Archive of Our Own

CHARLIE

Watching Sam is unnerving.

Because it isn't Sam, not really. He’s failed, Castiel knows - failed in raising Sam out of perdition, failed in bringing Dean the one thing that truly mattered to him.

He’s failed Dean.

The knowledge sits bitter on his tongue as he watches the soulless form of what once his friend stand outside the home of the Braedens, staring into where his brother is setting the table.

Once, Castiel knows, Sam would’ve smiled at that sight - he would’ve joined them, would’ve jumped at the chance to do something as ordinary as simply set the tables with hands that have seen nothing but bloodshed and massacre since they broke the world.

Now, he simply stands there, those hands shoved into his pocket, a half-scowl on his face, which carries a calculating, manipulative expression that looks wrong on him.

And Castiel has to remind himself again - this is not his friend, this is not the Sam Winchester that he once gave up everything for. Certainly, Dean was his prime motivation, but Sam… Sam was his brother .

He’s failed another brother.

The sting of that thrums through his Grace and he swallows hard against the strange lump in his throat; he’s regained his powers and is… mojo’d up again, in Dean’s words… but the very human habits picked up when he was still falling - they remain.

It’s why he’s nervously picking at his thumb now, even as his own hands are tucked into the pockets of the trench coat that was once Jimmy Novak’s but is now entirely Cas’s own. It’s why when Sam turns around and walks away from Dean - from Dean - he opens his mouth and then shuts it instantly, no words, no answers coming, just self-pitying rage and anxiety and a sense of failure that is crushing.

It’s why he doesn’t go to the one last friend he has in this world, why he takes off from where Dean is sitting but a few feet away, why he simply flies across the entire world, now lost and purposeless without the Winchesters to show him the way.

He could return to Heaven, he supposes. Go back to the home he abandoned, go back to see the brothers and sisters who are probably floundering as he himself is, without purpose, without reason - without orders .

But he does not want to.

He told Dean that he would go back, that he would make sure that Heaven wouldn’t run itself into chaos, to be the ‘new sheriff’, but he doesn’t want to go back, to take responsibility. He would have to show the angels what free will is, what it means to make choices - he’s not suited to that task.

Because in all this time, even with Dean and Sam, in all this time of rebelling and defying Heaven, he hadn’t realized - choices came with consequences.

And consequences were not something he was prepared to face.

He made the choice to go back to Hell, to save Sam.

He failed .

How could he hope, then, to teach his brothers and sisters about the same choices that could lead to failure? Even when he fell from Heaven - a slow, tiring fall that denigrated his very Grace - he had Dean to show him the way and Sam to help him pick up the pieces.

The first true choice he makes without the Winchesters to show him the way - that he fails.

Heaven thinks he’s dead. Dean thinks he’s home, never to return again. And Sam is still in the Cage, with Michael and Lucifer and he knows - knows - that he has not the power to go back in a third time or fight off the strongest of his brothers to save his friend’s soul.

Castiel is, simply put, utterly without purpose.

It’s liberating - it’s terrifying - because in all these millennia, he’s never not had a purpose.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

And so, he flies - he flies to all those places that he once ran to in search of a Father who still hasn’t shown His face, returns to every site he looked for God. But they still remain as empty as they were then, only this time, his own neck feels naked without Dean’s amulet to remind him of what he’s left behind.

There’s nothing, anywhere.

*-*-*

He’s flying over Lawrence, Kansas when it hits him - ironic, that it should happen here , of all places.

Castiel shudders to a stop, floating invisibly in the sky right outside the town, curling into a fetal position within the clouds as he opens his senses to the world.

The call of the Grace is punitive and small, as though the angel that is crying for help is wounded and in pain - it shudders through his own Grace, a call he can’t ignore, no matter how much he wants to pretend Heaven is closed to him forever.

And yet… there’s something strange, something different about the Grace. He can’t pinpoint, exactly, what it is that sets this one apart from the rest of the Host, just that something is . So he changes course and heads straight to where it is coming from, a sense of danger, a sense of purpose and a sense of… of something more thrumming through him.

He follows the call, all the way to the outskirts of the town. It’s coming from within an old, dilapidated home, the building standing on shaky foundation. The walls are cracked and look old, but in front of the house is a garden, well tended and beautiful - Castiel can see the soft bloom of the perennial flowers opening up to catch the morning sunlight and his lips curve up in a smile instinctively.

The call of the Grace is getting stronger, more powerful and more painful at the same time. He flaps his wings experimentally, hovering close to the house before he moves over it.

He stills.

That Grace. That soul .

It’s - it can’t be -

He knows them both.

They shouldn’t be entangled, not now, not ever - but they did entangle, didn't they? He’d felt it then, felt the way another had claimed what he had hoped would one day be his, even if he himself had not been aware of such longing conscientiously.

“Fuck,” the swear word escapes his mouth before he can help it.

The Grace’s call grows louder.

Crunch… CRACK.

In one fell swoop, the windows in the front of the house shatter and a gust of wind pushes him back - Castiel throws his arms up instinctively against the rush of power he feels, even as the Grace expands, calls, cries .

No, it isn’t just Grace… it’s a soul and a Grace, entwined together, so closely that Castiel cannot see where one begins and where the other ends.

It’s a girl.

He dive-bombs the house, heading straight for the living room, passing through the roof like it is immaterial. He can hear her calls, a soft whinny that sends a  fissure of anxiety coiling through his entire being. Through the crash and the noise of the errant Grace, he dimly hears the cry of a human woman, though it barely registers.

He comes to a stop in front of the woman lying on the couch in front of the TV, her legs splayed open as she screams her pain to the skies. The Grace is coiled around her pregnant belly, he can see, making its way further and further down as the woman sweats her way through childbirth, alone and in agony.

This shouldn’t be possible.

It can't be - it… it shouldn't be.

Because the child that woman is carrying is not hers - it could never be hers. It is not physically possible.

He doesn’t know who she is, but she shouldn't be carrying such an abomination.

The Grace/soul - the girl - she… she’s beautiful, despite how… how-how… how utterly impossible this is.

Castiel flutters to a stop in front of the woman, still invisible, as he stares into the girl who’s making her way into the world.

He sees those familiar pieces - of another Grace, of an angel whose end was tragic, was painful and yet a choice he would make again and again.

And he sees the bits and fragments of the soul he loves so very dearly, the soul that he put together, that he melded his own Grace with to give it full form again, to save it from the demonic taint that was already beginning to darken it.

Anna’s Grace.

Dean’s soul.

This- this child… she’s the product of their coupling.

Somehow, in some way - Anna not only saved the human soul that she apparently conceived in that one night she spent with Dean, she managed to place the child in another woman’s body.

But this… this shouldn't be possible . The child should have been destroyed when Anna regained her angelic powers, when her human form was destroyed - without a human body to nurture her, the girl’s soul, which should’ve been human since she was conceived when Anna was human, must have been extinguished.

And yet, here she is, about to enter the world, carrying Anna’s Grace within her.

Castiel swallows - the soul-Grace… she’s beautiful - as beautiful as her father.

Sudden want throbs beneath his breast and he’s aware of the way his vessel’s heart races, thudding against its ribcage as though he’s run a marathon. And in truth, his angelic powers should stop that feeling, should at least blanket it, but it doesn’t - the sensation isn't muted and it sends his mind into a frightening tailspin.

“I-I know,” the woman gasps, “I know you-you’re there… I can- aaaaahhh!!”

Another screams tears itself through her throat as a contraction rips its way down her body. Castiel fades into existence, bending down next to her and awkwardly holding his hands out, placing one over her forehead, which is wet from sweat.

Tears are rolling down the woman’s face and she gasps, huffing and puffing as she tries to breathe through it. Castiel knows, in theory, how the process works - he knows the human anatomy intimately, knows the body inside out, and yet, he’s anxious, because he’s never once actually seen a woman in labor before.

The contraction seems to go on forever as the woman pants and grunts and screams her way through it. She flails as the pain turns into a burning agony and he grabs her hand to hold her in place and stop her from thrashing - she squeezes it tightly as she sobs.

“O-oh, god,” she cries, “I-Aaaaahhh!”

When it finally ends, she breathes in deeply, face scrunching itself up into an expression of tired inquisitiveness. It occurs to him then, that if she could sense his presence, then she’s either psychic or she’s one of those special few who can perceive his true form.

“You-you’re not Anna,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from the screaming and the yelling. Castiel shakes his head, pursing his lips.

“I’m Castiel,” he offers and she sighs, her eyes rolling back into her head as she rests back against the throw pillows that have been arranged around the couch.

“Wh-where’s Anna?” she mutters and Castiel swallows, unable to answer.

“She’s gone,” he states flatly. Soft green eyes open to stare at him in confusion as she tilts her head in question.

“Gone,” she repeats.

Castiel nods, “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

The woman doesn’t respond, instead yanking her hand back and running it through her sweat-matted hair. It’s a golden brown, he takes note, just as Dean’s is, and the desire to see his friend that he’s been forcing down so harshly springs up, hard and aching within his breast.

“Oh god,” she whimpers, “How… how am I supposed… I can’t… shit… ”

Before Castiel can answer her, another contraction rips its way through her and she screams, a high-pitched whine that sets his teeth on edge. He grabs her hand and she grasps it instinctively, squeezing hard as tears roll down her cheeks.

When it’s over, she looks up at him through weary, red-rimmed eyes, green enough that they remind him of Dean. He  pushes past the memories of the way the gold sunlight glinted off them to reflect Dean’s scowl clearly, and focuses instead on the woman.

“What’s your name?” he asks quietly.

“Daphne,” she answers just as softly. “I’m Daphne Allen.”

“Why are you…” he hesitates, not quite knowing how to ask the questions burning through his mind.

Why are you here, alone in childbirth? Why haven’t you gone to the doctors or the hospital? Why did Anna choose you to carry her child?

Why are you carrying Dean’s child - what is Dean’s child?

Another smile flickers through her face as she squeezes his hand gently.

“Why am I alone, here, carrying a half-angel child?” she completes. Castiel nods, grateful that she can read between the lines, though he’s certain she has no idea who the child actually belongs to - at least not the human parent.

“I…” she sighs. “It’s a long story.”

“Anna transferred her child to you?” he phrases it as a question, but they both know it isn’t. Daphne nods anyway, a faraway expression in her eyes.

“Yes,” she affirms, “She did. I… my-uh… my husband…” she sighs again and the tears in her eyes aren’t just from the physical pain this time. “He was in the Army…. He passed, about a year ago, when I was pregnant with our baby.”

“I’m sorry,” he offers, an empty platitude, but he’s been schooled enough in human custom to know that it’s what is offered traditionally in situations like these.

She shakes her head, offering him a small smile.

“No,” she mutters. “It’s alright… I think… I could’ve survived it, I think - I was not great, but I was doing okay, because I had… I had my baby and I had to go on for him or her.”

She falls quiet and Castiel knows  then, without her saying, what happened.

“You lost the child,” he murmurs and she whimpers, a soft little sob that sounds almost like a child.

“Miscarried at 15 weeks,” she said, each word sounding like a thorn in her throat. “Nearly bled out - if it hadn’t been for Missouri, I would’ve died.”

“Missouri?” Castiel frowns.

“Missouri Moseley,” Daphne confirms, “Psychic who lives just across the street. She’s the only one who knows… knows about this.”

She waves her hand in an all-encompassing gesture and comprehension floods the angel - Missouri Moseley, he does know that name.

Just a couple of years previous, as he dragged Dean’s soul out of hell, he put together the hunter from scratch. He remembers thumbing through Dean’s memories of his mother, finding her last moments as a spirit in their old home and he remembers the psychic from that case. More than anything else though, he remembers the warm, maternal glow that Dean would only ever experience a few more times, in the form of Ellen Harvelle, before even that was snatched from him so cruelly.

“How did Anna do this?” he asks roughly.

Daphne opens her mouth to answer, but another contraction hits her. She doesn’t scream this time, whimpering softly and squeezing Castiel’s hand even harder, breathing harshly.

The Grace-soul she’s carrying slides further down, Castiel can see. The child is awake, her small self so beautiful, so like Dean , it sends equal amounts of want and anxiety spiralling through him.

She’s Nephilim , but she’s like no Nephilim he’s ever seen. And no Nephilim can be allowed to survive.

The thought makes him want to retch, an extremely human sensation that his own Grace should blanket, but doesn’t.

Castiel doesn’t know what’s happening.

“Ugh, sc-screw childbirth,” Daphne grunts and Castiel blinks, yanked out of his reverie as he stares down at the small woman. A small chuckle escapes him in spite of himself - Daphne seems soft spoken and mild-mannered, but he senses a strength within her that he’s rarely seen before.

Her soul, now turning dark from the ribbons of pain cutting across it, shines brightly, but it’s dimming, slow and sure. Castiel frowns, worried, but turns his attention outward.

“Can’t you take the pain away?”she asks, sounding almost sulky and he shakes his head, offering her a squeeze.

“Wounds and injuries, I can heal,” he says, “But childbirth is natural. That is pain I cannot cure.”

“Figures,” she snorts.

“Daphne,” he prompts impatiently, “How did Anna…?”

She sighs, probably for the hundredth time today, and the look on her face turns contemplative.

“Anna…” she whispers, “Anna came to me, just a few days after I lost the baby. I was broken, shattered and I just… I couldn’t, not anymore, not without Emmanuel.”

“Your husband,” he states and she nods.

“Yeah,” she says wearily. “I lost everything… and I couldn't go on.”

Daphne’s soul is growing dimmer and dimmer; it makes Castiel fidget, because he knows what that means, knows what’s happening, but he doesn’t know what he can do about it.

Because every time her soul dims, the girl’s soul-Grace turns brighter and brighter.

“Anna saved me,” her murmur is soft, filled with the awe that Castiel often finds when human beings meet with divinity. For them, at least, he knows, the idea of angels means faith, goodness - righteousness .

But it’s Dean who was truly righteous in the end - Dean and Sam , who broke the world because the angels pushed them to, and then broke themselves trying to fix it.

“She healed me,” Daphne continues, unaware of the turmoil and the tension simmering beneath this too-human skin of his. “And then she made me an offer.”

Castiel senses it happening even before it does; the contraction tears through her body, rendering mher immobile and leaving her mewling like a wounded animal on the couch. He holds her hand, allowing her to squeeze as tightly as she needs to, watching with a morbid fascination as the Grace-soul within her grows brighter and brighter.

The girl is sucking her life force.

And Castiel doesn’t know what to do about it.

When the contraction finally ends, Daphne pants, inhaling slowly and breathing out in a gush as she attempts to calm down, her soul turning dark with the pain.

“Are you alright?”

She lets out a strangled laugh, half-choking holds out a hand awkwardly to stroke her sweat-matted hair. She doesn’t seem to pick up on his reticence as she leans into it - or if she notices, she doesn’t comment.

“I’m… I’m not making it through this, am I?” she whispers. Green eyes, so like Dean’s and yet so very different, fix themselves on him - her gaze is tired, but steady and she purses her lips.

Castiel opens his mouth, and then closes it, swallowing as he nods, unable to quite confirm what she already knows.

She chuckles again, a weary croak that almost hurts to hear.

“Anna warned me that that might happen,” she mutters. “Guess she was right after all.”

“How did she do this?” he asks softly, for what feels like the millionth time.

Daphne shrugs. “She didn't tell me much,” she replies, “This baby…” her hand moves from his own to clutch at her swollen belly, tenderly caressing the skin. “She said that she had shielded this kid with her own Grace and that she’d die for it, but… but she couldn’t have it, not at a time when the Apocalypse was bearing down on them.”

“Wh-when did she… when did the baby come to you?” Castiel asks shakily, a sneaky suspicion forming at the back of his mind.

“Exactly ten months ago,” she smiles wearily. “Kid’s on time, to the date. I knew I couldn’t give birth in a hospital, but Anna assured me that she’d be around for when I went into labor… I should’ve known something was wrong when she didn’t check in.”

Ten months ago… guilt rears its ugly head within him - Anna must have passed the child on barely hours before he gave her up to Heaven.

But he had met her before then - Anna killed Uriel, Anna showed him the way before Heaven took him back to teach him his lesson. How had he not sensed the child then?

Why didn’t she tell him?

But he knows why, of course, even if his Grace stings with that betrayal - she couldn’t trust him before, and after escaping from Heaven, she definitely did not trust him. But Dean…

Dean deserved to know that he has a child.

Even if it’s a Nephilim child, part Grace, part soul and might end up being a monster like all Nephilim once were -

- a monster such as which Dean hunted on a regular basis.

“Daphne,” he mutters in a low voice, “I-I… I’m sorry…”

It’s his fault that she endured this entire pregnancy alone, that she’s giving birth without her angel guardian - Anna chose to try and kill Sam, but she was only doing what she believed was right, even if he wouldn’t change anything. He doesn’t regret saving Sam then, only that it had led to her death.

Daphne smiles through the pain, another contraction tearing its way through her form. Castiel knows - the baby is almost here, the Grace-soul moving further and further down, growing brighter and brighter, even as her host’s grows dimmer.

And he realizes that he has to tell her, has to give her that choice - it’s what Dean taught him, after all.

Free will.

“I-I can save your life,” he whispers shakily, “I can ensure that you do not die.”

She doesn’t answer for a long moment, just trying to breathe.

“Wi-will the baby,” she gulps, wiping away the mess of tears, snot and sweat from her flushed cheeks, “Will she be alright?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“She’s drawing on your life-force,” he tells her simply. “She’s feeding off your soul - your human body is nurturing her physical form, but the Grace she’s carrying within her is draining you. You’re not going to survive, not unless I destroy-”

“NO!” she cuts him off forcefully, “No! I promised Anna that I would bring this child into this world, give her a chance - you’re not killing her.”

“Daphne,” he tries, “This child… it’s a Nephilim .” He’s seen her soul, seen enough of her to know that she has some kind of faith - surely, she’s read of the history of the Nephilim.

He’s right; she winces.

“Castiel,” she whispers, “I-I can’t… when Emmanuel and my baby died... “ she looks down, pressing her hands to her belly and rubbing it, “this child… she gave me a reason to go on. And Anna promised - promised… Nephilim don’t always have to turn out evil, do they?”

He hesitates; after all, what is evil?

Angels - they were corrupt, no better than the demons. Once, he believed that his brothers and sisters were just, righteous; he told Dean that any plan that came from Heaven was just, because it came from Heaven, from God.

But God hasn’t been there for millennia, has He?

Was it God who ordered that all the Nephilim be killed? Or was it Michael and the archangels who gave that command?

Castiel doesn’t know.

“It’s possible,” he says slowly, “That your child won’t turn out evil… if she is raised right, if she is taught… but you-”

“There’s a chance,” she interrupts, “then I’m taking it.”

“Daphne,” he says gently, “This will mean your life. And what will become of her after?”

She clutches at his hand desperately, her eyes wide and terrified and yet, so determined. Human beings, Castiel muses, are the most tenacious, loving and chaotic beings he’s ever seen - their capacity to feel is more than even he can comprehend.

“You have to do something, Castiel,” she pleads, her voice hoarse from the screaming and the tears, “ You must raise her - you’re an angel , you’re good and ki- aaaaaahhhh!!”

The scream that tears itself from her throat is almost inhuman, but she doesn’t let go of his hand or her belly, clutching both tightly.

“Cas-Castiel,” she sobs, her calm demeanour finally cracking, “Pl-please,” she whispers, gagging through the pain, “My ba-baby… please .”

“I-I can’t,” he flounders, “You want me to-?”

Dean would raise her right - Dean would teach her the difference between right and wrong.

But he can’t go to Dean, not now, not when he brought Sam out without bringing him back fully. And this child - she’s Nephilim.

She’s an abomination.

Dean hunts abominations like her.

Daphne screams again, her body fully ready and prepared to push the child out - Castiel senses that the child will be dispelled at any moment.

“You’re dilated,” he tells her softly, “You’ll need to start pushing… may I?”

He hovers, not completely certain of what he must do next - he’s been around humanity long enough to understand that they’re skittish and embarrassed about their genital parts, though why that is, he doesn’t fully comprehend.

Daphne offers him a weak smile, her head lolling back on her pillows. Just as he stands to move to the edge of the couch, however, she grabs a hold of his arm and pulls him back.

“Please, Castiel,” she begs, “She’s just a child… please, give her this chance.”

He doesn’t know what to say - he doesn’t know what to do.

Free will is as terrifying as it is beautiful. Once, he would’ve killed that child without thought; Nephilim are the sworn enemy of Heaven and every angel has the order to destroy them on sight.

But Dean and Sam have taught him differently, haven’t they?

He doesn’t know what he should do.

