Archive of Our Own ^beta

It happens as it was meant to happen: Castiel falls, his body torn and broken.

Love is sacrifice, giving of one's own self, for the good of others. Give one's own self instead of another. The Son gave this for all men; Castiel can only give himself for the sake of two souls. These are not acts that can be compared or measured, but Castiel is asking for his Judge to be lenient, to show mercy if not forgiveness.

He showed mercy to his children, shows mercy to them over and over again, no matter how fallible they have been. This is all Castiel wants for himself, too; what Lucifer wanted: to be loved.

His prayers go unheard, unanswered, and his body grows cold, human.

Dean finds him on the road to Damascus Township, Pennsylvania. He has been walking alongside the road for days. There are 12 dollars left in his pocket. He is exhausted, his mind empty of all things until Dean stops his black car in front of him and runs up to him. Dean lays his hands briefly on his face, looking him over, checking for bruises and cuts, wounds visible and not.

Castiel can feel his whole body shiver but does not yet know what it means.

"Cas, the hell?" There is heat in Dean’s voice, a surge of light and warmth and anger. Shining. "What are you ... what are you doing here? What’s with the hitchhiker act? I’ve been looking all over for you!"

And then he knows the answer to a question Dean did not ask. "I'm so cold," he grinds out. Dean wraps his own leather jacket around him, a worried look on his face. "It's 72 degrees outside. How can you be cold?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I do not know."

"Since when don't you know everything?"

"I know this singular point in time. I know all that has happened so far." A pause as Castiel tries to remember something else, but cannot quite reach it. He sighs, leaning forward to the warmth radiating from Dean’s body. "I know the absence of my Father's love."

"Don't we all," Dean mutters, tight-lipped, guiding Castiel gently towards the Impala.

Castiel dreams in vivid color, in images and words and languages and faces he does not know anymore.

He wakes up from a nightmare, drenched in sweat, fighting down bile. His hands are shaking.

None of this make sense to him.

Not the dream since even the actual act of dreaming used to be an impossibility. Not the way his body reacts. He used to have control of everything. This body - all bodies and entities he has ever inhabited - and his own celestial being, he has always had perfect control of them.

Since the dawn of time.

Now he has a grip on Dean's shirt, and that is the only real thing he remembers. He knows this man's heartbeat, knows the warmth of his skin. He knows Dean’s flesh like he knows his own soul. Dean is familiar, safe and known, and Castiel can still feel his own power of resurrection in him.

That touch of power.

And he realizes then that his hand is in the very same spot as it was when he raised Dean from perdition, where an unseeable tattoo of a Heavenly touch still lies.

Dean looks at him, eyes calm, hands hovering over him in an almost benediction. not quite touching. Ready to talk down a madman.

"I am fine," Castiel says.

"Ok then," Dean says, clapping him on the shoulder, eyes lingering. "Time to go get some breakfast."

While Dean is wolfing down his scrambled eggs, Castiel thinks about the taste of heaven on his tongue, that specific taste: otherworldly, with a hint of Hawaii and cinnamon; about butterflies; about the expression on Dean's face as life was returned to him. He went back and watched Dean for decades, watched a baby grow up to be a boy grow up to be a man, through an entire lifetime up to that point, just so he could see that expression again. He saw it three times. He was in love - and heartbroken - all too humanly, with a human boy, before he even saw it for the first time.

He watched all of the Winchesters. Sweet John and brave Mary, and their parents. He tempted himself with the thought of going back generations upon generations, to try and find that first spark of Dean's smile, of Sam's nose, of their temperaments. How much of anything is genetics - the chaotic order of cells dividing, the Father's work at its most simple/complex - and how much is chance, surroundings and parental guidance.

Nature versus nurture.

If the Father decides and has seen all things, deems what is to come, there is no difference between nature and nurture. It is all hardwired into your being, all that is to come. It is hardwired into the whole world.

He does not dream about flying. Sometimes, though, he dreams about falling.

He realizes something not long after, in another diner, in another state, on a mission to find Sam, who Castiel is quite sure does not want to be found. Dean still chases every lead, just like he chased after his father. And like he chased after Castiel before he was found, shivering and human, on a muddy bit of road nowhere near salvation.

Dean will go to the ends of the earth for the people he loves.

"What’s with the-- is that a smile? Cas?" Dean smiles back at him. "You all right?"

"Yes," he replies, lifting a cup of coffee (with cream and three sugars) to his lips.

Another thing he realized, in yet another state, on another mission: what if he is not in love with Dean but with the act of creation, of that momentary spark when he was Dean's God and Maker, and ripped his soul from hell, breathed life into an empty husk that he had molded back into its original form from clay.

Dean is Castiel's very own Adam, and his love has blossomed from that very first moment. He saw that love was beautiful and true, that Dean was beautiful and true.

And Castiel must weigh his Father's failings to angels against His love of His humans, and finally he can maybe say: "Father, I understand. I forgive you."

But the other side of this particular coin is as always: everything happens because the Father wills it. The Father let another create life where there was none, let this love be born. The Father took away his wings and set him free of an angelic burden.

At least now, in this pitiful form, he can maybe act on this foolish feeling. A human life - though short enough to be but a blink of an eye for an angel - is so full and strange and human.

This is the measure of His love, that He can show mercy.

~fin