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Jimmy Novak has feelings. They bubble under, murky and distorted like sand at the bottom of a lake, but they're there nonetheless. Jimmy Novak loves his wife, and he loves his daughter. He doesn't quite understand them, but he loves them nonetheless. Jimmy Novak also loves Jesus, and he loves God, and those he thinks he understands, but he doesn't, not in the least.
Faith is simple, until it's proven true.
Jimmy Novak, Castiel is certain, wouldn't have chosen this again, if not to spare his daughter the same fate.
The problem with humanity is -
Well, if Castiel were the type to make lists.
Anna once told him, humanity felt like a brand, but crept onto you like a disease. Silently, and malevolently. Like a cancer, Azrael would say. Or Gabriel. Or any one of a million angels you could ask. The number you could fit on the head of a pin. Anna, as usual, didn't know what she was talking about. Castiel used to think that what separated them from humanity was that they did what they were told, that they were one.
But then Lucifer fell, and everything changed.
*
Which is why Castiel just watches as Dean Winchester bleeds. Bleeds, and dies, all over the shag carpeting that's a pale, vomitous shade of green in this strange, impossibly kitschy motel room they're holed up in. This after Castiel tells him, "It was a choice, you understand. He made a choice."
"Bullshit," is the first thing he says as a response. "You're a liar. Why should I believe you. You're a liar. My brother didn't choose to become - you're a liar, and I will beat you down, I know you don't bleed, but believe me I will find a way - I will beat you down if you keep saying shit like this. Sam wouldn't. He would not."
But deep down, Dean believes him, because deep down, Dean still believes in angels, and heaven, and hope, because deep down, every little boy still believes it when their mothers tuck them in and tell them that God will protect them from the monsters under the bed. Even if their mothers told them no such thing. Even if their mothers knew the monsters lurked right outside and the only thing that could protect them was salt and a sawed-off shotgun. A few ancient spells that might or might not work.
"Why," Dean Winchester says, broken, and bleeding.
Castiel doesn't have an answer for that. He's lost brothers and sisters though, and perhaps he thinks he might relate, except he's entirely sure he doesn't grieve the way Dean does. In heaven, you just sucked it up and you moved on. Don't look back; you're not supposed to. And if the rules were arbitrary and random, well then.
"It's fate, Dean. He was always going to end up here. And so were you."
*
Lucifer says, wearing the face of the boy who used to be Sam Winchester, "Hello, Castiel. It's been a while." He looks at his hands, curious. "Gotta say, I could have chosen a worse vessel."
*
The angels liked to talk about the war with the type of awe and reverence most of them hadn't felt in millenia, not even when they talked about God. They spoke of an epic battle, of cleansing the earth and proving themselves worthy, for once and for all. They spoke as if they weren't aware that they could possibly lose. Castiel's not stupid; but then he was always less of an optimist than most.
*
On the plane, Dean's muttering under his breath, "What the fuck - what the fuck. That wasn't supposed to happen."
Castiel replies, because he thinks he's supposed to for some reason, "Don't worry. We will kill him, Dean."
"What, no. No -" He shakes his head vehemently. "He's my brother. You're not killing him. Listen to me, you angel bastard. He's my brother."
"Not anymore," Castiel says. "And the term bastard is incorrect. Angels aren't born. We're made."
"You're not killing my brother," Dean repeats, with determination. "And I still don't believe you. There's no way he said yes."
Castiel's not entirely sure what Dean's stubborn resolve means, exactly. Except possibly nothing good. "Dean," Castiel says. "Believe what you want."
*
The way it's written is: brother against brother. Good against evil. An epic battle to end all battles, and the triumphant winner reaps all rewards. Instead it's him on his knees, Dean's breath hot against the back of his neck. Echos of times past, of Balthazar going, "If you're going to inhabit a vessel, you might as well have some fun with it." And to Castiel's initial protests, going, "Oh please. They've already said yes."
Michael's vessel should, probably, remain pure. But Castiel's not here to make sure the war happens; he's here to make sure it doesn't. How that changed - how he's come here, he's not quite certain, but here he is nonetheless. Anna would be proud. Except that Anna's gone, changed no doubt by now. The way heaven always changes you, after you go back. Humanity as a virus, spend enough time here and when they finally drag you back you need to be disinfected and purged, stipped of all of it until you're pure again.
"See, I told you," she'd say, except she'd never be so petty as to gloat. He might have loved her once. Might love her still.
Dean's hand is on his coat, and it tugs him back, sharp. Castiel blinks slowly, and Dean's breath lies hot on his cheek. "I promised to protect him," Dean says.
"What was written -"
"To hell with what was written. I just want my brother back."
And Castiel replies, "Of course Dean. I will help you." And it's almost the truth.