So he simply purses his lips and offers the dying woman a nod - he doesn’t know what he should do, but giving her this last bit of hope… that feels right.

He only wishes that he had more to offer her.

Without saying anything else, he moves to where her legs are propped up on the pillows and spreads her thighs, nodding at her from between them.

“You need to start pushing,” he tells her.

She laughs, a gargling sound that is almost a sneer and looks away in embarrassment as he holds her legs apart in anticipation of the child.

“A-an angel between my-aaaaahhhhh!!” she wails loudly, instinctively bearing down against the pain, pushing as hard as she can.

“Push, Daphne,” he encourages - he can see the Grace-soul of the girl sliding down, down, down…

“I-I’m tryin-ieiiiiia aahhhhhhh !!”

Panting and grunting and moaning, she pushes - blood spurts from the sides and Castiel’s frown turns into a full-blown scowl as it bubbles down the sides of her vagina, her body internally hemorrhaging against the child that wasn’t meant to be there in the first place.

“Push!” he yells and Daphne pushes.

The child’s head crowns.

Even matted with the blood and birthing fluid, Castiel can see her hair - it’s a deep, dark red, like the hair of Anna’s human form was.

“Cas- Castiel ,” Daphne whimpers; her soul is growing dimmer and dimmer and he can see the edge of the darkness that hovers around her.

She won’t last the hour, he knows.

“ Push , Daphne,” he growls, a deep clenching in his gut. He doesn’t want her to die, he realizes, he wants her to live and raise this child - he wants her to take the decision he knows he will have to make out of his hands.

“I’m trying!” she snaps back, whimpering. “I-I know… I know I’m not her-a aa aaah hh !- her real- aaaaaahhh … real, mother. But Emmanuel always hoped - Jesus Christ - Oh god, oh god, oh god , I-it hurts, fuck, fuck, fuck- ”

Something is wrong - the girl’s shoulders should be coming out, but -

Two long, whispery forms emerge instead, her tiny shoulders cocooned in the blood-soaked feathers as Castiel realizes what they are.

She has wings - Dean’s daughter has wings .

“Pro-promise me,” Daphne pants, “Na-name her Charlene… Charlie, after Emmanuel’s father.”

Castiel looks up, eyes wide as he nods uncomprehendingly… because this is Dean’s daughter and she has wings.

He doesn’t have to be an angel to know that even if she weren’t an abomination, the human world would reject her as a freak.

Dean would hunt her down like he does all other creatures.

“Charlie,” he whispers, running his tongue over the name as it the knowledge sits heavy within his stomach.

Daphne shrieks one last time, bearing down hard - Charlie’s lower half comes out, falling into Castiel’s arms as blood sprays across his face.

All the windows in the room shatter as the child begins to cry loudly, righteously angry at being expelled from her warm womb, even as her Grace begins to expand, pushing through the room in search of something - of her parents.

She wants her mom and her dad.

The realization floors Castiel as he watches her, holding her rather gingerly - he knows, of course, that her motor skills aren’t even developed enough to hold her own head up properly, but nothing is sinking in because this… this cannot be.

Her eyes, scrunched up and tears rolling out of them, are the wildest, purest green he’s ever seen - she has Dean’s eyes.

This is Dean’s daughter - his Nephilim daughter.

But she doesn’t look like any Nephilim he’s ever seen. No Nephilim had wings; her small, golden wings - the same as Anna’s used to be - are shuddering, fluttering in the breeze, cocooning her in warmth, even as they dance forward in search of something. And she’s tiny; the Nephilim Castiel remembers were on the bigger side, some even being born as giants, larger than any human being could ever hope to be.

She’s a fledgeling - not one of the angels, who were born fully formed, with conscientious thought, but not entirely human either, already stronger and more powerful than any normal man would be.

She’s not Nephilim, but she’s…

Castiel doesn’t know what she is… except that she’s Anna and Dean’s daughter.

“Ca-Cas…” Daphne gasps. “Char-”

The word dies on her lips, even as her soul moves.

Castiel doesn’t have to turn around to see her - he knows this reaper, he was there when Dean saved her life.

“You,” he greets stiffly, just as the female form it’s chosen appears behind Daphne’s head, arms folded over her chest and an eyebrow raised at him.

“Call me Tessa,” she tells him, “That’s what Dean knows me as.”

Her grey-green eyes are wide and knowing. Next to her, Castiel sees Daphne, staring down at her own dead form with a weary expression on her face, her soul glowing and warm. She turns to the reaper - Tessa - and nods.

“I-I…” she swallows, even though she has no corporeal form and Castiel stands, carefully cradling the baby, whose cries have turned into softer, smaller sqwaks.

Looking at him, she sighs, “You will look after her?” her voice trembles and he offers her a nod of his own.

“It’s your time, Daphne,” Tessa murmurs kindly. “Are you ready?”

“Will…” she hesitated, “Is Emmanuel…?”

“Why don’t you find out yourself?” Tessa smiles and Daphne nods, meeting Castiel’s eyes before she turns to look at the child who isn’t really her daughter, but whom she nourished for months.

“Charlie,” she whispers, “I love you, baby girl.” She looks up to Castiel once more, “Missouri will help you. I sent her away for the birth because I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be dangerous, but she’s like me, she can sense an angel’s true form… please , Castiel - Charlie…”

He doesn’t know what she is asking, what she wants - he doesn’t know anything.

So he simply nods in return, watching quietly as she turns to Tessa with a deep breath, saying, “I’m ready.”

The reaper smiles and opens her arms, even as the young woman falls into them, vanishing in a show of light.

In his arms, Charlie squirms, her soft cries graduating into loud yowls once more.

She senses her mother’s passing, Castiel realizes - her Grace is seeking, open, crying out loud, the same way it did when it brought him here but a few hours ago.

Her Grace… her soul… whatever it is, it is beautiful.

This is Dean’s daughter.

The knowledge sinks in as he meets Tessa’s knowing eyes, a lump in his human throat, even as he rubs the child’s bloody and wet cheek to soothe her.

“What is she?” he asks, not knowing if the reaper will have the answer, but needing to question anyway.

He can feel his angel-blade at the edge of his Grace, ready to manifest itself into a corporeal form at any second should he but wish it. The child carries Grace and is human enough that the blade will sink into her skin - he’s not entirely sure, but he thinks his blade will be enough to kill her.

The Castiel of old, the one who served Heaven, would have already plunged the blade into that little heart.

But this is Dean’s daughter - an innocent child. Even that Castiel of old would have had guilt turn his Grace dark at murdering an innocent.

“She isn’t Nephilim,” he tells Tessa, “But she’s… she’s no angel. And she’s not human.”

“Neither human nor angel,” the reaper smiles, “Or perhaps… both , Castiel?”

The expression on her face is cryptic and he looks up, shaking his head, growling softly in frustration.

“Tell me,” he demands, “What do I do ?”

Tessa sighs.

“Free will, Castiel,” she answers, “You chose it. You must decide. I don’t know what she is… except that it isn’t her time yet.”

“How did Anna manage to save this soul?” he snaps. “She should have been destroyed when Anna reclaimed her Grace - she was only a human soul when she was conceived!”

That night… even now, the sting of betrayal, of an anger he still doesn’t understand - it thrums through his own Grace, twisting it dark and furious in a manner that he will never truly comprehend.

“This child…” Tessa walks closer, reaching out with her hand to touch her, even as the angel jerks back instinctively.

The reaper raises an eyebrow at that and he growls in response. She backs away, throwing her hands up before she answers.

“When Anna reclaimed her Grace,” she tells him, “she was already carrying the child. Her body was destroyed, but the girl-”

“Charlie,” he interjects roughly.

“Charlie,” Tessa agrees, “She… she latched on to the Grace - her soul stole some of it, even as Anna surrounded her instinctively in an attempt to protect her child. Sound like anyone else you know?”

She smirks at him and Castiel goes still, looking down at the baby in his arms. She’s stopped crying and she is now staring up at him, her eyes red and wide. The green of their irises is so like her father’s, it sends a bolt of want and anguish through the angel.

He doesn’t question how the reaper knows; as one of Death’s entourage, Tessa knows the truth. If there’s one thing that he can be sure of, it’s that Death and his reapers never lie.

Charlie stole some of Anna’s Grace, just as Dean had taken some of his own when Castiel raised him from perdition.

Like father, like daughter indeed.

As if on cue, the small face scrunches up and Charlie lets out a soft cry. Warm, trembling feathers wrap themselves around his arms as the fledgling’s Grace pushes against his own, searching, seeking.

“How do you know?” Castiel asks, knowing he sounds broken and shattered, “How do you know, Tessa ?” he spits out the last word, angry and tired and the sting of failure more than he can take.

He failed to bring Sam out, he failed to save Daphne’s life and he’s holding the child of the man he’s only now realizing he’s been in love with all this time - a child he made with another angel, a child he would probably hunt down if he knew about her existence, because she’s close enough to Nephilim to pose a serious threat to those around her.

And yet, she’s beautiful - as beautiful as her father is… her father, who doesn’t know she exists, whom Castiel has not the courage to face again.

Tessa doesn’t answer and Castiel feels it when she departs without another word, leaving him alone with the abomination of a child.

Charlie cries again, an angry, loud wail that rips through the house, shattering every single glass that still remains. It doesn’t hurt Castiel, but he watches quietly, standing over Daphne’s corpse as the baby’s Grace pushes, pushes, pushes…

She’s all alone, he realizes. All alone, with no mother, no father and no one to call her own. Her mother - both her mothers - are gone, and her father kills supernatural creatures for a living. Castiel doesn’t know if Dean will accept her as his own, not when she has wings.

She doesn’t have anyone.

The small Grace is turning dark with anguish; she wants someone to hold on to, to nourish her as Daphne nourished her, to hold her and cocoon her in the warmth that every innocent child deserves.

But she’s not angel, and neither is she human.

No… Tessa’s voice rings through his mind, perhaps, she’s both angel and human.

She’s Dean’s .

Another pitiful cry escapes her lips and Castiel jolts into action, opening up his own Grace to hers, pulling her in, and holding her tight. The wetness of the blood and the birthing fluid she’s covered in is uncomfortable against his human skin and smells horrific, but he ignores it, rubbing his hand over her dark red hair.

He’s shaking, he’s startled to realize. It’s such a human thing to do that a strangled laugh bubbles in his throat, pained and happy at the same time as he finally, finally understands the meaning of free will.

The choices he makes will have consequences - he may have failed to raise Sam from perdition, but this girl… this girl, he’s going to save. She doesn’t have to hide like all the other Nephilim - she’s innocent, she’s beautiful and he has another chance to prove to himself - to Dean - that he doesn’t only fail.

He’ll keep her safe.

He’ll return to Heaven, tell his brothers and sisters that they have free will, teach them about it, but he’ll come back, because Dean’s daughter is here , and she’s now his new purpose.

“Charlie,” he whispers, letting his true voice roughen his human vessel.

The tiny whimper turns into a soft, gurgling laugh as she opens green, green eyes to stare at him, her Grace-soul shining brightly as it brushes against his. He lets her Grace mix with his own, the familiar pieces of Dean’s soul that she carries a balm to the wounds he’s been nursing since he walked away from the hunter.

“Charlie…” he hesitates and then murmurs the full name she deserves, that he knows Dean would approve of, “Charlene Mary Winchester.”

And the little gurgle that baby Charlie Mary Winchester lets out will be etched into his memory forever.  

*-*-*

It takes only a touch of his hand and a small extent of his Grace to get Charlene Mary cleaned up and warmed. She lets out a soft gurgle that might be a laugh, even as her soul shines brightly, reaching out to his.

Castiel finds that he cannot stop the smile on his own face as he holds her small form close to him; he has never been around human children, but Charlie’s affection is a balm to his own Grace. She is so innocent, so pure… a clean slate, with no awareness of anything but the most primal of human needs - food, shelter and the human longing to connect.

And despite the fact that he can nourish her soul with the contact it seeks, she still needs sustenance - a human sustenance. Castiel is conscientious enough to know that while he does know quite a bit about humanity, it’s a pitiful amount considering that he might have to raise her on his own.

Thinking that far ahead brings nothing short of a panic attack; his vessel’s heart starts racing, chest shrinking to the sensation of only that lub- dub-dub -thud- thud , and his breathing becoming more and more difficult, never mind that he doesn’t need to breathe in the first place.

Soft feathers tickle his face and he looks down to see Charlie’s golden wings moving forward to rub against his skin. Her soul glows warmly, as though she knows what he’s thinking; he wouldn't put it past her entirely, given what kind of a creature she is.

The touch of those feathers reminds him of yet another problem - human children do not have wings.

Charlie cannot be taken to Heaven, that much he knows. Despite everything, despite free will, he’s certain that no angel will allow a creature such as her to live. She needs to be raised on Earth, needs to blend in with the human part of her nature, which is clearly more dominant.

And Castiel doesn’t know how he is going to accomplish that.

So he takes to the skies, Charlie safely cocooned in his arms, looking for the one woman he knows might help him.

Missouri will help you, Castiel , Daphne said. From what he recalls of Dean’s memories of the woman, Castiel has no doubt that she will.

He finds her just a few streets over, praying diligently to Anna, calling for help for the woman she had to abandon when she needed her the most. Her mind is frantic, fear and anguish tainting her soul dark, and it doesn’t take him long to realize that as a psychic, she probably felt Daphne’s passing.

“Please, Anna,” she’s begging, “Please look after Daphne. Oh Lord, help her get through this, I’m beggin’ you, please, save the child-”

“The child is fine,” Castiel says softly, careful to speak through the human body he inhabits, even as he lands at the foot of her bed, where she’s sitting on her knees, hands together and head down in prayer.

Missouri opens her eyes, not surprised to see him. Her dark skin glows in the dim lighting of the room, her eyes narrowing in on the baby he’s holding close to himself.

“Is that-” she gestures to the child and Castiel nods.

“The baby that Daphne was nourishing, yes,” he answers, rubbing Charlie’s crimson hair with a thumb, holding her out gently for Missouri to peruse. The back of his neck prickles in a very human way; his movements are stiff, even as every instinct screams at him to protect the child.

Charlie herself is wide awake, her green eyes roving around the room as she throws up her arms and kicks her feet. She’s as active as any newborn could be, though her soul is turning cranky - it’s been almost an hour since she was born, since Daphne died, and he knows she’s getting hungry.

“Lord, but she’s beautiful,” Missouri breathes and a warm, strange glow lights his belly. Castiel is surprised to realize that it’s pride - he’s proud of Dean’s daughter and he doesn’t quite know what to do about that.

Offering the psychic a small smile, he nods.

“Yes, she is,” he murmurs.

Missouri looks up, meeting his eyes with a knowing gaze, tears filling her own dark orbs.

“Daph-Daphne?” she ventures quietly, already knowing the answer.

“She didn’t make it,” he tells her and she lets out a tired sigh, dragging the flat of her palm over her face and muttering a quiet prayer for Daphne’s soul.

“And which one are you?” she asks sharply, staring up at him, “Where in the world has Anna been all this time?”

The southern tang of her accent makes the irate question seem all the more accusatory; Castiel winces as he settles down on the edge of the bed, running a rough thumb down the side of Charlie’s cheek. A tiny, pink tongue darts out to lick her little lips - she’s getting hungry, she needs sustenance.

But Daphne’s gone and he has no idea how to obtain any form of food for a newborn.

“I’ll tell you everything you wish to know, Missouri,” he says, “But right now… Daphne’s gone, and Charlie needs sustenance. She’s hungry.”

Missouri’s eyes soften as they move over to the child, who, as if on cue, is already scrunching up her face in anticipation of the cry she’s going to give at any second now.

“Charlie,” the old woman murmurs the name, a small smile lighting up her face. For a long moment, there is only silence as she watches him carefully, before she rolls her eyes and then pushes herself off the bed, walking out of the bedroom and down the corridor.

Castiel stands there, confused, before he hears her voice float up at him.

“Well, come on then, boy,” she calls and he blinks at being called ‘boy’. For a moment, Bobby’s irate ‘idjits’ flashes in his mind and he closes his eyes against the memory of the crotchety old man’s affection.

Without another word, he cradles Charlie close to his body, wincing at the way her wings wrap themselves tightly around his own arms, the feathers now prickly and poking into his skin. An angel’s wings are often the best way to identify what they are feeling, and it seems like that part of Charlie is entirely angelic in nature.

Missouri is in the kitchen, heating up some milk as she turns to him with a raised eyebrow.

“You still haven’t told me which angel you are,” she points out.

“Ca-Castiel,” he tells her hesitantly, wondering if she’s heard of him, given her connection to the Winchesters.

The sharp intake of breath at the sound of his name tells him that she has. A sudden, choked laugh bubbles its way out of her throat and he stares at her in confusion.

“I do not see why this is funny,” he says gruffly and she shakes her head, the tears falling freely down her face as she wipes them away.

“Lo-lord, but the irony,” she gasps, her voice hoarse, the laughter turning into a soft whimper. “Anna made me promise… she made me swear that I would tell no soul that Daphne was carrying Dean’s child… and in the end, of all the angels… you are the one to deliver her.”

She sniffles a little, wrought with emotion, and Castiel doesn’t know how to answer that. Missouri knows that Charlie is Dean’s child, has known for the past year and yet, she never once told him. The thrum of anxiety that has been pulsing through his Grace grows stronger - what is he to do?

How can he , an Angel of the Lord, raise a child on his own, in the human way?

“You know of me,” he states, and it isn’t a question, but Missouri nods anyway. Walking into the living room, leaving the milk on a low simmer, she pulls a book out of one of the shelves that line the hall, handing it over to him as she turns back to the stove.

Swan Song. Supernatural, by Carver Edlund.

Chuck’s work.

Silence fills the room - Castiel hasn’t seen this book before, but it doesn’t take him long to realize that it’s the last one in the series, come out recently.

It’s the final book in the brothers’ story.

Charlie’s cry shatters the quiet - she lets out a plaintive, angry wail and for once, Castiel is glad for something to distract him from the heavy sting of guilt and horror at Sam’s fate that sits in his gut and pulses through his Grace.

“Here,” Missouri has poured the milk into a small bottle and hands it to him. Castiel takes it, staring at it in a befuddled manner, wondering what to do with it, before the psychic sighs in an exasperated manner and yanks it back.

She takes his hand and presses the bottle into his fingers, closing them around it before she guides it to Charlie’s mouth.

The girl’s tongue comes out curiously, seeking and Castiel is suddenly terrified - she’s tiny , so small, so delicate and breakable , what if he hurts her, what if -

“Give her a moment,” Missouri murmurs and Castiel watches with bated breath.

And then Charlie is sucking at the nipple hungrily, green eyes fluttering closed as she drinks in the sustenance she needs. Her soul glows in contentment as she laps at her food, and the wings that have been tightening their grip around him painfully loosen, the feathers turning soft and playful instead as they brush against his skin.

“There you go, ladybug,” Missouri coos at the child and Castiel blinks, steadying his grip as she moves away, sitting down next to him on the couch.

The silence comes back with a vengeance, broken only by the soft sounds of Charlie slurping the bottle.

“How is he?” Missouri asks finally. “Without Sam… how’s he doing?”

She doesn’t have to specify who she is referring to.

“He… he isn’t good,” the angel winces at the memory of the hunter. The last time he saw Dean was when he followed Sam and watched him watch his brother through the window. Dean was settling down for dinner with the Braedens - Castiel didn’t need his ability to look at Dean’s soul to know how anguish the hunter truly was.

Sam was - is - Dean’s everything. Without him, Dean has nothing.

And Missouri knows it. She sighs in defeat, sinking into the couch next to him, crossing her legs.

“That boy…” she murmurs. “He’s had a hard life. He grew up too fast. And now…”

She looks meaningfully at the child in Castiel’s arms. Charlie is still vigourously suckling on the nipple, smaller drops of milk dribbling down the side of her chin.

“You have to tell him, Castiel,” she says firmly. “A father deserves to know that he has a child.”

“No,” he answers flatly. His grip on the bottle tightens and he glares at her.

“You can’t-” Missouri begins but Castiel cuts her off.

“For the first time in his entire life,” he states, “Dean has achieved a semblance of peace. He has a home, and people to call his own - I will not be the reason he has to uproot himself again.”

“And Charlie?” she snaps back, “Doesn’t this child deserves to know her own parents, where she came from?”

“Charlie is neither human nor angel,” he keeps his voice consciously low, aware of the infant nursing in his arms, “She’s a supernatural being. Dean hunts supernatural creatures; how do you propose he will react to knowing that he spawned one of his own?”

“Whatever she is, she’s a Winchester,” Missouri insists. “Dean has the right to know, Cas .”

