Chapter Text
Angels are not supposed to be anything but angels. Commands are given, commands are followed. Angels will do as they are told — nothing else, nothing more. That's what is expected, that's what is written, so that's what it will be. Castiel, however, does something angels weren't meant to do. Something as unwritten as it is forbidden. In all that is their celestial existence, Castiel is as they are supposed to be: a soldier, a captain of a garrison, a servant to heaven, a tactical flyer, and any and all that is asked of them. But above all, above the obedience, the devotion, the training, the loyalty, the deference — Castiel is, as no angel is supposed to be, curious.
At the start, the middle, and the end — because time has not yet been brought into being. Castiel comes into actuality as they all do, with a pop. No fanfare, no pain, no joy. Their existence is not worthy of the holy trumpets.
"Your name is Castiel, shield of God, angel class. You'll be a warrior. You'll show us your flight."
Those were the first words they heard. They knew everything else, so there was nothing more to say. They extended their wings and stood at attention. Their body was new but timeless, requiring no adjustment period. Four wings sprouted from their form; it seemed absurd and shapeless while at the same time being precise and mathematical. The being, whom their knowledge supplied as Michael — Archangel class, commander rank — moved on from them to the next nine to their left. All of them were in angel class as well. With an order, they all took flight.
Castiel's flight was delicate, sharp, and strong. Every move a musical note, not a single one out of place. A one-being orchestra creating a symphony of its own. With no demand necessary, they all landed at the start, with Castiel being the first.
"Garrison foot soldiers, await further instruction from your commanders at the garden fountain. Dismissed." All nine angels except for Castiel were sent away with a flick.
"Prepare to fly again at my signal. Move to the side for now."
With a bow, they moved to the side. Wings folded and down. Eyes focused, they allowed their rings to spin but not sway, so they stayed crossed, forming an X at the two conversions. Another round of ten stood at attention and flew at Michael's command. All ten garrison soldiers were sent away like the last nine. From the next group, one was asked to stay and moved next to Castiel. After sixty groups, counting theirs, sixteen angels remained.
"Angels, all of you will be the captains of a garrison. Our last test is tactical, as well as physical. It will last until everyone has been bested by another. The one on top will command the garrison right below the one of us archangels. Understood?"
They all gave an affirmative. Castiel had many questions, but they waited patiently for them to be answered. They felt that angels were never supposed to ask. All other angels, except for Castiel, stood at the ready.
"I haven't given you any instructions. Stand down." Michael didn't seem to need to raise their voice to be commanding. All angels, except for Castiel, who was already at attention, looked compelled to obey.
As it was explained, they would all need to outlast one another. Heaven was their battlefield; they could not die, as death — according to Michael — was not to step foot in Heaven yet. All of them were given the same weapon, a silver blade. Once one had beaten and collected all the others' weapons by any means they deemed appropriate, they would stand victorious as the head captain over the other garrison captains, being the direct link between the archangels and the rest. While Castiel held no desires as of yet, they would do their best, as they were supposed to do.
The battle lasted as long as it did; it did not matter. Castiel floated over the last of their brethren and extended one of their wings to cover their vision; their grace enveloped the other's blade, not allowing it to pierce them.
"You've fought well." They both acknowledged each other with a gentle dip.
"As have you, Castiel." The angel disappeared from view, presumably sent where the rest had gone.
Michael appeared next to Castiel as if they had never left, and perhaps they hadn't. The archangel extended one of their appendages, requesting the blades to be placed on it.
"Yours as well." When all of them were in their possession, a bright fire surrounded them until they had all melted and formed a new blade. It shone far more than all the individual ones had. "You, and only you, shall carry this blade. It has been forged with the graces of all the angels you have defeated. It's your job to ensure they do not go to waste."
Without having to ask, Castiel knew, doubtlessly, that their brethren had not been sent somewhere else. As if a veil had lifted, they could now feel the loss of their presence and not only of the ones that had just been sent away, but of the others from the lineup as well. The angels to be foot soldiers had already been decided. This was but a test. They were only looking for the one to lead. All others were superfluous; if an angel is not useful, they are nothing. Their form did not betray the feelings running through them. However, Castiel felt for them, as they were not supposed to. They wished they could say that's when it started — the doubt, the questions, the shame — but it didn't.
It actually started with prokaryotes. Castiel’s garrison trained under their tutelage for centuries before prokaryotes had appeared on Earth. As soon as they did, Time decided to reside on Earth, which Castiel mourned the loss of at first before realizing the advantage of it. Now, without the constraint, they looked down upon the little creatures from inside their own pocket of space. Castiel had forged it with care and drive. They didn’t know if it was permitted to have one, but as it had not been forbidden and they had not asked, Castiel saw no reason not to. The longer time ran on Earth, the little ones became more resilient to its harsh conditions.
Death had always been everywhere, even in Heaven, despite the fact that they hadn’t known at first. Once it was time for their reaping, the prokaryotes did not ascend to Heaven. That’s when Castiel wondered out loud for the first time, “If not for them, who is Heaven for?” It would be billions of years before this question was answered, and when it was, Castiel was not satisfied.
They gazed upon all kinds of creatures for millennia, each time asking the same thing. They wondered when sponges and comb jellies came into being, when euthycarcinoids started exploring the land, when the Morganucodon walked on the soil, when bees emerged from wasps, when primates made tools and cared for each other—the last time he wondered was when humans were deemed a worthy creation by God. Naturally, it was not God who delivered the news. It was announced, as all things were, by the voice of Metatron.
Two angels had questions that day, but only one voiced them. “Why them?” Lucifer, one of God’s archangels who had the privilege of gazing upon their father, questioned. It was asked in anger and jealousy, and it was followed by destruction. Death came to Heaven that day and did not leave solo.
Lucifer, however, did leave alone. Nothing but the echo of falling blades followed the retreat. Not even the only other angel with a question followed, for their doubt was not about humans being worthy. On the contrary.
“Why only them?” Castiel’s question was unsaid, held back by confusion and shame. They stayed in Heaven that day, putting back the pieces of what remained. Another question plagued them, though. It wasn’t about who Heaven was made for anymore. In their own little space, untouched by massacre, Castiel asked, “What is Heaven for?”