sight - clear, pale blue unnaturally bright in the airs of Earth. There was a scream, an anguished screech as the grace would flow to Dean, covering his body in the light blue hues.
Castiel smiled.
Giving up his grace willingly took his life. Angels had no soul - and Castiel did not fall; he simply chose to heal and stop the anguish he knew came from Dean Winchester. It was selfish of him, it was true. The pure Grace of an Angel would have ripped apart anything it touched- cleansing, purifying, but demolishing nonetheless. Dean Winchester would have died a human, nonetheless.
He fell; his grip loose upon the staggering Winchester, whose soul formed the momentary body in its ever-defiance. The blackened gaze was gone, he saw - the peering hints of green returned. Good.
“Cas. Cas, oh god. Cas.” The righteous man was a ghost in his sight - and as Ghosts were prone to have, memories flooded the very aura surrounding him. Dean looked as Castiel remembered him to be; the ridiculous human hairstyle, freckled cheeks, and green eyes to match the gardens of Heaven.
“Dean Winchester.” The words were sweet to his mouth, and the angel cracked a smile. He could barely offer a staggered breath. “You’re going to heaven, Dean.”
“Not without you, I’m not.” The hum- ghost. The ghost uttered, the low voice defiant with his willfull tone. “You’re coming with me, damnit Cas.”
“Angels don’t go to heaven, Dean.” The concept was amusing, at the very least. But it was true. “We simply… go.” Jimmy Novak’s vessel was slipping his grasp.
“Yea? Well, we’ll change that.” Dean grits his teeth, ignoring the influx of reapers suddenly appearing at the sight of a human soul - the last human soul to depart to Heaven, and the first to be one of a demon. “See - we’ll go up there, and it’ll be some stinky old Motel with Sammy. You hear me, Cas? No stuck-up rooms for angels, just us three like the good Apocalypse days.”
“Goodbye, Dean.”
Castiel offered a sad smile, before whatever trickling grace had remained with him vanished. His lips parted, eyes wide as the blue hues poured to explode from the vessel - a scream tearing from his lips, unable to be stopped. The wings were etched into the grass he layed upon - simply two, black as its shadow when he first showed them to Dean Winchester.
Thus the Angel born within the grace of God died in the lands of mortals, and the soul of a human departed to be within the home of Angels.
Castiel should have been there. The trumpets did sound, and heaven shook - in greeting of the Righteous man, before turning to mourning for the Archangel who fell for a crownless king. The song of the Seraphim filled the halls of heaven, and the old motel room in a small corner of Heaven.