She spits the last word out like it’s an insult and in a way, it is. Because Dean gave him that name, one that he’s embraced wholeheartedly, but he’s going to hide Dean’s daughter existence from him entirely.

“Missouri…” he states wearily, suddenly just tired - this past year has been one fight after another and Castiel finds, to his enormous shock, that he’s tired . He’s an Angel of the Lord, has lived and fought as a soldier for millennia and yet, why is he so very exhausted?

“You’re family, Cas,” she answers softly, “I don’t have to be a psychic to know Dean’s mind… or even yours. I’ve read the books, I’ve watched that boy grow from that goofy-lookin’ kid to the man he is…”

Charlie’s slurping slows and he looks down to see that her eyes are dropping. The nipple is still in her mouth, but she’s no longer sucking on it - her soul is content, pulsing softly before it goes into a hibernative state, indicating that she’s done, at least for the moment.

Missouri leans over, hesitantly clasping his shoulder. Castiel leans into the touch, suddenly craving that human sensation as he hasn’t since he was brought back to life. He’s an angel, he shouldn’t want that contact, and yet, he craves it.

“Boy, you love him,” she whispers, “It’s written all over you’ face. He needs you.”

“He’s with Lisa,” Castiel deflects, pulling the bottle out of Charlie’s mouth and gently wiping the excess milk dribbling off her chin with his hand. Missouri hands him a washcloth wordlessly and he pats down the newborn before stroking her cheek.

“He’s living a lie,” the psychic counters his claim. “He’s grieving; he’s not with her because he loves her, he’s with her because it’s what Sam asked it of him.”

Castiel doesn’t ask her how she knows; either she read it in the books or she saw it in her mind. In either case, it doesn’t change the fact that Dean hasn’t once called or prayed for him - his friend doesn’t need him.

Dean is no longer part of the hunting world and Castiel will not be the one to pull him back.

Because if he does… he’ll have to tell Dean that he failed, that he couldn't raise Sam the way he had Dean himself.

Castiel doesn’t have the courage or the strength to do that.

So he shakes his head and simply remains quiet, choosing instead to hold Charlie close to him and breathe in the fresh smell of an infant, her baby-soft skin soothing the anxiety coiling beneath his own, her Grace pulsing warmth and affection.

Missouri sighs again, pulling back and shaking her head.

“Stubborn idiots,” she mutters, “Guess I shouldn't be surprised. The only humans you’ve had contact with are those boys. No wonder you take after them.”

She huffs and Castiel finds himself inordinately surprised that she would consider him to emulate his friends. It brings a smile to his face as he tilts his head at her in acquiescence.

“What’re you gonn’ do now, boy?” she asks. “I suppose Charlie can’t be taken to… to Heaven ?”

Her voice goes soft at the last word, awed as Daphne had been, and Castiel winces in response.

“No,” he replies, “Even if she poses no danger to them, angels have orders to kill any hybrids on sight. I doubt they will let her enter Heaven.”

Missouri nods resolutely, reaching out to pet the sleeping infant’s hair.

“And you ladybug,” she says affectionately, “You’re a gorgeous girl, ain’t you? You aren’t goin’ anywhere near that danger, baby.”

The stroke of her hand is entirely maternal, and for some reason, it makes Castiel’s throat tighten with emotion.

He can trust her, he realizes, trust her to care for Dean’s child when he is incapable of doing so.

“It’s a good thing she can pass for a human,” she comments, “No wings, no halos-”

“Wait,” Castiel interrupts, shocked, straightening up, “You cannot see her wings?”

She shakes her head.

“Not on this plane, no,” she tells him, “I can perceive them, just like I can perceive yours, but they ain’t visible.”

Castiel looks back down at the soft feathers that are curling around the child’s form, covering her in instinctive warmth and comfort - how could he not sense that the wings were only ethereal and not entirely corporeal?

Troubled, he brings her closer to himself, allowing Charlie to rest her face in his neck. She scents him, nosing into his neck, before going back to sleep happily, her Grace pushing against his own and curling next to him.

“What are you, Charlene Mary?” he mutters and Missouri smiles at him.

“She’s just a baby, Cas,” she responds, her eyes soft and Castiel nods, unable to say anything more.

“I must return to Heaven,” he says, looking up at her with a beseeching gaze. “Will you… will you care for-?”

“Until you return,” she cuts him off. “But Dean-?”

“You can’t tell him, Missouri,” he says firmly. “Dean can never know of Charlie… I don’t know what he will do if he comes to know, and I can’t- I don’t want to risk losing-”

He doesn’t want to lose this baby.

He doesn’t want to lose Dean - at least now, his friend thinks of him fondly, as a comrade, as an ally. If he finds out that Castiel destroyed Sam in his good intentions, that he is protecting an abomination… he’s certain that Dean would disown him, hunt him down like he hunts other supernatural beings.

And Castiel would die than to accept a fate such as that from the man he loves.

So he insists that Missouri stay true to her vow of silence. The psychic isn’t pleased, but she grumbles her assent as he passes the baby on to her.

“When will you be back?” she asks as she cradles the baby carefully. Charlie didn’t wake, accepting the transition without so much as a whimper and Castiel’s entire being coils with anxiety at the thought of leaving her behind, even with Missouri.

“Soon,” he promises, “She will need to feel my Grace, I shall return as soon as I am able. I’ll ward the house against her true voice - she’s too young to cause too much damage as yet, but just in case…” he trails off.  

Leaning forward, he stares intently at the sleeping child, opening his Grace to hers entirely. A small smile curves her lips, even in her sleep, her own Grace coiling delightedly against his and he answers in kind, reaching out with a hand to press two fingers to her forehead to ensure a dreamless sleep.

“I’ll be back,” he whispers, hovering uncertainly over her for a long moment. Missouri just watches quietly, a knowing smile on her face, before he pulls back and vanishes in a flutter of wings.

The psychic doesn’t startle as the angel vanishes. A moment later, she can feel strange warding fall into place around her house and she shifts her focus to the baby, whose smile turns into a frown very quickly. The tiny face scrunches up and Charlie lets out an angry cry, her Grace searching for her parent no longer with her, and Missouri’s heart swells.

“Don’ worry, baby girl,” she murmurs, “You’ Daddy’ll be back soon.”

Castiel doesn’t think of himself as the child’s father, but Missouri can see clearly that that’s what he is - Charlie’s accepted him already, her soul reaching out to his, calling and crying for him.

And the child… she’s so like Dean, it almost hurts the old woman to see it. Missouri was the one to help John through Mary’s death and it stings now that she cannot extend that same warmth to his eldest boy, broken in the wake of his brother’s death.

So she does the only thing she can - she pulls the baby close to her ample breast and hums her mother’s favorite lullaby, ignoring the strange something she can feel brush across her arms, almost like a bird’s feathers.

*-*-*

“God wants you to have freedom,” Castiel smiles at the brothers and sisters he’s left behind, whom he’s missed despite all odds.

Rachel shakes her head, her features arranged into an expression of confusion.

“But what does he want us to do with it?”

Behind her, he can see the rest of the angels nod in agreement, all of them sporting similar expressions of befuddlement and uncertainty. There is also a sense of awe when they look at him, as though he’s something special, and although Castiel is loathe to admit it, a warm glow of pride lights him up.

Because God did bring him back. He did right when he chose the Winchesters over his own siblings, over Heaven - that he is alive is proof enough of that fact.

Perhaps his Father chose him to teach the angels about free will now, perhaps that is the reason he’s been brought back. As much as Charlie is his purpose, Castiel realizes, in the first few moments of being back home, that he cannot abandon his brothers and sisters - without Michael, it is anarchy up here as he told Dean the last time he saw him.

He told his friend that he was going to be the new sheriff, but he hadn’t followed through that very night. Instead, he went down into the Pit in an attempt to bring Sam back… because the expression of anger and anguish on Dean’s face had been too much to bear and Castiel could not stand the thought of his friend being torn to bits by his own brothers.

Raising Sam… that was a task he failed at.

But this - this he can do. He knows Heaven, he knows the angels and their psyche and he knows free will. He’s learnt that his choices have consequences and that freedom is as terrifying as it is beautiful… now he has to teach it to his siblings.

Charlie is the epitome of his own free will. He will love her and give her the best life he can, just as he will help his siblings understand what it means to be free - as Dean taught him.

“Freedom,” he tells Rachel, who is still watching him in a mix of quiet hesitation and astonishment. “Freedom is to choose what you wish to do, and to do it.”

“But what would we want to do?” Hester asks him. Next to her, Inias tilts his head and Castiel feels a rush of gratitude that his old subordinates have survived the Apocalypse.

“God brought you back to us, Castiel,” Inias bows his head, reverence coloring his Grace gold, “To lead us again.”

Castiel sighs, an entirely human reaction that has Rachel frowning at him. He forgot how bullheaded angels can be, how utterly single-minded in their devotion and directive. Without God’s - Michael’s orders - to follow, they have no purpose.

“You have our Father’s approval, Cas,” Rachel murmurs, “We follow you.”

“But you don’t have to follow me,” he cries back in exasperation, throwing his hands up. “You can be your own leaders, make your own choices!”

They do not understand - it is frustrating.

Distantly, he feels a tug on his Grace, a warm and soft cry that has him instinctively reaching to soothe the child who searches for him. It distracts him from the angels in front of him, and he’s glad for it; he doesn’t know how to tell his siblings that he isn’t their leader, that they are free .

Free will is a confusing thing - Castiel knows that better than most.

“Castiel?” Hester’s voice is cautious and he turns back to the angels with a small smile.

“I must go,” he tells them, “But I will return soon.”

Before they can respond, Castiel takes flight, turning back to earth, already reaching back out with his Grace, opening himself to Charlie. Behind him, he senses the worried confusion and desolation of his siblings. He makes a mental note to hide the child - it would not do for one of the curious angels to follow him back to earth, to the not-Nephilim child he’s sure they would murder without thought.

To be sure that none of his siblings are following him, he keeps himself cloaked and takes a longer route back to Missouri’s. As a result, when he gets back, Charlie is not only wide awake, her face is red and scrunched up and she lets out an angry wail when he finally lands.

Her soul pulses a sense of irate desolation that he quickly soothes with a tendril of warmth through his own Grace. Missouri has placed her on the bed, having set up an entire pillow fort around her to make sure that she won’t fall off.

“Hello, Charlie,” he murmurs, uncloaking himself and walking closer to the bed. Her golden wings fluff up indignantly and she lets out another shrill cry, kicking her arms and legs up.

He sits down next to her, hesitation coloring his every move, and gingerly leans over to pick her up. Despite her irritation, the moment she is in his arms, she seems to relax, letting out one more angry cry before she buries her face in the crook of his neck, sucking at his skin hungrily. Warm, fluffy feathers wrap themselves around his shoulder shyly and her Grace knocks against his in silent question. Castiel opens himself up to her fully, resting his head atop a mop of fiery red that is soft and welcoming, even as he unfurls his own wings and cocoons them both in an embrace that is as affectionate as he’s ever been with another being.

The thump-thump of footsteps alerts him to the psychic’s presence and he waits patiently for the elder woman to enter the room with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re back early,” she says and Castiel offers her a small shrug, unable to take his eyes off the baby in his arms.

“I just…” he flails, unable to say anything, and Missouri smiles, nodding at him quietly.

“Alright then,” she mutters, “You can help me out.”

Castiel blinks in surprise, “Help?” he asks uncertainly.

“Boy, does this house look baby-proofed to you?” she barks. “Daphne set up a nursery for Charlie, I didn’.”

They fall silent for a moment, in quiet solidarity of Charlie’s late mother, before Castiel clears his throat and tilts his head in acquiescence.

“As you wish,” he tells her, “I shall help where I can.”

“You can start by puttin’ her down and bringin’ me the crib in Daphne’s nursery,” she nods and Castiel sighs, loathe to let the child go.

He moves to set her down, but Charlie isn’t having a moment of it. She lets out a furious shriek and her wings tighten around his in a childish attempt to keep him close to her.

“Missouri,” he shakes his head helplessly and the psychic lets out a peal of laughter, thick shoulders shaking in amusement.

“Well, one more moment can’ hurt,” she chuckles and Castiel feels relief light the pit of his belly as he brings Charlie closer to himself, rubbing his big palm over her small back soothingly. Her Grace pulses, smug and happy, and her indignant wails turn into small, happy coos as she bats at him with her little fist.

She’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

That conviction returns, hours later, when he’s about to leave again, this time saying his farewells in Charlie’s new nursery. He’s holding her up against his shoulder, walking around in the room next to Missouri’s own bedroom that the psychic has chosen as the baby’s new home. She asked him to choose the theme for the nursery - Castiel didn’t quite understand the glint in her eyes when she smirked at him, but he did as asked nevertheless and now, he stands in the middle of his own handiwork, marveling at how much he’s able to think and choose for himself now.

It took but a touch of his fingers and a small amount of his Grace to bring the scene to life. The walls of the room, he’s painted to be the same, mysterious green as Dean’s eyes, as Charlie’s eyes. Taken together, they depict a garden - and not just any garden. It’s the Garden of Eden as Castiel remembers it, from eons ago, which forms the centre of Heaven. Small little animals are racing across the forest floor, even as lions and tigers creep towards them, ready to pounce on any unsuspecting victim. Flowers, of pink and purple and white and blue and every color litter the ground next to the trees - the fruit glows golden on top of them, inviting and mysterious as Castiel remembers the Garden being.

Charlie’s crib has been placed in the far corner of the room, right below a small window that is close to the ceiling, a skylight of sorts. A small, bumblebee nightlight hangs loose from a mobile above her crib that Missouri insisted they place - all the items, Castiel had gone to Daphne’s house to bring back to the psychic’s, lending a sombre tone to the air as they worked in quiet silence.

The baby fell asleep halfway through the move, once Castiel fed her. Missouri warmed up some formula milk again, handing it over to him without a word and this time, the angel knew to wait for the infant to latch on by herself, already more confident in the way he handles her.

And now, he’s holding her tight, wrapping his wings around her tiny ones, unwilling to let her go.

She’s perfect, her warm Grace pulsing with life and vigor, and he’s loathe to leave her behind. With a sigh, he bends down to place her on the mattress carefully picked for the crib; she frowns in her sleep, kicking her legs up in protest. He leans in to press his fingertips to her forehead, soothing the scowl away.

“Don’t worry, Cas,” Missouri’s voice is soft where she’s standing at the doorway, watching him with a fond expression on her face. “She’s safe here.”

Castiel straightens abruptly, her statement reminding him that he needs to protect her from his siblings.

“Move back,” he orders and Missouri stares at him in surprise.

“What?” she asks with a frown and he waves his hand in the direction of the hallway. “Cas, what-?”

“Charlie isn’t safe, Missouri,” he mutters, “Not completely. The angels could find her at any time.”

“But in’t that why you put those sigils up? Isn't the house warded?”

Castiel sighs, “It isn’t foolproof,” he explains, somewhat impatiently. “What if you were to leave the house with her? She can’t stay inside here forever. And if an angel chances upon her when she is outside of the wards…” he trails off, ignoring the sharp spike of fear that shoots through his Grace at that thought.

Missouri sucks in a sharp breath and nods. “Okay, Cas,” she says decisively. “Do what you gotta do.” she pauses, peering at him through curious and nervous eyes. “What are you gonn’ do, exactly?” she asks.

“I’m gonna carve protection sigils on to her ribs.”

Missouri yelps in shock but before she can protest, he’s already pushed her out into the hall and shut the door, warding it against her entry. She’s not going to be happy, he knows, but he doesn’t have a choice - not only will she protest what he’s about to do, he also doesn’t know if she will be able to take Charlie’s screams once he goes through with this.

The thought stops him short - Charlie is going to be in pain .

The infant is fast asleep in her crib, arms thrown up above her head, her red hair spread out, not unlike a fiery halo around her face. She looks utterly content, her soul shining warmly behind his eyelids and Castiel pauses, hovering over her small form.

It shouldn’t affect him in this manner, but his human vessel reacts; his heart seizes up, racing in chest. Dimly, he can hear Missouri banging away at the door, but he finds it hard to focus on anything beyond the way the blood roars in his ears. His stomach clenches, even as his hands turn clammy.

He doesn’t want to harm her - he wants her to feel no pain whatsoever.

Bending over, he takes a deep breath and places a trembling hand on her chest, just above her navel. Her belly moves up and down as she breathes in an entirely human manner and Castiel closes his eyes, letting his Grace mix with hers.

He wants to keep her safe , he realizes, an entirely alien sensation of anger and frustration bubbling beneath his skin. He wants her safe and far, far away from any of the danger she is vulnerable to.

This feeling of complete helplessness, the rush of protectiveness that pulses through the very core of his being - it shakes Castiel, leaves him breathless. It isn’t strange that he wants to protect or guard someone; he wanted to keep Dean and Sam safe, he wants to protect the legacy his Father has left behind in the form of humankind.

But this… this is different. This is much more magnified, a hundred times the heady anger and helplessness and utter fondness he feels when he sees Dean - this is an uglier side of love that he hasn’t as yet experienced, because he knows - knows - that he would murder anything that could hurt Charlie without second thought.

And given that Castiel has been an avenging angel for the past few millennia, it’s an unsettling feeling, this sense of overprotectiveness for just one little being. He’s destroyed entire towns on the orders of his superiors, but ever since his fall, he’s been entirely too focused on protecting the few humans in his charge.

With Dean, it was easy; he saw Dean’s soul, saved it from perdition. With Charlie…there is no purpose to killing for her, except he will do anything for her.

He doesn’t understand this rush of emotion.

So he simply swallows the sudden bitterness he tastes on his tongue and reaches out to run his hand through Charlie’s soft hair, tucking a strand of it behind her ear. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, but the feeling of her smooth skin and the smell of the baby powder that Missouri has dabbed her with soothes the panicked ebb and flow of his Grace.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he places both his palms flat on her chest and lets that Grace flow through him, carving the protection sigils into her ribs, even as he carved them on Dean and Sam.

Charlie shrieks .

Every single window in the house shatters, the crash resounding in the following silence. Distantly, he can hear Missouri yell in shock, renewed banging on the door, but he ignores it in favor of leaning in to pick up the wailing newborn, holding her close.

Her Grace expands, searching for comfort, angonied drops of it spilling into his own. She’s not so much in pain as she is in shock - her anguished cries are already turning into small whinnies, even as she kicks the air in front of her.

She is nosing at the crook of his neck, spit and tears wetting the rough skin there. Her wings, having turned prickly in anger, aren’t long enough yet to go all the way around his shoulders but they make a valiant effort to cocoon them both.

Castiel has no idea what to do or even how to soothe the child back into sleep, but some strange instinct has him wrapping himself around her, holding her tight and rubbing her back soothingly. His arms cord around her tiny form reflexively - he wonders if it’s muscle memory on the part of Jimmy’s body.

Jimmy’s gone now.

The thought has him swallowing tightly; in the year since he’s inhabited this vessel alone, he has successfully managed to keep from musing over the man it originally belonged to, who died during his first confrontation with Raphael at Chuck’s house. Jimmy is in Heaven now, he knows, but the fact still stings, still hurts, because he’s the reason the Novak family no longer has a husband and a father.

It’s one of Jimmy’s old memories that help now. Castiel recalls a night, long ago when Claire was barely four months old and wouldn’t stop crying. Amelia was exhausted and Jimmy had decided to let her rest for the night, instead holding the baby in his arms and walking across her nursery and back, humming softly to her until she finally drifted off to sleep.

His movements are unsure and hesitant, but the angel attempts to do what Jimmy did then - he pulls the infant close to himself, holding Charlie tightly and begins to pace across the small room, walking back and forth with intent, even as he strokes his hand up and down her back gently, lingering between her shoulder blades where her wings protrude.

His pace is a bit too fast and his touch a tad to rough, but it seems to soothe her nonetheless - her shrill wails are quieting down, into small little whinnies and whimpers, plaintive and scared.

Charlie’s scared .

Her Grace coils around his own, desolate and shivering and it hurts Castiel - he made her scared.

He lets his own wings puff up in response and wraps them around her; the soft, downy feathers of his primaries rub her own prickly ones and a small sob escapes her. Castiel doesn’t know if it’s a happy or an angry cry, but she latches on to his wings and sucks at his neck hungrily, so he counts it as a win.

He doesn’t know any songs other than the hymns and prayers that the halls of Heaven were once rife with. He opens his mouth to hum them and closes them again - somehow, he can’t bring himself to do it, can’t bring himself to sing for a Father who’s long gone. Castiel’s faith in Him has been restored with his own resurrection, but it doesn’t mean that he’s quite forgiven him for the abandonment.

He’s angry, just as Charlie’s angry.

