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Castiel's orders are plain: John and Mary Winchester must conceive, this night. This morning, Castiel watched, invisible, as the two of them fought, vicious and terrified of each other as only humans, only lovers, can be.
Mary spent the day scraping paint and hammering nails and performing other tasks to renovate their new home, full of empty rooms and dreams she now fears are just as empty. Mary wants a child; John resists.
Instead of returning home after his work at the garage is finished, John goes to a bar. Castiel's current host is a young woman, pious and radiant; even were she welcome in the establishment, John would not listen to her words of advice.
John drinks until Castiel is convinced that both desire and capacity will fail him.
To enter into a human body without consent is perilously close to Falling. And yet Castiel is commanded; his superior, who latterly has been oddly hesitant in most things, in this has been firm: she has warned him that his mission is vital to the preservation of all humanity. Castiel does not need to know how, or why. Obedience is the beginning and the end of his duty.
He sweeps into John Winchester on the breath of chill air when the man leaves the bar, swaying a little. The body's steps straighten as Castiel purges his blood of the alcohol.
Mary is not pleased to see her husband. Castiel reaches into John's mind and finds soft words, apologies, promises. There is this much: they are true, even if John would not be saying them without Castiel's intervention.
Mary bends in return, her anger burning off like morning dew. Castiel does not understand human desire; she is beautiful as all God's creatures are beautiful. Still, there is a dim flicker of something in John's chest, without Castiel's will. Castiel thinks that it must be John's passion, rising in him.
When Mary suggests a drive, Castiel agrees.
Sex is awkward, undignified, more so in the cramped back of John's vehicle. Castiel was never tempted in Lucifer's rebellion, and yet he has to admit that humans seem lesser than angels in so many respects, not least this tangled coupling. Fortunately, John and Mary's bodies speak to each other without Castiel's direction, as if John's body has contained Castiel, caged him the way John's soul is presently caged. The pleasure it feels at the climax of the act is--different. Disturbing. Castiel will do best not to use a host again until he has meditated, purged himself of this--feeling.
Mary sleeps beneath him, smiling and radiant. She is nothing like his fellow angels. She is fragile, and she is chosen.
She is not for him.
John's mind rouses sluggishly; Castiel lets him convince himself that alcohol gave him the maudlin courage to woo his wife, and the incautiousness to forget any prophylactics.
John Winchester resisted because he believes that he is not ready to be a father. Castiel knows that his worries are a speck of dust in the storm that is to come.
John is already sliding into sleep as well when Castiel realizes that his work is done and that he should depart. Castiel hesitates--John will not remember or understand--but in the end, he whispers in John's mind: "Be not afraid," he says, and John twists, his hand moving to rest on Mary's stomach. "Thou hast found favor with God."
It is nearly thirty human years before Castiel begins to wonder whether he lied.