Another old memory presents itself to him, only this time it’s not Jimmy’s but Castiel’s own. He and Dean were in the Impala, on their way to meet up with Sam - it was just after Zachariah sent the hunter into the future and he had insisted on driving them instead of having the angel simply fly them there.

“Driving helps me unwind, Cas,” Dean had told him, “And God knows… right now, I need it.”

Dean didn’t explicitly request him to stay, but Castiel had observed how the hunter’s soul brightened when he stayed close by; whatever Dean saw in that alternate future shook him badly, not that he’d ever openly admit it.

So he stayed, content to simply sit by his side and watch the miles fly by as Dean drove, the Impala the only true thing in his control as he grappled with forces beyond any normal human’s comprehension. The hunter was blasting the radio at a high volume; it didn’t take Castiel long to figure out that he found the silence too oppressive, too heavy, and although the sounds grated on his nerve, he kept mum, the smile on Dean’s face more precious than any irritation he was experiencing.

The song that came on half an hour into their ride was much softer than the rest, a strange mix of rough voices and melodious chords that were rather pleasant. Castiel turned to Dean then, curious and concerned, as the hunter fell silent, eyes pointedly fixed on the road, even as his fingers tapped to the tune on the steering wheel of their own accord.

“Dean?” he called softly and he turned to glance at him cursorily, before turning his attention back to the night around them.

“Are you alright?” Castiel wasn’t the smartest of angels when it came to human interaction, but he knew his charge well enough to know that he was not doing so well. His soul was turning dark from a quiet weight and the angel longed to fix it and make it shine brightly again.

“I-uh...ummm,” Dean cleared his throat and just shook his head. “Just… Mom sang this to me.”

He didn’t say anything else, refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes, but then, he didn't need to - Castiel understood, in a flash, that Dean, for all his machismo and posturing, was an innate family man whose love for his dame had never matured from that child adoration.

And it’s that same adoration, same love that burns bright within Charlie’s Grace right now, as he continues to pace across her nursery. It burns through Castiel - she doesn’t know anything, doesn’t understand that he’s not her father, and yet, she loves him with the same fierceness as the man himself does.

It shakes him - it makes him proud , because for all that he doesn’t quite know how or why, he’s earned her love, even after scaring and hurting her.

“Hey Jude… Don't make it - mmmmm… take a sad song and….”

He doesn’t know all the words, and he hums where he can’t remember them, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Charlie, who stops whimpering and sighs, curling into his big form. Her prickly wings turn softer and begin to droop and her soft sniffles turn into long, deep breaths as she slowly drifts off to the rough cadence of his stiff humming, the rumbling of his chest as much a lullaby as the mangled song itself.

“Nah nah nah nah , nah-na-nah nah,  nah-na-nah nah, Hey Jude…”

*-*-*

He’s put it off for as long as possible, but Castiel cannot ignore Raphael any longer.

It’s been three weeks since that first comeback to Heaven, since he carved protection sigils into Charlie’s ribs and soothed her to sleep. Missouri, of course, whacked the back of his head with a surprisingly strong arm for a woman of her stature - it didn’t matter that he was an angel, nothing was getting past that psychic.

Once he fixed the windows that the infant had shattered with her terrified screeching, Castiel took to the skies again, returning to his old home, where the rest of his siblings were awaiting his return. He attempted to teach them to be free once again, explain that they could choose to do things now, but it’s been hard.

Angels aren’t meant to have free will - they are warriors of God, complete in their servitude and blind in their devotion.

It’s been a trying couple of weeks, made worse by the fact that as much as Castiel wants to be here, as much as he wants to be the one to teach his brothers and sisters, he also wants to be back on Earth, with Charlie. Only three weeks old and already beginning to focus her gaze on particular things, the baby’s Grace is slowly growing, expanding, its power unbelievably strong.

But most importantly, when she wakes from her nap or when she needs someone to hold her, it’s him that Charlie wants. And he’s loathe to leave her, reluctant to miss even a moment of her life, because she’s already growing so, so fast. He doesn’t know how long her life on Earth will last - will her lifespan be as long as that of a typical human or longer? Where will she go once she dies?

Questions like that light a spark in his belly that he doesn’t want to admit to; his own Grace swells with an emotion he doesn’t want to examine too closely every time she reaches out for him , her soul shining in a welcoming manner.

And so, he’s been putting it off, almost hiding in a way - he’ll come to Heaven, attempt to teach his siblings what he believes and then run back to Earth where Charlie calls for him, her every cry a point of pride for the angel who is both her savior and her caretaker.

His siblings are curious, he knows, wondering where he spends all that time. Rachel is growing steadily more suspicious and Castiel can’t ignore it any longer. So when she tells him that Raphael summoned him, he can’t put it off any more than he already has.

Castiel may be the angel that God chose to resurrect - not once, but twice - but Raphael is the last living archangel. And that isn’t something to be taken lightly.

But the meeting doesn’t turn out the way he was hoping for. Or rather, it goes exactly the way he expected it to.

“You came,” Raphael’s voice is smooth silk and honey, as menacing as it is an illusion of peace. “I appreciate the courage that takes.”

Castiel walks into the room which reeks of opulence and a wealth that’s beyond what one man would require. Raphael sets down the glass of whiskey he’s holding, raising an eyebrow at the younger angel who simply stares back, refusing to look down despite the fear that is coiling through his Grace.

“Whose Heaven is this?” he asks, looking around.

“Ken Lay’s,” Raphael answers smugly, “I’m borrowing it.”

“I still questions his admittance here,” Castiel sighs, shaking his head in distaste.

“He’s devout,” Raphael tells him, his eyes firm and unyielding despite the way he drawls the statement, “Trumps everything.”

And that’s the problem, Castiel wants to scream, blind devotion isn’t faith, it’s simply anarchy.

But he doubts his elder brother will understand that, so he simply asks that Raphael tell him what he wants, sitting down in front of him.

“You will kneel before me and pledge allegiance to the flag, alright?” the archangel orders and Castiel’s Grace recoils in response.

“And what flag is that?” he demands, the ugly suspicion growing at the back of his mind.

“ Me , Castiel. Allegiance to me.”

Raphael is an archangel; Castiel has been brought back to life, but even he cannot stand against the might of Heaven’s most holy weapon.

“You rebelled. Against God, Heaven and me.”

Raphael’s statement punctures him in the centre of his being; doubts and questions that he’s been struggling with in the past few weeks rear their ugly heads and he wonders if there will ever be an end to this - to this corrupt Heaven, with its blind devotion and lack of choice.

“We’ll start by freeing Lucifer and Michael from their Cage. And then we will get this show on the road.”

Castiel’s Grace splinters at that; after everything he’s sacrificed, that Dean’s sacrificed… Sam, Bobby and every single person that has died in the course of the Apocalypse that he helped stop -

If Raphael frees the other two archangels, there will be nothing but bloodshed and murder and pain.

Earth will end - Dean, Sam and everyone else will die.

Charlie will die.

“Raphael, no ,” Castiel growls. The archangel’s gaze turns hard as he meets Castiel’s unflinching gaze. “The Apocalypse doesn’t have to be fought.”

“Of course it does,” he returns smoothly. “It’s God’s will.”

“How can you say that?” Castiel snarls back. If God wanted the Apocalypse, then why am I here? Why did He bring me back? What’s my purpose?

“Because it’s what I want.”

No, no, no.

“The other angels won’t let you,” it’s a desperate, last-ditch effort to stand up to him, Castiel knows, but he has to try. He can't let all that go to waste, can’t let Dean and Sam’s fight end like this.

“Are you sure?” Raphael’s voice is entirely too smug. “You know better than anyone, Castiel - they’re soldiers, they weren’t meant for freedom, they were meant to follow.”

And it stings, because Raphael is right - for the past three weeks, Castiel has been flitting between Heaven and Earth, trying to teach his siblings that they can do what they want, that they are free , but to no avail. Freedom is confusing and trying at best, and for all his efforts, Castiel himself no longer has a guide, no one to teach him how to make those choices, how to do things on his own.

Freedom is terrifying.

But it’s what Sam gave his life for - it’s why his shell walks around the surface of the Earth, with no emotion, no feeling, while his soul lies in the Cage, caught in the eternal war between Michael and Lucifer. It’s why Castiel can never return to Dean, can never tell the elder Winchester that he has a daughter who is neither human, nor angel and more precious than all of them together.

Castiel failed the brothers once.

He won’t do so again.

“Then I won’t let you,” he stands up, firm in his conviction, looking Raphael down, Grace thrumming with anger and fear and desolation. Distantly, he can feel Charlie responding to his distress, crying out loudly, but he ignores it, even as Raphael simply flicks his finger.

The archangel’s Grace is familiar in its chilling capacity - this is the same Grace that tore him apart at Chuck’s house, that shredded him to pieces as it sunk its ugly claws into his own, much weaker Grace.

It’s no less painful or powerful this time round.

Raphael pulls back at the last minute, only knocking Castiel down instead of destroying him. He falls back, thrown into his own Heaven, human vessel spewing blood out of his mouth to match the tears in his angelic Grace.

Struggling against the heavy weight of the archangel Grace holding him down, Castiel coughs, glaring defiantly up at his elder brother who is smirking down at him.

“Tomorrow you kneel, Castiel,” he commands, “Or you and anyone with you, dies.”

So saying, the archangel disappears, and Castiel is left to pick up the pieces of his broke Grace. Because he knows - knows - that he could never survive a straight fight with him. He’s stronger since his resurrection, but he can’t compare to the most powerful angel in Heaven.

As he pushes himself to his feet, both Grace and vessel screaming in agony, he senses the approach of other angels. Rachel is the one to step forward, her soft features arranged into an expression of concern, even as she reaches out with an uncertain arm to help him up.

Castiel ignores it.

He can’t show them weakness - not now, not when they look to him to be strong. He’s the one God brought back to life, he’s the one who must shepherd them into making their own choices; he can’t be weak or vulnerable in front of them.

So he struggles to his feet, looking past the look of quiet hurt and acceptance on his elder sister’s face, choosing, instead, to focus on the way the rest of them are staring at him in a mix of awe and fear.

“Raphael means to restart the Apocalypse,” he tells them, “I- I need…”

“He’s an archangel,” Inias offers, “They know God’s will, don’t they?”

His younger brother sounds as confused as Castiel feels and an anxious, teary laugh bubbles in his throat as frustration boils within his Grace - archangels are not absolute, they make mistakes and they are corrupt , even if they aren’t Fallen like Lucifer Fell.

God’s will… Castiel wants to scream that no one knows their stupid Father’s stupid fucking will, because He’s gone, gone, gone.

And He isn’t coming back.

“I must go,” he tells the angels abruptly. Their cries of surprise and concern fall on deaf ears as he takes flight, leaving Heaven without looking back.

He flies around aimlessly for a while, letting the earthly winds ruffle their way through his feathers - his wings puff up, flapping powerfully against the current, and for the space of a single moment, suspended in time, the world is simple and he isn’t staring down at the end of all that he’s sacrificed.

Raphael will destroy them all; of that, he has no doubt. And Castiel doesn’t know what to do or how to stop him - if Raphael breaks the Cage, if he brings out his elder brothers… will Dean discover how badly Castiel has failed?

Will he forgive him?

The question buzzes through his Grace which is slowly beginning to knit itself back together in the aftermath of being beaten to a pulp by his brother.

Sighing, Castiel heads for Kansas, where Charlie’s Grace is searching for his. She’s crying, baby whinnies that he supposes should be grating, but somehow soothe him even at their decibel.

The world might end tomorrow, and Castiel’s first concern, somehow, is now not Sam or even Dean, but Dean’s daughter , who’s so precious and small and caught in the crossfire of a war that shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

Missouri doesn’t startle as he appears in front of her where she’s sitting on the couch, holding the crying infant in her arms, raising an eyebrow in front of him.

“Boy, wha’ happened?” she asks, her gaze turning critical as she eyes him up and down. Castiel flushes, shrugging in response as he holds his arms out for his charge, needing to feel her soft skin against his own, needing reassurance that he isn’t failing, not completely.

The psychic’s brow climbs a notch higher on her forehead, but she doesn’t question him further, instead handing over the baby to him.

Charlie settles as soon as he wraps his arms around her, her loud cries dying down to quiet hiccups and soft gurgles. Her prickly wings turn gentle almost instantly, wrapping themselves around his shoulders. Castiel lets his own wings uncloak, weaving his primaries around hers in a protective cocoon, holding her to him tightly.

In front of him, he hears Missouri suck in a sharp breath, and he realizes, with a start, that the psychic can see his wings.

He raises his head to find her staring at him with an expression of awe on his face - it hits too close to home right now, just minutes from when his own siblings were looking at him with such wonder, and he doesn’t like it.

It’s not him that stopped the Apocalypse, it’s not him that made the choice to say no - it’s Dean , who lost everything, and Sam , who threw himself into the Pit without hesitation to save the whole world.

Castiel only failed to bring him back out; Castiel has only ever been their Shield in the face of certain end. He will die to keep them safe, but what guarantee does he have that they will remain safe after he’s gone?

There are no answers.

“Cas?” Missouri calls almost timidly and he shakes his head, refusing to answer, breathing in the scent of Charlie’s baby smell, letting her Grace coil around his own weak one.

She rubs her nose against his neck, sniffing and sucking, and the familiar movement soothes the anxiety boiling beneath his skin.

“I-I… I have to go,” he tells the psychic, who offers him a small nod, understanding that there’s something else at play here, something that he needs to work through.

Castiel needs to see Dean, needs to ask him for help - because it was the hunter who taught him to choose, to rebel.

But what good is rebellion when those you rebel for don't understand it in the least? The angels don't know what they want, they don't even know that they can want, and it’s a conundrum that he’s struggling with.

Breathing Charlie in one more time, he reluctantly unweaves his wings from hers and holds her out to Missouri, who shakes her head in response.

“Take her with you, Cas,” she murmurs. “I dunno wha’ happened, boy, but you’re shaking.”

Looking down, the angel is startled to realize that he is shaking. Charlie sits quietly in his trembling arms, her weight a comforting reminder of the only good he’s done after leaving Dean, and as he draws her closer, he finds his grip steadying, the fear of dropping or hurting her more immaculate than the hopelessness bubbling in his gut.

“Go on, Cas,” Missouri waves her hand in his direction. “Take you’ girl out for a while… Lord knows, you need to relax.”

Lord knows… Castiel doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry at that phrase, because the Lord certainly knows, but the Lord is missing , hasn’t been heard from in millennia - because the Lord is gone and He’s left Castiel to pick up the pieces of the Heaven that has shattered in the wake of His leaving.

But he doesn’t tell the psychic anything. Instead, he holds Charlie even closer to him and leaves her home, taking to the skies, headed for the one place where he might find some answers.

He can no longer hide the truth from Dean.

*-*-*

Flying with Charlie is a unique experience. It’s not like traveling with his brothers and sisters, who fly with their own wings, all of them taking to the sky like - Castiel winces at the analogy as Dean’s laugh floats across his brain - like a flock of birds.

Charlie is too small to fly on her own, though her wings make valiant attempts to, flapping against the current and trying to mimic the way his own wings slice through the wind. It seems that her development is quite like that of  a human being’s - her wings and her ability to fly are growing in the same manner as a human child’s ability to move does.

But it isn't like transporting the humans either; Charlie can see the ether, traverse in it, her Grace bright against his own as he moves. She’s quite delighted at the prospect of flying now, physically cooing and laughing as she kicks up her arms and legs. Castiel finds himself wary of dropping her, but the baby gurgling is infectious; he’s unable to stop smiling on his own, warmth pooling in his gut as he heads for Dean’s home.

Because the world may end tomorrow, but Charlie still trusts him to protect her, to keep her safe - she can watch and coo at the world from within the safe net of his arms banded about her, unconcerned about dropping the thousand feet to earth.

She’s going to grow up to be quite the phenomenal flier - her wings are already curling instinctively in the right move against the wind, as natural as a bird. She’s a truly a fledgling, he realizes, growing the human way, the earthly way, developing in stages.

It terrifies him - it’s an exhilarating feeling.

They’re just a few streets away from Dean’s when Charlie suddenly shrieks, her Grace coiling back and retracting. Castiel stumbles, wobbling mid-flight, and nearly drops her as she begins to thrash within his arms, kicking and screaming.

“Charlie!” he yells, but the infant doesn’t respond, throwing her arms up and letting loose a loud wail. He’s grateful that her true voice doesn’t bleed through any longer - for some reason, as she grows, those angelic tendencies are being suppressed by her more active human self and right now, it’s the only reason why every single window below them doesn’t blow out.

Her Grace is churning, restless and seeking; for a moment, he covers it within his own, offering her what comfort he can, but she pushes him away, another shrill cry escaping her lips as she continues to kick against his grip.

Castiel drops down from the sky, ignoring the sudden cries of surprise from the human onlookers as he appears out of nowhere. In his arms, Charlie is flailing about, her wings prickly and angry as they scratch against his very human skin, shrieking into his shirt.

He’s stumbling, unused to such vehemence from the baby in his arms; even at her crankiest, Charlie has never been so angry or upset, her Grace boiling with an untold and irrational anxiety that’s painful to perceive. She pulls and pushes against his grip, struggling to move, to do - though, why, he cannot understand.

She isn't hungry, or tired - he’s been around her at both instances and knows the feel of her Grace when she needs nourishment. She isn’t even throwing up a fuss to be held; he’s seen that too, the way she just wants to be held and touched and petted.

Now, her Grace is none of those things, simply turning ash with an unnamed longing, a clear seeking that he does not comprehend. It’s such a stark contrast to the bubbling laugh she was gurgling bare minutes ago that it leaves Castiel’s head spinning.

Panic bubbles beneath his skin as he moves forward, trying to still the infant in his arms. Her cries are growing louder and louder by the minute and he catches sight of a stone bench, just a few steps ahead of him. Without thinking, he straggles his feet to it, sinking on to the rough surface gratefully.

“It’s alright, Charlie,” he murmurs desperately, opening his Grace to hers fully, allowing it to coil around her turbulent self as soothingly as he knows how -

She pushes him away.

Castiel physically reels, sweat breaking out on his skin, as he recoils - in the three and a half weeks since her birth, Charlie has never once rejected the touch of his Grace.

He didn't realize how much he’s come to depend upon that warmth, that acceptance. It hurts , stings that she no longer wants to feel him, because he’s been carrying around a quiet pride that he’s the one she’s chosen to bond with. Every time her Grace reaches for his, it lights a quiet glow in his belly, making him proud.

To be pushed away now, when she’s clearly upset, when something hurts… it’s a rejection that leaves him breathless and has tears stinging the corners of his vessel’s eyes.

Ignoring the prickling of his eyelids, he holds her up, rubbing her back as gently as he knows how and begs her to stop crying.

“You’re okay, Charlie,” he whispers in a hoarse voice. “It’s alright, whatever it is.”

She simply starts screaming even louder and he holds her close to him helplessly, running his hand through her crimson hair. Her Grace is pushing, searching, needing something he doesn't know how to provide -

Castiel’s head snaps up in the direction that her Grace is extending to and he feels bile bubble in his throat at the sense of the approaching soul.

Dean.

Dean is here .

Charlie is reaching out for Dean , for her father, because she’s sensed his presence, even before Castiel has.

The needy screams, the unnamed longing in her Grace - it’s for her sire.

Charlie knows him.

Castiel freezes, breath shortening, because no, he isn't ready for this, he isn't ready to meet Dean again, isn’t ready to tell him just how badly he’s fucked up, because he’s  failed them, failed Sam and he’s -

His human skin suddenly feels too small, the rough drag of his trenchcoat against his hands an irritant in the heat. His palms turn sweaty, his grip on the still shrieking Charlie loosening, and his lungs are tight within his chest as he gulps in air, struggling to breathe. His Grace thrums with distress.

He isn't ready to face Dean again, even though that’s the entire reason he made his trip in the first place. But he expected to have a bit more time, to watch Dean from the shadows before he approached him - to make sure that he isn’t going to ruin the fragile happiness the former hunter has finally carved out for himself.

Because Dean has given everything for the world and Castiel doesn’t know how to tell him that the angels might break it again.

He doesn’t know how to tell him that he’s a father to the most beautiful creature in the world - a literal creature , neither human nor angel, and a bit of both, her Grace and soul as lovely and unique as her father’s own.

Castiel doesn’t know anything.

So he does the only thing he can - he throws up a quick glamor.

He could shield his presence, go invisible, but Charlie is still screaming in his arms and he doesn’t think he would be able to shield her too, shaken as they both are. So he disguises them both instead, making his vessel appear different to the world so that Dean won't recognize him.

“You alright there, man?”

Father, that voice… Castiel hasn’t heard it in over two months, the rough cadence of it deep and comforting in a way that the angel hasn’t felt since he left the Impala.

He looks up shakily, still rubbing Charlie’s back and murmuring softly to her, eyes moving slowly up the standing form of his friend before him.

The pants are the same worn jeans as always and the jacket falls over the plaid shirts that are as threadbare as they’ve always been. The hunter has lost a considerable amount of weight - the shirt hangs off of his frame in a manner that is worrying. His face looks sunken and tired, his eyes (so similar to his daughter’s) dull and exhausted.

Dean still stands up straight, his posture almost militial in nature, trained by the Marine father who turned him into a soldier and a caretaker when he was but a child.

Castiel knows, because he too has been nothing but a soldier for his Father for the entirety of his existence.

But he isn't any more - because of Dean. And now, he’s no longer just a soldier, but a caretaker, again, because of Dean.

“I-” he stutters, clearing his throat, pulling Charlie closer to him, ignoring the way her arms thrash against his face, her wails stifled by his coat. “I’m-” he’s cut off as she lets out another ear-piercing shriek and Dean winces in response, dropping the grocery bags he’s holding and sitting down next to Castiel.

“A screamer, eh?” he gestures to the crying infant in the angel’s arms and Castiel can only nod, tongue-tied, his heart racing within his chest.

“I don-” he clears his throat again, “I don't know why she’s…” he trails off, shrugging and Dean smiles.

It’s a tired, weak smile, but a smile all the same and Castiel’s heart soars at the sight of it.

“May-may I?” he gestures to the sobbing baby hesitantly and before he knows what he’s doing, Castiel nods and has handed Charlie to her father.

It’s almost eerie, the way in which she falls silent.

The moment she’s passed over to Dean, she stops screaming, her Grace knocking past Castiel’s and reaching for Dean’s soul, warm and shy. Her eyes are still filled with tears, but they are open and her cries are dying down to small whinnies and hiccups.

Dean’s own eyes go wide at the way in which she responds to him and he looks up at Castiel with an awkward smile.

“Uh, she… I, um…” he stammers and Castiel shakes his head mutely, unable to say anything because this is as it should be, Charlie is where she should be - and Dean doesn't even know it.

The quiet sting of rejection from his charge hurts more than Castiel would ever admit to; she wants her father , and the fact is, Castiel is not her father.

Castiel is not her anything .

The knowledge sits bitter on his tongue as he bites his lip, swallowing hard.

“She’s… she’s…” he doesn’t know what to say and Dean’s gaze turns soft as he looks back down at the infant sniffling in his arms.

“New father?” he asks softly.

The bittersweet irony of it makes Castiel want to laugh and cry at the same time; the tears burn hot in his eyes and he blinks them away harshly, tilting his head at the hunter.

“You’re good with children,” he states roughly and Dean shakes his head in response. “You… you make a good father.”

Because he does ; whether he admits to it or not, Dean was as much a father to Sam as John Winchester was and Castiel knows, better than anyone, how much the instinct is grained into him.

The way he’s holding Charlie now, as if she’s something precious, cradling her carefully in his arms, instinctively protective, is testament to that fact, even if he won't accept it.

“Nah, man,” Dean mutters, “I… I have- had a kid brother.”

The expression on his face is bleak and it breaks Castiel’s heart. He opens his mouth to tell him that Dean still has a younger brother, one that is walking and talking and has prayed to Castiel more times than he can count.

But that isn’t Sam, is it? It’s the shell of what was once the younger Winchester and it’s because Castiel failed that Sam is still stuck in the Cage.

Dean had a younger brother before Castiel’s family destroyed him.

So he closes his mouth again and sighs, reclining against the stone bench, a sudden exhaustion tingling beneath his bones. His head hurts and his Grace is shrinking into his too-small, too-human form and he wonders numbly what Dean is going to say when he tells him the truth.

Looking at the way he’s holding Charlie now, Castiel is hard pressed to believe that Dean would kill her - but he would, wouldn’t he? Charlie isn't human and even if Dean decides not to kill her, he doesn’t think he’d be able to accept her as she is - he wouldn't be able to provide nourishment to Charlie’s Grace the way Castiel can.

And yet, it’s her father that she’s seeking out.

The sudden resentment tastes vile so he swallows it down and pretends it doesn’t exist.

“I see,” he mutters. “I…” he hesitates and then continues determinedly, “I lost my siblings this past year,” he offers.

It’s not something he likes to think about, but he has - how many angels died in the wake of the failed Apocalypse? Michael’s schemes and Zachariah’s plans have destroyed many a brother and sister - Uriel, who fell to temptation, Israfel and Balthazar who were killed in battle with the demons - Anna , who Michael killed, but went darkside because Castiel threw her to the dogs.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but simply offers him a jerky nod. Silence falls between them, heavy and stifling and Castiel doesn’t know how to tell him, how to ask him for help, when he’s already given so, so much.

His temple throbs and the angel reaches out with a shaking hand to rub at his forehead when Charlie’s soft sniffles pick up again. Dean looks down at her, rubbing her palm gently, but she begins to flail in his arms, reaching out a second time, her Grace now pushing against Dean’s soul.

A moment later, she’s crying loudly, fat tears rolling down flushed cheeks. Startled, Dean tries to calm her, holding her close and murmuring softly, but Charlie isn't having any of that, her wails growing steadily louder.

Castiel’s head flies up a second time as her Grace connects with his, shyly coiling around his own, even as it reaches for her father.

She isn't rejecting him, he realizes, she wants him.

The warmth and the pride pools in his gut so fast, it makes him lightheaded. He opens his Grace to hers instantly, letting her essence mix with his, her soul shining at the presence of both her caretaker and her father.

He holds his arms out for her, and Dean stares at him wide-eyed when he gestures that the hunter should return her to him. For a long moment, he looks down at the hiccuping child he’s holding and then back at Castiel again, before he hands the baby over.

Their fingers brush as Castiel accepts Charlie and pulls her close; for a moment, Dean hesitates, his grip on her tightening before he lets her go.

Even if he can’t explain it, Dean feels a pull towards her - Castiel sees the way his soul shines with the reluctance to let her go. Charlie settles in his arms and sucks at his skin hungrily; her prickly wings are softening and whimsically, the angel wonders if Dean could feel them. He showed no inclination of being able to feel them, so he probably didn't.

“I gotta get goin’, man,” he suddenly says and gets to his feet, picking up the grocery bags again. Bending down, he runs a soft hand through Charlie’s crimson hair, soothing the tangled mess, before squeezing her shoulder lightly.

“Be good for your Dad, kiddo,” he mutters. She gurgles at him and Dean’s smile is tender as he waves at Castiel, before walking out of the park and heading home.

As though she senses her father’s departure, Charlie begins to squirm in his arms again, sniffling, and Castiel quickly shields them both, taking to the skies. Her Grace is seeking, refusing to let go of Dean, but she’s still open to him, mingling with his own essences even as she longs for her sire.

Charlie wants both of them , he realizes. She wants Castiel’s Grace and Dean’s soul - she’s a product of both, belongs to both, and it isn't fair of him to deny her what she needs.

So he follows Dean to his new home. Charlie remains quiet in his arms, sniffling and hiccuping occasionally, but she doesn’t cry - as long as she’s close to Dean, it seems, she’s not too upset, even if her soul thrums with the need to be petted and held by the hunter.

He can no longer hide the truth, he understands. Because as much as he’s terrified that Dean will reject Charlie, he can’t deny the infant her need to know her father. And he wonders if he isn’t judging Dean too harshly - in all the time he’s known him, the righteous man has never denied anyone who would need his help, supernatural being or not.

Dean’s propensity to love and his compassion, after all, were what drew Castiel to him in the first place.

And so he goes, holding Dean’s daughter to his chest and soothing her with whispering tendrils of his Grace as he promises to unite her with her father.

He doesn’t know what is going to happen; he doesn’t know if Dean will accept her or how he is going to react to the news of Sam or Raphael or how badly Castiel has messed up - he doesn’t know .

He doesn’t know, but he has faith.

The stirring of hope in his chest is an indomitable, if a novel feeling. Dean is his friend , surely he will forgive Castiel? Surely, he will understand that the angel never meant any harm, has only ever tried to protect those he cares for?

Dean will understand, Castiel thinks, because Dean never turns away those that he loves. And while the flame that he carries for his friend isn’t entirely platonic, he knows - knows - that Dean considers him family, and it is something the angel cherishes.

Charlie’s innocent coo distracts him for a moment, and he looks down at her, a small smile curving the corner of his lips as he watches her eyes dart across the ether. She’s his family too, Castiel thinks, and wonders if the Dean who only ever had Sam would come to predict just how big his family would -

Castiel stumbles to a stop in front of Lisa Braeden’s house, as reality tears its ugly way through his fantasy, crushing that small, fragile root of hope that had seeded itself within his Grace. Charlie’s coos turn into quiet whimpers as she senses the change in his mood, and Castiel tightens his grip around her, cocooning her in the warmth of his wings protectively, his heart hammering.

Because, right there, on the porch, is Dean - with Lisa and her son (Ben, Castiel remembers), hugging them both with a soft smile on his face.

The look on the boy’s face is telling; his features are arranged into an expression of pure admiration and warmth, the same kind that Charlie’s Grace shone with when Dean held her. He’s hanging on to every word that the hunter is saying, nodding vigorously and grinning back.

And it strikes him then - Dean is a father, but maybe he’s not Charlie’s father. Not yet, and maybe never.

Because Ben is a normal, human child, where Charlie isn’t . Because Ben soothes the hurt that churns within Dean at the loss of Sam, because Ben is close enough to Sam that he can offer comfort, but far enough that he is not a reminder of the brother that he lost.

Because Ben isn’t supernatural and his existence does not tell Dean every single day that the angels destroyed everything he loved - he’s removed, distanced from the world that took everything from the Winchesters, and perhaps, that is what Dean needs to heal.

Charlie is a reminder of everything he left behind.

And Lisa… Castiel has known this jealousy just once before, felt the hot lick of it burning through his Grace - when Anna placed her hand over his mark on Dean’s shoulder and took what the hunter offered her. He feels that same envy now, in the way Dean leans into Lisa’s touch for comfort, in the way he kisses her cheek and offers her a small, but true smile.

The last time Dean smiled at him was at the brothel, when Castiel had made quite the fool of himself.

Lisa is safe, comfortable and a promise Dean made to Sam - it strikes the angel then, that he never really stood a chance of bringing the hunter back into the fold. Because it was a promise to Sam , and Dean never breaks a promise he made to his brother.

The bitterness and resentment spring up so fast, it turns him almost lightheaded. His Grace turns dark as ash, and Charlie sniffles, a soft cry brewing in her throat. He glances down at the way her wings prickle and itch against his own and with a quiet apology, he presses two fingers to her forehead, sending her into a deep slumber, where she will not be able to sense the ugliness of his thoughts.

He watches, quiet and invisible, as Lisa presses her lips to Dean’s again and again. Dean lets her, responds to her and he doesn't know why he feels like something white-hot is plunging into his chest at the sight.

Ben runs back into the house, carrying the grocery bags with him, and Dean chuckles, wrapping an arm around Lisa’s waist, whispering something soft into her ear. She reaches out to smack him across the chest and untangles herself from his embrace, walking to where a rake lies on the ground, and picks it up.

She throws it at Dean, who catches it reflexively and raises an eyebrow at her.

“Finish the yard, mister,” she calls merrily, “And then maybe we can discuss what you receive in payment.”

Castiel flushes at the slow, lingering look Dean offers the woman; she laughs in response and turns back, walking towards the house with a sway to her hips that he is sure is meant to be a tease. Dean certainly seems to think so, for he offers her an appreciative whistle.

“As you wish, Ma’am,” he calls out, swinging the rake back and forth and Lisa’s laugh echoes as she vanishes beyond the door.

Dean’s face falls the second she is gone, a quiet, lonely despair that Castiel understands. He has a family, he loves them, but they cannot be everything that he needs, though they certainly seem to be trying.

He’s caught, Castiel realizes, between who he is and who he has to be. But even then, Dean’s soul is calmer, more grounded than the angel has seen it be since Sam, and he cannot deny the truth - Lisa and Ben aren’t what Dean wants , but they seem to be what he needs in the wake of Sam’s death.

They are helping him heal, and maybe not just from Sam. They offer him a sense of stability, a grounded reality that has escaped him since the death of Mary Winchester, and while the hunter in Dean is dissatisfied, the little boy in him is ecstatic to have a home again.

“That’s quite the abomination you’re carrying.”

The voice, smooth as silk, unerringly British and a quiet whisper of evil has Castiel whirling around on one foot, his grip on his charge tightening, even as his wings whip out to cover the baby in a protective embrace and hide her from prying eyes.

Crowley stands behind him, a smirk on his face and an eyebrow raised as he tilts his head towards the infant hidden in the angel’s arms.

“Castiel, Angel of Thursday,” he greets. “Just not your day, is it? Do your brothers and sisters know about the half-breed you’re luggin’ around like a puppy?”

Castiel growls.

“Watch your tongue or I will remove it from your body,” he snaps back at the demon. The stench of him is vile, cruel and painful - he wants away, away , where Crowley can no longer touch Charlie, where his charge will be safe of such evil.

“Truth hurts, mate,” Crowley shrugs. Behind them, Dean continues to rake leaves, unaware of the confrontation taking place on his behalf.

Castiel stiffens, standing up straight and offering Crowley his darkest glare. He will not let him harm Dean or Charlie - he will smite the demon before he can even think of it.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“I want to help you help me help ourselves,” Crowley answers, smirk growing and Castiel stares at him in confusion, Grace ready to strike at a moment’s note of hostility.

“Speak plain,” he snarls back, tense.

“I want to discuss a simple business transaction, that’s all,” comes the unexpected offer and Castiel blinks.

“You wanna make a deal?” he asks, “With me ?”

Crowley doesn't answer, but the smug look of victory on his face says it all.

“I’m an angel, you ass,” Castiel snorts and a distant part of his mind notes that he’s taken to using a number of Earthen colloquialisms - he’s changed, he’s no longer the angel who fell. Perhaps, he’s no longer even the angel who returned to Heaven after the Apocalypse.

Behind them, Dean picks up the rake and carries the mound of leaves he’s collected over to the plastic bag that lies on the wooden bench.

“I don’t have a soul to sell.”

Castiel doesn’t know if the demon detects the slight resentment, the quiet worry in his tone; he doesn’t have a soul and he’s powerless in the face of Raphael’s wrath.

Crowley, instead of turning back as Castiel expects him to, only smirks wider. His eyes linger on Charlie, a greedy, dark look on his face, and the angel shifts, wings turning prickly in defense as he glares back at the demon.

“But that’s it, isn’t it?” he grins, “It’s all of it. It’s the souls, it all comes down to the souls in the end, doesn’t it?”

Tomorrow, Raphael will demand his servitude and Castiel doesn’t know what to do.

He’s helpless.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demands.

“Raphael’s head on a pike,” Crowley tells him smugly and Castiel’s eyes snap to the demon’s whose smug look turns downright predatory.

“I’m talking about happy endings for all of us, with all possible entrendres intended.”

His eyes trace Charlie’s form and he tilts his head towards the infant in an indicative movement and Castiel feels an irrational urge to smite him.

“You stay away from her,” he snarls and Crowley blinks. “I have no interest in talking with you.”

“Why not?” if he didn’t know any better, he would almost say that the crossroads demon is pouting . “I’m very interesting,” he continues. “And I promise I won’t even touch your half-breed mud-monkey-with-angel-stink.”

Castiel growls and in one swift move, has Crowley pinned against the tree behind him, his angel blade held right below the demon’s neck, the sharp tip of it poking into the skin.

“You will leave her alone ,” he hisses, “Or I will smite you like the scum you are.”

Crowley shows no signs of fear, instead smirking back confidently.

“Come now,” his voice is cajoling, as though he were speaking to a child, “No need for theatrics. I apologize if I’ve hurt your feelings, but your… child , is it?... your child is quite the curiosity, you must admit.”

“She is a baby ,” Castiel snaps through gritted teeth. “Leave her out of this.”

Crowley tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Alrigh’,” he sighs, “but come on. You think Raphael is going to accept an abomination such as her? Not that I think she is!” the demon says quickly when Castiel growls again at that description, “But you know you angels are a stuck up lot. I don't doubt that dear old Raffy will have her killed in a moment should he learn of her existence.”

There is a thinly veiled threat in that statement and Castiel is no fool. He steps back, letting the demon go and pulls Charlie closer to his chest - the sudden movement has served to awaken her, despite his spell, and she’s whimpering as he moves her from his wings to his arms, holding her close and soothing her with his Grace.

“Come on,” Crowley tells him. “Hear me out. Five minutes, no obligations. I promise.”

There is a moment of silence and Castiel, cuddling Charlie to his chest, turns back to where Dean is now packing the leaves into the plastic bag, a tired draw to his limbs. Charlie breathes against his neck, soft inhales and exhales of breath that feel fresh against his human form, and her Grace is spilling into the ether, mixing drops of herself with him and Dean, content to be near her father and her angel.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

It would, perhaps, be a stretch to say that Dean is happy here. Without Sam by his side, Castiel doubts that the hunter can ever be truly happy - Sam was Dean’s purpose, has been since the day the younger Winchester was born. Losing him tore a part of Dean from himself and that part makes up the epicentre of his very identity.

But Dean is at peace, even if he is not happy. He is content, he has a home and a family - of sorts - and he no longer looks over his shoulder every night, in anticipation of the next nasty thing that is going to come after him. He isn’t happy , but he’s content , and Castiel doesn’t know if he can take that away from him.

He looks down at Charlie, Grace thrumming with the need to protect, to love and to shelter - she’s an innocent, in the way all children are. Loathe as he is to admit it, Crowley is right; Raphael would destroy her without a second thought and the idea of losing her… it makes his Grace turn dark with pain and anguish.

He can no longer contemplate a world without her in it - he cannot lose her.

She is so very precious to him, perhaps, even more than Dean. Because where Dean can defend himself, Charlie has no power of her own, has no one to speak for her except him, except Castiel , who must now serve as her protector and voice, where her own sire can no longer do so.

He offers Dean one last look - the hunter is now walking back into the house, whistling softly and stretching his arms to the sky to relieve the tension in his back.

Dean doesn’t need him, no matter how much Castiel wants to return to his life. Dean is out, he’s no longer a hunter and even without Sam, he’s begun to carve out a space for himself with Lisa, with Ben, who provide the home he’s always needed.

Charlie has no one but him and her protection must remain foremost in his mind, for she is the last living link to Dean that he has. Suddenly, irrationally, it occurs to Castiel, that she is his child - he would never presume to take the role of her father, but she is his charge and he will protect her from the world, from Raphael and anything that would cause harm to her.

He will protect her, as Dean’s protected Sam.

And to do that, he must stop Raphael, even if it means making a deal with the Devil - or with the Devil’s protegee, in this instance.

These are the facts.

Castiel is a strategist, always has been.

So he turns his back deliberately on Dean and whips his wings out. Charlie wiggles in his embrace, close to waking again, and he tugs her close, looking up at Crowley with a warning glare when the demon glances at them with a snide smile.

“Five minutes,” he tells him tersely, “And you will agree to a binding spell to hide her existence or I will smite you where you stand.”

Before the demon can answer, he takes to the sky, heading for Missouri’s so he can drop Charlie off with the psychic.

He has a battle strategy to plan.

*-*-*

“You can save us, Castiel. God chose you to save us.”

Castiel knows - knows - that Crowley’s greatest weapon is not his demon powers, but his silver tongue. It’s how he was King of the Crossroads for so long, it’s how he no doubt managed to gain control of Hell in so short a time since the end of the Apocalypse, it’s how he operates. And yet, despite the sin of pride, Castiel is not devoid of it - Crowley’s words ring true in his ears and pride and knowledge pool hot in his Grace.

“Think of what would happen to that hybrid child you’re so fond of if you submit to Raphael,” Crowley continues. “He’d make mincemeat out of her, just as he’d gobble you up without a second thought. 50 grand, Castiel. Take the souls and make a showing. And we have ourselves a deal.”

For a long moment, Castiel simply stares at the smirking demon - images flash across his eyes, of Dean, crying over a closed gate to the Cage, of Sam jumping into the open hole in the ground to save the world, of Bobby dead on the ground and of his own self being blown into bits and pieces at Lucifer’s hand… of returning, stronger than before and thinking, God brought me back for a reason , of bringing Sam’s body without his soul, of Charlie’s screams, of Missouri’s warmth, of Raphael’s smirk.

...of Dean’s bitterness and desolation and hesitant peace, with Lisa and Ben - without Castiel, without Sam.

He accepts the souls and takes the deal.

*-*-*

“There will be no Apocalypse,” he announces in the wake of Raphael’s disappearance. “And let it be known - you’re either with me, or you’re with Raphael.”

He walks out, every step exuding confidence, Grace thrumming with the power of the fifty thousand souls he’s swallowed. He’s aware of the angels behind him staring after him in varying mixtures of awe, rage, disgust and fear - pride and worry both war for dominance in his mind, but he ignores both and heads straight for where the souls in Heaven are located, honing in on Samuel Campbell.

It’s more trouble to build Dean’s grandfather a body than it was for Dean himself, but Castiel manages. He settles the old man’s soul into his new form, but he doesn’t stick around to see how he fares - he leaves that up to Crowley, preferring to keep his own role in the resurrection quiet.

The thought of revealing his… partnership… with the demon to the man who was Dean’s grandfather - it’s unsettling.

Castiel refuses to examine the feeling further, swallowing the shame away and heading to Missouri’s, where Charlie awaits.

*-*-*

Missouri glares at him the moment he lands at her house.

She’s holding a screaming Charlie, the infant kicking and shrieking within her grip, refusing to be soothed into sleep by the psychic who looks tired and gaunt. And yet, when Castiel uncloaks himself and fades into existence, she whirls around on one nimble foot and offers him her strongest glare.

“ Out ,” she orders, “I dunno where you been, boy, but I can sense the demon all ove-”

She’s cut off by yet another shriek from the newborn whose face is flushed blood-red from her tears. Her Grace is searching, looking - it pushes against his, knocks and careens into his own, wanting a touch he cannot provide.

This time, Castiel understands what she wants as he did not when they were flying.

And this time, he still cannot provide her with the warmth she seeks.

“Charlie, bug, you need to calm down,” Missouri’s voice is tired and she’s almost begging the infant. “Baby, you’re gonn’ hurt yourself.”

She looks up at the angel and scowls, as though it’s his fault. Castiel does not say anything, but simply inclines his head and holds his arms out.

Missouri pulls Charlie closer to herself and shakes her head. “I can feel the demon-taint over you,” she snaps, “If you think I’m lettin’ you get near her-”

Charlie’s wail interrupts as the newborn emits a loud screech, pinching the psychic’s skin angrily. She wants him and she wants him now and Castiel suddenly doesn’t care about Missouri or her reticence.

He can't give Charlie what she truly needs, but he will not stand to watch her suffer needlessly.

“Missouri,” he tells her, keeping his voice calm despite of the turmoil raging beneath his human skin, “It is true that I met with demons… but do you truly believe me naive enough to consort with them? Do you think I would cause my own charge harm?”

Missouri looks at him long and hard, her gaze suspicious, before she abruptly turns away and snorts.

“I dunno what fool errand you’re runnin’,” she says quietly, walking forward to place the sobbing infant in his waiting arms, “And I don’ care.”

She looks straight at him, her eyes hard. “I know you love Dean and I know you love Charlie. That’s the only reason I ain’t banshin’ your ass outta here right now.”

She runs a hand through the baby’s dark red hair, nuzzling her wet cheek with an affectionate finger.

“She’s yours,” she mutters, “Protect her.”

Before Castiel can respond, she whirls back around and walks away, leaving the angel with a wailing infant.

Charlie wants Dean - she wants her father. And Castiel wishes so, so hard that he could give him to her.

He’s startled to realize that he never wants this baby to be in want of anything; it hurts, of course, that any child should lack warmth or love, but that this one would…

Castiel doesn’t understand how or why, but it’s much more personal, much more painful that he cannot give Charlie what she wants.

“Mw aa hsha a hha ha ,” she wails, her Grace seeking Dean’s soul. “Waagaghajjja…”

Her tears and sniffles are painful; if Castiel understands right, she hasn’t stopped crying since he dropped her off yesterday.

She’s been searching for Dean since then.

Sudden fury, hot and crude, rages within his veins - how could he have been stupid enough to close himself off?

He hadn’t wanted her to feel even a lick of Hell; he went down to meet with Crowley and for all that he needs the demon, he wants Charlie far, far away from that mess. He never wants her to encounter that kind of evil, ever.

So he shut himself off, closed his Grace to all but the loudest of calls, keeping their connection only open enough that he knew she was alive.

He should’ve known that she would need him, that she would sense her separation from her father.

Swallowing back the curse words that rise to his lips, he moves over to the bed and settles down on it, pulling her still-sobbing form close to himself. Her wings prick and they poke, fluttering about uselessly in helpless anger - they’re raring to go, ready to fly to her sire, if they would but mature.

It hurts to look at.

Without another thought, Castiel opens his Grace to Charlie’s fully, allowing her small and pained Grace to milk his own, drinking in his presence. He isn't her father, he isn't her anything -

- but he’s her everything right now.

She sniffles, her cries dying down into a soft whinny that grates against his ears. She hiccups, a baby soft sound that he sighs at, even as he runs his hand through the tangled mess of her hair, gently untangling each knot and rubbing his fingers against her scalp.

Humans, he knows, are tactile. From his experience in falling and learning to understand the vessel he inhabits now, he remembers that it was soothing and comforting - touch is everything a child needs.

It certainly seems to be what Charlie needs.

She nuzzles into his neck, her wings finally softening into warm, downy feathers, and he hums in his chest, rumbling and soothing her as much as he can.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” he whispers, Grace melding with hers without hesitation. The parts of her that are so utterly Dean heal the confusion he feels, strengthening his resolve. And the little bit of Anna in her - the resolve, the determination and warmth - it strangely, enough, soothes his need for his siblings.

Castiel has never really liked being alone.

So he pulls her even closer and sings softly, wishing he could give her what she wants.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. She doesn’t respond and he looks down to see that she has finally fallen asleep, tired and exhausted from the screaming and the wailing.

He isn't her father, but he’s all that she has.

And for now, he is enough.

*-*-*

The war begins.

It’s brutal, it’s painful and every time Castiel thinks he’s gaining ground, he loses another soldier. Every time he sinks his own blade into the Grace of another angel, he looks into the face of beloved brother or a sister.

It hurts.

It burns his own Grace.

And then there is Crowley - the demon, once the deal is sealed, pushes and demands everything Castiel has to give. He orders long searches, comes up with the plan to find the Alphas of all the monster races and puts his henchmen - demon and human - to full use. Castiel is surprised to see the rest of the Campbell bloodline aid Samuel in his efforts to find the Alphas, but then, he supposes, the patriarch has probably kept them in the dark about his true intentions.

Just as Castiel is keeping his own soldiers in the dark about his purpose of opening Purgatory - guilt is an ugly, illogical thing that tears his Grace and splinters it, rendering him weak in battle. It is impractical and irrational and ever the strategist, Castiel pushes it down, focuses on doing what needs to be done. If nothing else, the Winchesters have taught him that much.

It isn’t long before Sam joins Samuel.

It isn't surprising, but it stings - some part of Castiel is still possessive of his old charges and to watch his friend move around with his grandfather instead of his brother hurts.

But then Sam isn’t Sam and that’s Castiel’s fault; as wrong as it is to see a Sam without Dean, as wrong as it feels to watch Dean suffer in silence without his brother, Castiel will bear that cross - because he failed.

The search for Purgatory continues. Leading a double life, hiding his true intention from his brothers and sisters who are so very loyal - Castiel buries the guilt each time it raises its ugly head.

Charlie provides his safe haven, even if Missouri becomes more and more guarded each time he shows up at her house, reeking of demon. Her psychic powers are strong enough that she can perceive the demon stench each time he comes into contact with Crowley or one of his goons, but she doesn’t say anything.

Castiel suspects it’s because Charlie needs him so - she’s never happy without him there.

Truly, she keeps him sane.

Angels aren’t meant to lead or to even choose; leading a charge such as this, while playing his cards so close to his chest is taking a toll on him. While it is prudent battle strategy for a commander to fragment the plan and be the only one in full possession of all facts, it’s a heavy burden to bear - Castiel wonders, sardonically, if he has ever been up to the task.

In between, he hears Sam’s prayers to him, calling him and demanding an explanation. He makes visits to Dean’s house, watching his friend quietly, even as the hunter continues his search to bring his brother back, collecting books and information and whatever he can think of - to no avail.

Sam is gone. Forever. And Castiel has failed, twice.

He will not fail this battle as well.

The passage of time is nearly uncontested - months pass, measured only by the length of the battle and Charlie’s growth.

When Castiel returns to her after the first battle in the Outer Realm with Raphael, he’s exhausted, Grace tired and slinking into his human form in a tight manner that is reminiscent of his fall during the Apocalypse. For a brief span of time, he wants nothing to do with the civil war he has instigated; he wants to forget, wants to just rest and step back from the responsibility he’s shouldering.

Because every choice he makes, every strategy he executes - they have consequences. They mean the lives of his brothers and sisters and Castiel thought he knew, but free will is so much uglier than he was prepared for.

So when he steps into her nursery, he admits to himself that he’s running, that for the space of a few moments, he will rest.

He does not anticipate just how much she’s grown. In human terms, on Earth, it has been close to three months since he was here last; he’s carefully siphoned off a small portion of his Grace to always remit to the infant, cautiously hiding that part of himself from the rest of his siblings to keep her safe. It’s the only reason Charlie hasn’t demanded his presence more than he can give and has been content in Missouri’s care.

After all, leaving Dean behind was hard enough on her - Castiel had to soothe her into sleep for close to a week before her weary Grace accepted that it would have to survive without the touch of her sire. She’s only months old, but she already knows pain and sorrow; she’s a true Winchester.

So over the past weeks, he’s been monitoring her growth, soothing her with his Grace when she is agitated, allowing her childish innocence to keep his own Grace from turning dark when he loses yet another brother in battle as she learns to understand the world around her.

But Castiel is unprepared for just how much she has grown physically. He expects a small form, with reddish-pink skin, fragile and delicate.

The reddish-pink of a newborn has faded into a healthy flush that spreads across her face and Castiel is shocked - she can hold her own head up as she throws her arms and legs across her face in recognition of him. Her Grace is growing, expanding, already strong and powerful and her green eyes widen as he stands in front of her, a toothless, gummy grin splitting her heart-shaped face.

She reaches for him, intent clearly written across her soul, and he bends down to pick her up, noting how her wings are already bludgeoning into pairs of iridescent color and magnificence. They’ve grown bigger, able to now fully wrap across his shoulders, hinting at their true, final length - she is going to be no less than any angel’s. And perhaps he is biased, but he suspects that she will be more beautiful than all of them.

Castiel is also unprepared for the shock of emotion that pulses through his Grace and vessel alike as he picks her up and holds her close. She sucks at the skin of his neck in a motion that is familiar and soothing and her wings wrap themselves around his own in comfort and warmth.

The baby smell, however, is the same - that hasn’t changed, just as her Grace’s welcoming affection remains. She coos at him, batting his face with her tiny little fingers, and for a moment, the world - Raphael, Crowley, his siblings, Heaven and Hell - it all fades away.

This is why Castiel fights, he reminds himself. Because Charlie must be protected and no one else is capable of offering what he can. Because Dean isn’t capable of it and God must have returned him with a purpose and Castiel must strategize, must be rational, must do what has to be done.

And so, he goes back, herding wayward angels into the fight, teaching them what he can about free will. But it is a hard task, harder than anything else he’s ever attempted, because angels do not understand why they must have free will - they do not ask questions.

Bobby calls for him, barely a week later and Castiel, in the middle of holding off an attack, stumbles, nearly tripping. In all the chaos and the madness, the angel had nearly forgotten the oldest hunter of the lot, having checked on him only once after he had brought him back to life.

Cas, ya idjit, answer your damn phone, will ya? Did you do it, Cas? Did you bust Sam out like you did Dean? Or is it somethin’ else? Just answer, damn it!

The hope in Bobby’s voice, tinged with that frisson of fear… it’s more than Castiel can take - because he did bring Sam back up, but he didn’t and it’s a distinction that’s becoming more painful with every lie he tells.

Rachel pulls him back from the attack, pleading with him to be more careful as Hester kills the brother who was about to plunge his blade into Castiel. He sighs, turning to them, and finds their expressions similar ones of confusion and grief as they pester him about why he is so very distracted by a few humans.

Castiel does not know how to explain to them what he’s learnt, that humans are tenacious and strong and so very beautiful - that they adapt, change and choose in a way that angels seem to be incapable of doing. They do not understand his reasoning, he sees, and instead simply orders them back to their posts with a statement of gratitude for saving his life.

After a point of time, it becomes easier to just hand the orders out; explaining each command is time consuming and a waste of effort, since not one of his brothers or sisters understand.

It works - angels are not leaders, but followers. And Castiel is their commander; it makes sense to them, their trust in him absolute.

It is a heady feeling.

The only thing that is even more powerful than the pride and glory of battle singing through his Grace is returning to Charlie and watching as she begins to crawl, five months old and more advanced than the average human. She’s flipped to her front, her bony knees and small feet already clenching and reaching, ready to run and walk - she’s as restless and energetic as her father is.

*-*-*

Castiel is in the middle of organizing his troops with Rachel and Hester when Crowley calls for him. His face snaps up and he jerks in the direction of the demon before he pulls back and turns to his sisters.

“Cas?” Rachel calls, her eyes narrowed and suspicious. She wants to ask, he knows, longs to know where it is he keeps flitting off to. But she is too good a soldier, too good at following commands to question him - it sends guilt spiking through his Grace if he thinks about it, because he’s deceiving her.

He is deceiving them all.

Raphael will destroy them all if he doesn’t open Purgatory, he convinces himself.

“I must go,” he tells his sisters. “I need… I-”

I need Dean. I need direction, I need Charlie and I need to not fail this time.

He can't voice any of it out, can't let them know his doubts. Because he’s their commander and he cannot appear weak or the army will fall apart.

So he simply turns abruptly and takes to the skies.

“Get the troops ready,” he calls back, “I must fly for some time.”

Rachel tilts her head in acquiescence - if there’s anything angels understand, it’s the need to spread their wings once in a while.

Castiel heads down to where Crowley awaits his presence impatiently. The demon growls at him when he fades into existence and throws a pair of keys at him, pointing at the closed door to the warehouse behind him.

“Took your sweet time, cupcake,” he snarls, “Now go do your thing… he won’t talk to me, maybe your angelic self can pull somethin’ outta that critter.”

He vanishes a moment later and Castiel heads inside to find the Alpha Wendigo strapped to the chair inside, blood dripping from his sides, clearly already tortured and questioned.

It sickens his Grace, but he does what he has to do - he continues the torture.

In fact, he uses some of the torture techniques he observed in Dean’s mind as he once put the hunter together. All said and done, Alistair had been a master of manipulation and pain; there’s almost an art to the way Castiel pulls on the wendigo’s skin, Grace swirling with a strange mix of revulsion and morbid fascination.

Because Dean’s torture - Alistair’s torture - works.

The promise of freedom brings about a sudden and almost unexpected surrender from the Alpha, who tells him what little he knows about Purgatory. The Mother-of-All, he knows, and the Wendigo begs him to be let go once he’s given up that information.

Castiel sinks his angel blade into the Alpha’s gut, watching without a word as the wendigo slumps, blood splattering across the angel’s face and staining his coat a dark red.

His Grace is simmering, coiling with tension and Castiel doesn’t know what he’s doing - he’s drowning, drowning -

His hands come away bloody and his angel blade is as stained as his coat and -

Castiel takes to the skies, ignoring the mess he leaves behind. Crowley’s demons can clean it up, right now, he just needs away. He needs to not think, to push down this feeling of utter slime and wrong and filth that’s crawling across his Grace.

What is he doing?

Why does it feel so very wrong?

He’s a strategist, he does what must be done, and yet, why does his Grace feel tainted every time he meets with Crowley or continues his charade with his foot soldiers?

He’s no different from Michael and Zachariah, he muses bitterly. He’s as manipulative as his superiors once were.

“Do-doa-doah!”

Castiel is flying in the direction of the babble before he can think; he ignores the tension bubbling beneath his skin, ignores the way the blood drips off the edge of his coat.

Charlie’s calling.

He’s grateful that Missouri is sleeping when he arrives; he doesn’t think the elder psychic would be pleased to see him looking so torn up and shattered.

The baby is crying loudly when he comes - he presses his hands together, igniting a spark of his Grace to make the blood vanish, but he remains stained and tainted as he goes to her.

She senses his presence and her cries grow softer. Her soul sparks not only with recognition, but also faith, and the numbness in Castiel that has been growing since he killed the Alpha recedes the slightest bit.

“Do-agaba-dah-” she babbles incoherently, kicking her arms up in a gesture that he knows is indicative of her need to be held.

He’s messy, covered in filth and blood and yet, he gives it no thought as he crosses the room to her crib and picks her up.

Charlie latches on to him, pulling at his trenchcoat and nuzzling closer. Hot, wetness pools against the skin of his neck and he looks down to see that she’s crying quietly, shoving her small fist into her mouth.

Frowning, he gently raises his own fingers to pull her fingers out of her mouth, the drool sliding down the side of her chin as she yanks her hand back and lets out a loud shriek of protest.

“Nahagaga!” she yells, and then latches on to his neck, sucking hard -

Ow.

That’s new.

She’s growing teeth - Charlie has teeth .

That’s the source of her ire.

Castiel’s Grace shudders and thunderous joy bubbles beneath his skin as he looks down at his pouting charge who has shoved her fingers into her mouth again, scowling in a manner that he finds entirely adorable.

He turns around, intent on pacing across the room as he soothes her to sleep and stops short as he catches his own reflection within the glass windows that decorate Charlie's nursery.  

Castiel… He's no angel, he muses bitterly, as he takes in the way his form bends over the infant in his arms.  

Charlie's red head rests next to his heart, pillowed against his trench coat for warmth and comfort.  But that's not what shocks him.

Because right there, next to the sunny redness of Charlie's hair, is an ugly, dark crimson patch that is slowly turning brown.  

The juxtaposition of Charlie's innocence with the taint of his own actions from the evening… it makes Castiel want to throw up in an entirely human fashion.  

He's falling, but not as he was when the Apocalypse was happening… He's tainted in a manner that he wasn't previously.  

Charlie's small whiny pulls him out of his head. He looks down to see her sniffling, lower lip jutting out in a faint pout as she gums at her own fingers vigorously.  

“Doodoah,” she babbles and reaches for his face - wet fingers swipe across his chin as she grabs his nose and pulls as hard as she can.  

Even as numb as he is, as bitter as he feels, he cannot stop the smile that she pulls from him.

He's tainted, lost and confused, but no matter what happens, Charlie wants him and only him.

She loves him.

And for the first time this evening, Castiel feels his Grace settle into something resembling peace as he walks across the room, holding the infant.  

It won't last, but it's enough for now.

*-*-*

Charlie is eight months old when Dean finally, finally calls for him.

“Now I lay me down to sleep… and I pray to Castiel to get his feathery ass down here.”

In all honesty, Castiel cannot say that he’s surprised; Crowley has been keeping him apprised of the situation and he knows that Sam has reunited with Dean and is now back to hunting with him.

It hurts, that Dean did not call the minute his brother returned. It hurts, that Dean did not call for him as soon as he found out the truth, as soon as he came back.

It’s a hurt that Castiel pushes down, because he has no right to ask that of his friend - when has Dean ever called but when he’s in need of something that only an angel can provide?

“Come on, Cas,” Dean calls again, “Don't be a dick.”

For a long moment that fills his Grace with resentment and bitterness, Castiel considers ignoring this call.

But this is too important; Heaven’s weapons seem to have made their way into human hands and he cannot ignore the sheer power this arsenal contains.

“Got ourselves a plague-like situation down here and… do you…?  Do you copy?”

“Like is said,” the shell of Sam proclaims, “The son of a bitch doesn’t answer.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, meeting his own across his brother's head, and for just a second, Castiel’s Grace thrums with affection and warmth at being so very close to him. His soul is just as beautiful as he remembers, shines as brightly and the angel breathes in deeply, savoring the sense of all that is Dean , that he’s only been getting secondhand glimpses of from Dean’s daughter in these past months.

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” Sam sighs and turns to them as Castiel nods in acknowledgement.

“Hello,” he says. Dean shrugs at the look of utter irritation his younger brother shoots at him.

“Hello?” the not-Sam-shell demands.

“Yes,” Castiel replies.

“Hello!” Sam mocks him, imitating his gruff voice before turning back and repeating incredulously, “Hello?”

Castiel doesn't know what to say - Sam wouldn’t greet him so derisively, Sam would be warm and welcoming, because Sam is his friend.

“That is still the term?” he asks, acting and not acting at the same time; he cannot let Dean suspect the truth - he has failed. Sam isn't here to greet him with that soft smile because Castiel couldn't get him out.

The not-Sam-shell sneers at him, asking him whether he likes Dean better. And Castiel feels the irrational urge to punch him, because Sam… Sam understood, Sam knew that Dean’s bond with Castiel was something that was forged in the literal fires of Hell, and if he was ever jealous of them, it faded away in the course of everything that happened, when Sam saw just how far he was willing to go for Dean - for them both.  

“Dean and I do share a more profound bond,” he snaps and Dean rolls his eyes, raising a questioning eyebrow when Castiel turns back to him.

“I wasn’t gonna mention it,” he mutters in a sulky tone at the hunter, who snorts and orders him to respond to all calls, not just his own.

The pulse of resentment in his Grace becomes stronger when he demands answers - has Dean ever asked of him anything other than war?

“If I had any answers, I might’ve responded, but I don't know, Sam,” Castiel’s lie is cemented. Suddenly, he feels restless, tired and angry - he gives and he gives and he gives, but the Winchesters never seem to realize how exhausted he is. “We have no idea who brought you back from the cage. Or why.”

The lies keep piling - Castiel brought him back because Sam is his friend and Dean needs his brother. But Castiel failed and it is a shame he alone must bear.

The not-Sam doesn’t step back as Castiel silently begs them to; he stands up, confrontational and curious and questions God, asks the angel all that he needs to.

The need to know, it seems, burns within the shell of Sam as much as it did within his soul. Whimsically, Castiel wonders if it is something that is written into the physical form of him - if his DNA is coded with the love of knowledge and curiosity that is so quintessentially Sam Winchester.

For a second, he sees his friend. But that isn't his friend - Sam wasn't confrontational, except when he was defending someone or standing up for something. Sam asked, this being demands .

The distinction is painful and Castiel turns away, biting out a scathing reply, “What part of ‘I don't know’ escapes your understanding?” he snaps.

Dean jumps in and breaks the tension. “You wing your ass down here and tell him, ‘I dunno,’. Just because we have some sort of a-a bond, or whatever…”

“You think I came because you called?” Castiel interrupts harshly. He won't admit to it but he did - the weapons of Heaven are important, but Dean’s call…

Dean has finally called for him, after almost an entire year. There is no way Castiel would ignore this call.

But he can admit to no such thing; he must keep up this farce, keep his distance from the Winchesters.

Raphael will not hesitate to turn them into pawns in the civil war. And Castiel has made a deal with Crowley, but he isn’t stupid - he trusts the demon as much as he trusts the rest of his army, which is to say, not the in the least.

The further away Dean is from the entire mess, the better. He will be safe, he will remain safe and return to Lisa and Ben.

Castiel ignores the quiet voice that whispers at the back of his head, that he’s lying not just to Dean, but to himself.

The farther away he keeps Dean, the easier it becomes to hide from him the magnitude of his failure - he cannot face Dean’s derision or anger. And he will not be able to choose between Dean and Charlie as he knows he must if the hunter learns of her existence.

Castiel has become very good at ignoring that voice in these past few months.

Instead, he listens to the other voice, the one that sounds all too much like Crowley - it tells him to recruit the Winchesters to find the Staff of Moses for him, use them as he would any other soldier, even if he can lump them into the same category of his own fighters.

It would keep Dean busy and serve his purpose - he will be able to find the one responsible for stealing Heaven’s arsenal of weapons and stay close to the Winchesters to keep an eye on them.

He can ensure they do not find out anything - about Purgatory, about Charlie, about anything that he is hiding.

When did he become so adept at lies, at secrets?

“Help me find it,” he demands, “Or more people will die.”

The magic words - Castiel has not spent such a long time with Dean without knowing what buttons to push, without understanding the hunter so completely. So he pushes, manipulates his only friend into helping him.

He doesn’t have a choice.

And in the quietest corners of his Grace, he hopes that these weapons, wherever they are, will be enough to stop Raphael - maybe he won't have to open Purgatory after all.

*-*-*

Dean protests the boy’s torture, but Sam doesn’t.

And that distinction, where once Sam would’ve done everything he could to protect an innocent and now simply calculates in terms of odds and winning… it hurts Castiel, because he’s the cause of it.

“You’re gonna torture a kid!” Dean snaps.

“I can't care about that Dean!” he snaps right back. “I don't have the luxury.”

In a distant corner of his Grace, he can't help but think of Charlie. If the angels caught her, learned of her existence… would they torture her the same way? Would they try to read her soul, to understand her Grace, causing her excruciating pain?

The thought is not just distasteful, it makes him furious. So he is even more brutal with the boy than he intended - until he learns the name.

Distantly, he’s aware of Sam holding Dean back as he stumbles back, shocked and surprised. The boy stops writhing and his whimpers of groan fade away, and Castiel feels strangely relieved, the phantom cries of Charlie’s whimpers vanishing from his memory.

Balthazar.

Dean and Sam demand an explanation and Castiel tells them what he can - that Balthazar vanished, that he was thought dead -

“Thanks Castiel, we’ll put it to good use-”

Castiel fends off the angel - another Seraphim named Ambriel, a brother he once flew with in battle against demons - and returns to the Winchesters, continuing his story as though nothing has happened.

He cannot face the flabbergasted look on Dean’s face, cannot face the calculating expression Sam’s features arrange themselves into.

So he focuses on the ritual instead, attempting to find Balthazar and possibly recruit him to his cause.

But Dean asks the question that he’s been dreading - the same question that Castiel has begun to ask of himself since he sealed the deal with Crowley.

“Cas, why didn't you tell us this?” he demands, his voice rough and used and pleading.

Castiel pauses, allowing a single strand of truth to shine through the lies he’s been building.

“I was ashamed,” he admits in a low voice, looking up slowly to meet the hunter’s sharp gaze. It is perhaps the most honest he has been since he went back to Heaven that first time.

“I expected more from my brothers,” he continues, and then meets Dean’s green, green eyes - so like his daughter's - completely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers past a hoarse throat.

I’m sorry I’m lying. I’m sorry I can never tell you about your daughter. She’s beautiful and she’s perfect, but I have to keep her safe, even if it is from you. And I’m sorry I failed to raise Sam.

I’m sorry.

But those words remain hidden in a quiet part of his Grace that grows darker and more tattered as the minutes pass by - they will never see the light of day.

*-*-*

Balthazar’s explanation is everything Castiel feared; he doesn’t know what to say, what to do to tell his brother that this is wrong, that he cannot use free will to run away like a coward.

The other angel only laughs and vanishes, leaving Castiel alone with his own thoughts and despair. But thunder rumbles and the air crackles with power and he knows what is coming next.

Raphael comes - Castiel is captured, held captive and he hates it - hates that he’s the leader that God chose, that he must bring all his brothers and sisters to absolution and freedom, but he is on his knees in front of his big brother, just as Raphael had promised him he would be.

Balthazar saves him.

He uses one of the weapons that he stole - but it isn't enough to destroy Raphael. It merely incapacitates him.

And Castiel, being one of the most powerful and advanced strategists in Heaven’s ranks, sinks with understanding. The stolen arsenal will help, certainly, will give them an edge over Raphael, but it will not defeat him.

Crowley… Crowley and Purgatory are the only way.

And the hope that’s been quietly unfurling in his chest since he heard Dean pray to him - so very fragile - shatters.

Dean traps Balthazar and demands that he let go of the boy. It’s almost entertaining, the acerbic back and forth between the hunter and his old friend, but Castiel’s Grace churns with anxiety as Balthazar tells him about the value of a human soul - of all the souls.

If Dean looked closely… if Dean figured out what Castiel was doing…

He doesn’t think his friend would forgive him for leaving Sam’s soul behind, or for making a deal with Crowley.

But he must protect Dean. And he has to keep Charlie safe, keep his promise to Daphne.

So Castiel lets Balthazar go, promising to come after him.

“My debt to you is cleared,” he declares and his brother vanishes.

“Cas, you outta your mind?” Dean hisses.

Castiel doesn’t stay long enough to listen.

*-*-*

You tore up the whole script and burned the pages for all of us.

Balthazar’s voice rings clear in his mind as Castiel heads towards Missouri. It is night time and he senses the psychic slumbering deeply in her bedroom as he enters Charlie’s nursery.

The eight-month-old is wide awake in her crib, kicking up her legs and arms and curling around the bars, pulling on them and tapping the wood in an amused manner. Her soft coos and cries have long since matured into more intelligible sounds, though she makes no conscious words yet, even if she does have certain specific sounds to indicate specific things.

“ Doooahh ,” she blabs (it’s her name for him) as he fades into sight; her wings stand up in excitement, fluttering back and forth as they call for him to wrap his own around her.

She rocks back on her butt, trying to stand, but falls. Instead of crying, she laughs loudly, holding her arms up for him to pick her up and Castiel does as she indicates, breathing in the baby-powder smell that clings to her soft skin and opening his confused Grace to hers fully.

No rules, no destiny… just utter and complete freedom.

Balthazar has understood what he has been trying to teach all his siblings; he wants free will, pursues it and is living it.

Then why does it feel so wrong?

I’m trying everything. Dad’s not coming back. What difference does it make?

The words echo within his Grace, moving back and forth in a frenzy of confusion and anger and Castiel doesn’t understand this restlessness, doesn’t want to face just how similar he and Balthazar are.

Because Balthazar ran away in the face of war and Castiel is failing - failing - to keep those he loves safe. He’s slipping and falling and it feels like every time he bends to catch one piece falling off the chessboard, he knocks another over.

Dean knows the truth of the war now, he’s back in the game.

How long before he discovers that it is not his brother, but a soulless shell of Sam that Castiel is responsible for?

How long before he finds out that Anna had a child, his child and that Castiel has been hiding her from the whole universe for close to a year?

Why would he forgive Castiel his lies?

Both he and Balthazar… they understand free will, they practice it… but why does it feel so wrong even now?

Angels aren't meant to lead or question or have choice, he recalls. And that truth, now more than ever, makes him wearier than he’s ever been.

Charlie yawns in his embrace, those green eyes fluttering closed. She nestles close to him, resting that small, heart-shaped face in the crook of his neck. She nuzzles against his skin restlessly until she finds a comfortable spot and promptly stuffs two fingers into her mouth, chewing on them enthusiastically in a way that Castiel knows indicates her need to sleep.

It’s strange, he reflects, that human beings can be so expressive even without saying anything - that they choose to be the best versions of themselves as children, that they make choices even as young as infancy.

Because it’s him that Charlie chooses to be so very happy around; she loves Missouri, but Castiel is her everything.

Just as she is fast turning into his own everything.

Sitting down on the floor next to her crib, he pulls her close and begins to hum the only song he knows.

“Hey Jude… don’t make it sad… take a sad song and make it better…”

Charlie falls into deep slumber very quickly, her Grace-soul turning dull as her consciousness dims into the welcoming arms of friendly darkness.

And if Castiel closes his eyes and rests, for just a moment and joins her in that darkness, it is not true human sleep, and there is no one to see him anyway.

*-*-*

Crowley, as stands to reason, hates the Winchesters, particularly after they dig up information on his past and forces him to return Bobby Singer’s soul back to him.

Castiel is enraged that his new business partner did not tell him about the mark on the old hunter’s soul. It feels like an echo of all the doubts that have been jumping around in his mind since he made the deal with the demon and he’s terrified that he’s made a mistake.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't smite you right here and now,” he growls. “You lied to me.”

“Ah but I never said anything, cupcake,” Crowley snarks back, though he does take a step back. “And you never asked.”

Castiel snarls, yanking his angel blade out and the former crossroads demon throws his hands up in defeat.

“Calm down, Cas,” he stresses, rolling his eyes, “It was simply insurance, to get the boys to… dance to my tune, as they say. I’ve returned his soul to the ornery old coot, you can let it go now.”

“And, Cas?” Crowley’s eyes go hard and his voice stern, “You need me, angelcakes. You can’t open Purgatory without m’boys to do your dirty work, so that your little angelic Grace doesn’t become corrupted.”

It stings, because he is entirely right. Castiel cannot do this on his own, because he is utterly powerless.

“And I may have sworn to keep my trap shut about your little hybrid, but that doesn't mean I'm above using her to… well, ensure your cooperation.”

The open threat infuriates Castiel and he growls as he pulls his angel blade out.  

“You will stay the fuck away from her,” he snarls in fury. “She has nothing to do with this war.”

“On the contrary, Cas,” Crowley counters. “She's the best way for me to make sure you don't stab me in the back.”

“Crowley,” the angel hissed, “If you hurt her-”

“Keep to our terms and I won't have to,” the demon cuts in, rolling his eyes. “But Cas?” His eyes turn hard and his voice becomes a touch harsher.  “Do remember that we're on a time line, won't you? I won't harm your little angel-monster, but I doubt Raphael will extend her the same courtesy.”

Castiel swallows hard - a too human reaction that hasn’t disappeared despite spending the last year as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent - and steps back. But he doesn’t soften the harshness of his glare or modulate the angry cadence of his voice when he demands that Crowley stay the hell away from those he cares about.

“You will not harm them, Crowley,” he snarls, “Or I will smite you, partner or not.”

Crowley rolls his eyes again.

“Yeah, yeah, you can keep your little pets,” he mutters and vanishes and Castiel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to keep from sighing.

*-*-*

Dean finds out.

Castiel should have known that he would, but a part of him hoped that the hunter, for once, would be less than he is.

It was foolish to believe that he wouldn’t figure out that something was wrong with his little brother within weeks of reuniting with him. The only reason Bobby didn't figure it out was because the not-Sam-shell kept himself away from the older hunter and moved around with Samuel Campbell, who - for all his experience - did not know his grandson and therefore, did not know what to expect.

But Dean is… Dean . And Sam is and always has been his everything.

So when he calls him down, anguish coloring his tone desperate, Castiel can hardly deny him. And when he sees Sam tied up, stuck to a chair, beaten and bloody, he knows that he can no longer hide the truth.

He will have to tell Dean that Sam is no longer Sam.

For all that Dean once called him a bad liar, Castiel has gotten very good at hiding truths this past year. He has become quite the actor, putting a brave front for his soldiers when in reality, he’s terrified he’s leading them all to their deaths, when Raphael seems so much stronger than he is, when Crowley is manipulating him into doing what Castiel once believed he would never do.

He acts like he doesn’t know what is wrong with Sam - Sam doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, so he manages to pull it off, even if he comes across as stiff and uptight.

“Are you diagnosing me?” Sam snaps.

“You better hope he can,” Dean snarls back.

“You think this is-”

“You think there’s a clinic out there for people who just pop outta hell wrong…?!” Dean cuts him off and gestures to Castiel in a show of solidarity. “He asks, you answer, then you shut your hole. You got it?”

Shame splices through his Grace, hot and electric and Castiel wants to disappear, wishes he could be anywhere but here.

Because Dean trusts him - it sends a strange mix of pleasure and anger pulsing through him. Dean still trusts him to do what he thinks is right and that is what Castiel is doing; he’s doing everything he can to keep his friends safe.

Then why does it make him want to throw up?

Pushing the thought down, Castiel focuses on ‘diagnosing’ Sam - he asks the relevant questions and then, casting a tired and wary look at the elder Winchester, he offers Sam his belt to bite down. Dean is angry at the fact that Sam’s been hiding his lack of need to sleep and distantly, Castiel wonders - how angry is he going to be at all the truths that Castiel has hidden from him?

He plunges his hand into Sam’s heart, sifting his Grace through the ether in search of that familiar soul. A part of him wants to fool himself; what if Sam’s soul is there? What if this whole thing is simply a mistake on his part, that he’s lost his ability to see the souls and he did manage to get him out, but has simply been unable to see him?

The thought dies a quick death when he finds exactly what he expected to -

Nothing.

Castiel steps back, stumbling at the very real evidence of his failure. For as long as he’s known them both, he’s been able to see the Winchesters’ souls; Sam was bright in a manner different to Dean (or perhaps that’s Castiel’s bias), but he was pure, real and every good thing Castiel could imagine, despite the demon blood tainting it.

It was unnerving to bring him out of the Cage and realize that that soul is no longer visible to him - it’s how he understood that he had failed.

To have that conjecture confirmed now, to see such real proof of his failure… the empty space where Sam should be…

It’s painful.

He doesn’t want to face Dean, doesn’t want to tell him what he has ‘found’ - he failed Dean and Sam and it’s… Castiel doesn’t know what it is, except that it isn't good.

So he takes a moment, breathing in deeply in an all too human expression of fear, pulling the belt from Sam’s mouth and fiddling with it.

Finally, he turns to Dean but the hunter beats him to it.

“You find anything?” he asks, fear turning his soul dark.

“No,” he answers.

“So that’s good news?” Dean is so desperate for Castiel to tell him something good, to have his brother back.

“I’m afraid not,” he finally responds. He casts a tired glance at the shell of Sam, skirting around the words, unable to come right out and say it. “Physically, he’s perfectly healthy.”

He pauses and Dean snaps, “Then what?”

“It’s… it’s his soul,” Castiel cannot meet his eyes, refuses to see evidence of his failure written across Dean’s every physical feature. His soul is enough, screaming out to the angel his worry and his need for his brother.

With a sigh, he looks up, forcing himself to look at Dean, to watch the play of emotions across Dean’s face.

“It’s gone,” he pronounces.

It’s my fault, he wants to say, I did not bring him back right. For a moment, the irrational urge to tell him the truth, to just confess everything stripes through his Grace, but Castiel reigns it in, holding back.

It’s his fault - this is his penance.

*-*-*

The Winchesters take the news about as well as Castiel expected them to. They drag him along to meet with Samuel Campbell, and again, he is tempted to tell them that he pulled their grandfather down, that he rebuilt him the way he did Dean.

But he holds his tongue, even as Samuel scoffs at him and remarks on his stature.

“My true form is the size of your Chrysler Building,” he snaps back in an irritated manner. At the back of his mind, he feels the trickle of his brothers and sisters - Hester calls out to him, requesting his aid.

Raphael is mounting an attack.

He performs the same cursory check of Samuel’s soul in front of the brothers, telling them what he already knows; Samuel’s soul is there, unlike his grandson’s.

And even as the brothers begin to argue with the patriarch of the Campbell clan, he turns his attention outward, Grace splitting to let his siblings in as he quietly watches the battle from Earth.

Ezriel falls, stabbed in the throat by one of Raphael’s men - his Grace pulses once, twice, and then winks out of existence. His voice disappears from the multitudinal chorus that Castiel has been privy to since the moment God brought him into existence and the loss, so painful and personal is staggering.

“Sam, Dean,” he calls, even as Inias reaches out with his Grace, pleading with Castiel to return. “I have to get back,” he tells them and Dean glares back at him.

“You’re leaving?” he snaps and Castiel meets his gaze defiantly.

“I am in the middle of a civil war ,” he stresses, a sudden anger and rage coursing through his own Grace, unwilling to bend this once.

“Tear the attic up,” Dean orders, “Find something to help Sam.”

“Of course,” Castiel hasn’t quite mastered the art of sarcasm, but he employs it nonetheless, “ Your problems always come first. I’ll be in touch.”

Dean looks taken aback at that but before he can formulate an answer, Castiel takes to the skies, ignoring the way his own last statement rings true - the Winchesters do come first, even before Castiel’s own siblings.

It’s what makes this so hard.

*-*-*

It’s Balthazar who saves him this time.

Castiel returned to Heaven to join the battle with his brothers and sisters, but he isn’t fully present - he is still unsettled from his confrontation with the Winchesters, distracted and confused, Grace pulsing with a tangle of emotion he does not know how to unravel. There’s guilt and there’s shame, but there’s also pride that Dean still trusts him, pride that his siblings call to him and the ever present concern for his infant charge.

It’s all there, churning beneath the surface even as he slashes his way through Raphael’s front lines, fighting back to the best of his ability. But distractions in a war mount to weakness - a blade slips right past Castiel’s flank and he’s very nearly impaled before a familiar wing knocks his attacker out of the way.

Castiel looks up to find Balthazar standing there in front of him, wings flaring protectively, even as he watches the angel with a raised brow.

“Got yourself into quite the mess here, Cas,” he smirks and Castiel can only stare in surprise.

“Balthazar?” he questions and he sighs in response, pulling out his own blade.

“Talk later,” he orders and jumps into the fray. “But I’m here, brother.”

He gently swipes his wing across Castiel’s own in a gesture of comfort and solidarity before marching into battle.

It warms that cold pit that has been building inside of Castiel since he left Sam and Dean - he did that. He managed to convince his brother to return and to help. It’s a relief to know that his failures do not define him completely, that he will not always fail.

It renews his faith in his own plans, in his deal with Crowley - Dean will not approve of it, he knows, but Castiel has no choice. This is the only logical move and if that means lying to his friends and continuing the deception, then he will do so.

And eventually, it’s possible that he could bring Sam out for real. With the power of Purgatory at his disposal and his plans with Crowley in hand, he might just be able to do so and reunite the brothers for real.

Maybe then Dean will forgive him.

*-*-*

Crowley recruits them to look for the Alphas.

Castiel doesn’t know if he is angry or relieved - the Winchesters have a way of defying all odds.

If there is anyone who would be able to crack that door open, it’s them.

If there is anyone he cannot hide from, it’s them.

Charlie distracts him from his inner turmoil by waving her small palms at him enthusiastically. She’s on her knees, on the floor next to her crib, her wings shakily splayed open for the first time.

She’s so small, and yet her enthusiasm is infectious; the turmoil in his Grace begins to calm as she offers him a bright, open smile. She’s sporting three new teeth and he glows with pride every time he looks at her.

He senses what is to happen almost before it does - she uses the crib’s bars to push herself to her feet and stands up, all gummy and grinning. Her wings flutter, just about ready to take off, flapping back and forth in an attempt to help her move; he doesn’t know when she’ll be ready to actually fly, but he has to admit that he is looking forward to taking her up in the skies - she belongs there as much as she belongs down here.  

Trembling, unsure toes climb up and then touch the hardwood floor and Charlie takes her first step - she’s sure, her movements certain, and then she’s taking her second step and Castiel can only watch, pride pooling hot and heavy in his chest as she ooohs and aaahs and laughs as she heads in his direction.

“Doah!” she lets go of the crib’s rails and reaches for him, impossibly small fingers clenching and unclenching in the air, as though searching for his trenchcoat, “Doah!”

The loud laughter turns into panic and her second call is not so much excitement as it is a call for help. The third step she takes is wobbly - her Grace flashes with uncertainty and knocks against his own barely a second before she slips and falls -

Castiel catches her before she can hit her the crib and injure herself. His heart is hammering a mile a minute, and his human skin feels all too small for the amount of sheer joy that is thrumming through his Grace -

“Doooohhh,” she wails, “Doo-ooha-oooh…”

Charlie walked .

She’s clutching at his coat now, burying her face in his chest and shuddering. Her wings flutter, closing around them in an instinctively protective cocoon and she’s shaking as the fear of falling fills her soul.

But underneath that fear, he senses and underlying warmth, a certainty that her Doah won’t let anything happen to her, that he will come to keep her safe.

And she walked towards him - her Grace shone brightly with need for him and him alone. Pride pools in his blood in a way it never has before; she trusts him to keep her safe, trusts him to fulfill all her needs.

He can do less than that, can he?

Even if Sam and Dean reject him, even if they find out the truth… this, right here, this child, nuzzling into his torso, rubbing her cheek against his sandpaper stubble - Castiel will do anything for her, raze the world to the ground.

He will destroy himself and everything he holds dear to keep her safe and happy, even if it is his relationship with her father and her uncle.

“Y’er gonn’ have to let her fall if you want her to walk,” Missouri observes from where she’s standing in the doorway, bottle held in hand. Charlie, pain and fear of falling already forgotten, rocks excitedly against Castiel’s grip, holding her arms out for the elderly woman.

“Muah!” she calls, which is her name for Missouri. “Muah, moahhh!”

Missouri smiles widely and comes in, bending down to pull her up and settle her against her hip.

“What if she injures herself?” Castiel asks stiffly in response. The thought of her hurting herself… it’s sickening.

“Then she will cry and learn to handle the pain,” Missouri says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Kids are resilient, but you can’t coddle ‘em forever, Cas.”

Her voice is gentle, understanding and Castiel doesn’t know how to answer. He chooses, instead to watch, as Charlie sucks ferociously from the bottle that Missouri holds up to her lips, small palm closing around the bottle - she can hold it herself now.

Castiel knows, of course, that the psychic is right, that Charlie will eventually need to be able to look out for herself and learn to handle disappointment. He can't protect her forever, he’s not even around to keep track of her every step, like he should be.

The last time he saw her, she had only one tooth and though her wings fluttered and moved, she was only able to crawl.

Now, she walks and is capable of holding her own bottle with two, tiny, impossibly small but sure hands.

He wonders if this bittersweet warmth is something all humans experience.

*-*-*

Sam calls him when Meg approaches the brothers for help eliminating Crowley.

“I could give a rat’s ass about your little pissing match with Raphael,” he snaps and Castiel’s Grace aches from the loss of his friend. He protests, but Sam just bludgeons on, going so far as to threaten him.

“I will hunt you down and kill you.”

Castiel turns away, but he doesn’t know how to protest.

It gets worse when Dean agrees with his brother.

“You actually showed,” he says in surprise when Castiel walks in behind the younger Winchester.

It stings - because Castiel is giving everything, he’s running himself ragged trying to protect them.

“No big,” Sam snorts, “This is what friends do for each other.”

He holds his arms out and Castiel wants nothing more than to disappear - because that is most definitely not Sam, and he is not Castiel’s friend.

So he bites his tongue and sits in front of the television and watches human pornography of all things - Dean mocks him, scolds him, and for a second, Castiel feels like he can breathe. For a moment, it’s just the three of them again; Sam, Dean and Castiel, against the whole world, trying to solve a case, with the brothers doing research and the angel navigating the confusing world of human perception.

Samuel turns up and the moment shatters like delicate china. Dean and Sam go out, leaving Castiel behind by himself.

He reaches out with his Grace and contacts Crowley.

“They’re coming for you,” he tells him. “Meg is on their side.”

Crowley has already been told, of course, since Samuel is on his side - Castiel knows that the older man is going to sell our his own grandsons and it sends fury spiking through his Grace.

“Woah there, angelcakes,” Crowley growls back at the feeling, “You need to calm your tatas. You know I get all tingly when you go growly, but we need the old man or we’re never going to find Purgatory.”

Castiel breathes in deeply, retreating into himself to attempt a measure of calm. They quickly formulate a plan - it’s obvious that the Winchesters are not going to stop in their attempts to stop the demon. They need to be taken out of the picture and Castiel knows Crowley will not hesitate to make that a permanent removal.

So he does what he does best - he strategizes.

Breaking the connection off with Crowley, he awaits their return. It’s Dean who comes back and Castiel’s heart sinks as he takes in the look of wretched hope and exhaustion on his friend’s face.

He’s the one who put it there.

But Dean is relentless; he wants his brother’s soul back and he isn’t going to stop.

“I’m not sure retrieving Sam’s soul is wise,” he mutters.

He isn’t lying when he tells Dean that he’s terrified for Sam’s soul; even if they do get him back, what tortures would Michael and Lucifer have inflicted upon the younger Winchester? Would he even be Sam?

It’s a quiet, gnawing fear that he’s been carrying around since he raised Sam - it was what led him to go to Hell in the first place.

They leave and this time, it’s not literal, but things are shot to hell again.

As Castiel lets them into Crowley’s hideout, he can almost pretend, almost assume that this is just another one of their usual missions - that he is actually on their side, that he is here to aid them against Crowley, that the sight of Meg doesn’t actually fill him with revulsion.

It’s just the four of them soon enough, Samuel’s entourage falling apart as soon as they enter. Fury simmers beneath his skin, but he swallows it down, telling himself that this is necessary.

He has to protect Dean.

Meg snorts and Castiel doesn’t know why, but he feels the stirring of… of something in his gut when he looks at her.

She is ugly, but there is a resilience in her that is almost comely. She is certainly fairer than Crowley, whose demon form is snake-like, complicit in the schemes of those that would keep him in power. Meg is more loyal, her faith placed in Lucifer, even if the fallen angel cared little for the demons he had inadvertently created.

The hellhounds come and Meg tries to steal his angel blade. She attempts to distract him with her kiss.

He’s already soiled, he reflects, as he pushes her against the wall and devours her lips; he sees the momentary flash of… something … on Dean’s face and he doesn’t know what it is, but lets out a satisfactory groan when he pulls apart from her.

Meg is staring at him as though she’s seeing him for the first time, eyebrow raised. His angel blade is in her hand and he can’t say that he’s surprised. He didn't kiss her because he wanted to - he’s attracted to her, but he’s repulsed by her.

She’s a demon and he’s an angel. But she’s loyal and he’s… well, he’s lying to his only friends, to his siblings and to anyone who might do him good.

Does he have a choice?

The pain from Samuel’s banishing sigil is almost welcome; it blankets out his mind and pushes him to concentrate on only that which he has to do.

Do what must be done , he reminds himself, stumbling back to the human plane. He readies the bones and the ritual he needs to fake Crowley’s death.

They’re heavier in his grip than they should be as he heads back to the compound.

His entry is dramatic, as usual, and it doesn’t take long before Crowley is ‘burning’ in front of him. Meg vanishes the second she sees the former crossroads demon die and Dean snorts.

“I’d have killed her too,” he glances at Castiel, before smirking, “Of course, I’d have given you an hour with her first.”

The derision in his tone is plain and it pricks.

“Why would I want that?” he mimics confusion, but he’s well aware - Dean thinks he has thing for Meg.

Does Dean truly believe him to be so… so weak? That he’d consort with demons?

But he is consorting with demons - he isn’t sleeping with Crowley, but he’s in bed with him all the same.

It’s that sinking realization that leads him to confess the truth when they’re standing in front of the Impala.

“It’s not going well for me… upstairs,” he admits.

Dean’s face softens, concern shining bright in soul as he leans forward.

“If there's anything we can do-” he begins.

“There isn’t,” Castiel cuts him off, refusing to meet his eyes. “I… I wish circumstances were different. Much of the time…” he looks into that familiar, worried gaze, “I’d rather be here.”

Or he would rather be with Charlie.

In his wildest, most secret of selves… Castiel dreams of a time when he, Dean and Sam are driving down the highway, Sam in his usual shotgun seat, with Castiel at the back, holding on to Charlie as Dean plays the grating rock music he is so fond of.

He knows the hunter would want to teach his daughter all about his favorite bands - he’d insist that her musical education start early and play it as loud as possible .

It’s a beautiful dream.

It’s a dream .

And Castiel lets it go, lets it burn like the fake bones he just burnt - it’s as much a lie as Crowley’s death was.

“There’s no need for apologies,” Dean tells him, “We’re your friends.”

Castiel wonders sardonically if Dean will continue to think that if he learnt the truth.

*-*-*

Dean dies.

For a whole three minutes, he’s dead - dead .

Castiel, in the middle of interrogating a skinwalker, stumbles back as he feels the hunter’s soul disappear.

He throws the knife he’s been cutting into the monster with at his face; it nails him in the eyes and he dies instantly. One of Crowley’s lackeys glare up at him from where he’s torturing another, opening his mouth to protest Castiel’s callousness , no doubt.

But Castiel doesn’t care; he’s already flying, flying -

Distantly, he hears Charlie crying, raging and screaming.

He’s halfway to the last place he felt Dean when he straggles to a stop. Charlie’s Grace screams of anguish so dark and it desperate, it shreds his own Grace which is struggling from the weight of his fear and worry.

She sensed her sire’s passing.

It is a disturbing thought; so small, so tiny and terrified, and she sensed her father dying - why else would she be screaming for him with such desperation? Something in her world is wrong; Castiel doubts she truly knows what it is, but something is wrong and she is seeking the only person she trusts to make it right.

He doesn't know what to do - Dean is dead , but Charlie needs him. He doesn’t know what is the right choice.

Dean’s soul is gone.

He feels her Grace pulse with the ugly emotion of anger as she realizes that he isn’t coming; she calls and calls and calls and it burns that he doesn’t know what to do -

How is he to choose ?

He flutters mid-air, indecision wrecking him. Is this free will? Is this what it means to choose?

But the choice is taken from him a moment later - Dean’s soul returns to his body. For the space of three minutes, Dean was gone and Castiel couldn’t find him.

Because Dean didn’t go to Heaven and Crowley would have alerted him if the hunter had been sent to Hell.

Dean… simply vanished .

The thought is guts wrenching ; it hurts, because for three full minutes, Dean was gone where Castiel could not follow.

He turns around and heads to Missouri’s house. Charlie is, by now, screaming herself hoarse, kicking and punching the air in front of her in search of him.

“Dooooah!” she screeches, “DOOOAH!!”

Her Grace is wrecked and Castiel makes haste, rushing to her and ignoring Missouri’s angry glares of protest.

And he discovers yet another facet of human love - anger.

Because when he picks her up, Charlie pushes him away, punching his neck with a tiny little fist. He stumbles back, grip tightening, and though her soul shines in his presence, welcoming it, she physically pushes against him, angry and furious, even as young as she is.

When he brings her face close to his neck - her preferred spot to bury her head in - she bites him instead of sucking his skin as usual and it startles him.

Her teeth are too small and fragile to cause any harm or even pain, but it’s surprising nonetheless.

Charlie wants him close, he can sense the longing in her Grace - she wants the comfort, the warmth of her caregiver, but she is rejecting it from the fear and the shock of losing her father.

“He is alright, Charlie,” Castiel whispers past a dry throat into her ear as she continues to scream. “Dean’s okay.”

Because he is - Castiel can sense him again, the smallest spark of his own Grace in Dean answering his summons and telling him that the hunter is, at the very least, alive.

Charlie subsides, hiccuping and he strokes her back gently, humming as he tries to soothe her into sleep.

Love… he’s beginning to discover, is a painful thing.

*-*-*

Castiel discovers , much later, why Dean was snuffed out of existence for those three minutes - he was with Death.

Neither Heaven nor Hell, but an Earthly plane of existence, hidden to all but the one truth that knows everything… Castiel can’t say that he’s surprised. Dean is relentless and resourceful and if there is anyone who could defeat Michael and Lucifer and bring Sam out, it would be the creature that would one day reap Father himself.

But more importantly…

Sam is back.

Sam is back .

It’s a joyous, bittersweet feeling that courses through Castiel’s Grace as he watches that familiar soul interact with Dean. The elder Winchester’s own soul shines more beautifully than it has in over a year and it fills Castiel with utter warmth to see his two friends reunited.

He didn't bring Sam out, but it fails to matter now - Sam is back.

“Castiel,” he calls and the sound, so familiar , sends a frission of warmth and concern through the angel. “I’m back. So if you’ve got a minute…”

“Sam,” he whispers, quietly shaking and hiding it as best as he can. “So good to see you alive.”

He moves forward to offer him a hug, but Sam sits down instantly, not quite open for it. It stings, but he pulls his hands back, fists tightening as he drops them to his sides.

He doesn’t know why Sam feels the need to stay away, but it’s his cross to bear - Castiel failed Sam, even if he doesn't  know it.

“Look, I-I would hug you,” Sam offers at his crestfallen look, “But-”

“It would be awkward,” Castiel finishes tiredly and Sam smiles. Whether he’s angry or not, Sam is glad to see him - his soul, though tattered and rough, is shining and warm and it’s so very welcoming that Castiel has to swallow hard.

Their conversation is stilted, but he savors it nonetheless.

And when he flies back to Charlie afterwards, his Grace sings with hers.

Because Sam is back .

*-*-*

Good things and good feelings don't last.

Raphael eyes the weapons of Heaven - Balthazar comes up with a brilliant plan to distract him with the Winchesters as he brings the arsenal to Castiel instead.

He sends them to an alternate reality.

Dean isn't pleased when he brings them back, but Castiel ignores his protest.

He doesn't know what else he can do.

*-*-*

It’s Ellen and Jo.

Two women, whom he had made such a brief connection with, whom he loved, for all that he spent barely hours with them - they’re part of the equation. Their souls are brought back from Heaven in this changed timeline and Castiel doesn't know if he is happy or if he wants to cry at the sight of their familiar souls back on Earth.

More than that, he sees Bobby smile - smile as the crotchety old man hasn’t since the end of the Apocalypse.

The way he behaves with Ellen confirms what Castiel suspected all those months ago, the one night they all spent together - the old hunter loves rarely, but he loves with his whole heart when he does.

John loved the same, he remembers, that’s why he spent over twenty years looking for the thing that killed Mary.

No wonder his sons love so brokenly, so beautifully and so very fully - and no wonder, then, that Castiel also loves so destructively.

They taught him human love, after all.

He doesn’t want to lose Ellen again. The fifty thousand souls he gained from the prevention of Titanic’s sinking could mean the turn of the war, but it’s not that which stays his hand - he wants to watch Bobby remain happy with Ellen, he wants to see Jo kick ass again.

He wants his friends back.

So he makes Balthazar sneak up on Atropos, strategizes ways to stop fate as she goes about destroying all those who were never meant to have lives in the first place.

She threatens to kill the Winchesters.

And much as Castiel is loathe to admit it, he cannot protect them every second.

He has to sink the Titanic.

Ellen and Jo die. Again.

And Castiel wonders numbly how many more friends he is going to lose before this damned war ends.

*-*-*

Rachel finds out.

Castiel kills her.

He has no choice, he tells himself, but that statement is beginning to ring hollow. Because, despite his best efforts, Sam and Dean know about the Mother-of-All, know about the phoenix that can kill Eve, and he himself sent them back to meet Samuel Colt.

Rachel’s always hated Dean, hated that the Winchesters take precedence over any of the angels Castiel has served with. She is a proper angel, a true soldier and Castiel’s Grace burns with guilt as he plunges the blade into her gut, watching the light disappear.

Her look of betrayal stays with him as he powers himself up using Bobby’s soul - another infraction that is a strict taboo against angelic culture. He’s tainted , Castiel thinks darkly as he brings the brothers back to their timeline, tainted and fallen.

Her wings are burned into the ground.

Castiel returns to where he stabbed her, where she tried to get him to admit the truth. Her body - her human vessel - is no longer there and he assumes that the human authorities have disposed of it.

But the imprint of her wings are clear, looking ashen and tattered on the ground where she fell.

He bends down, pressing shaking fingertips to the tip of her left primaries - he traces the outline of her wings, swallowing hard and closing his eyes to summon the image of them behind his eyes.

They were beautiful, he recalls, one of the most beautiful pairs of wings in all of Heaven. An angel’s wings is a reflection of their personality, and Rachel’s were the clearest, purest white, soft and downy in all the ways an angel should be.

She was one of Heaven’s perfect soldiers.

Castiel is not - he wonders numbly what is says about him that his own wings are tattered. They were once a lovely grey color, but the flight through Hell - not once, but twice - has turned that fresh autumn shower shade to the dull, darkness of a storm that is rough and broken.

Abruptly, he stands and walks away, whipping out those tainted wings and heading straight for Missouri’s. Even before he enters the house, he casts a quiet spell over the entire area - any being within a mile’s radius will stay asleep for the duration of his visit.

It sends another bout of guilt jolting through his Grace - he knows he’s hiding from the psychic, knows that she would ask him questions that he cannot answer. And he’s running again, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

Charlie’s smile is as warm and welcoming as ever when he stumbles into her nursery and it soothes him. She’s fast asleep in her crib, her arms thrown over her head and red hair spread around her face like the halo that humans are so fond of envisioning angels with. Next to her, her Cas-bear lies content - he'd been so pleased when Missouri had knitted the old teddy bear the tie and the wings and the halo. Charlie cannot sleep without it, he knows; he's imbued the bear with the tiniest smidgen of his Grace, to be there with her when he cannot. 

The bear feels like a mockery now, its eyes almost accusatory in how it watches him quietly as he sneaks across her nursery like the liar he is. He's hiding from Missouri, from his family and he doesn't... he just needs his charge. 

Even in slumber, Charlie's Grace brightens at his proximity and Castiel thinks that her face is beginning to look like Anna’s human form did - the shape of her eyes, the crinkling at the corners… she’s taking after her mother, even if her personality is almost a replica of her father’s.

He doesn’t know what he feels about that, because he doesn’t think Dean would approve of all that he’s doing. Dean values life, protects it; Castiel has been doing nothing but destroying it, killing relentlessly in his pursuit to Purgatory.

He’s doing it to protect them, he reminds himself, unable to resist leaning into the crib and nuzzling Charlie’s face with his thumbs. She sighs, crinking her neck as her face scrunches up into an adorable pout.

Bending down, he lifts her up carefully and holds her to him. Soft lashes flutter open to reveal sleepy viridian eyes and her button mouth opens in a tiny yawn.

“Doah?” she mumbles sleepily.

Would she hate him, like Dean would hate him if they both were to find out the truth? Would she ever forgive him - would Dean be able to forgive Castiel’s lies, his deception?

He’s so very tired.

As though sensing the turmoil blistering beneath his skin, Charlie simply nuzzles her small nose into his neck.

Small wings, warm and sunny and golden, lift up tiredly, fluttering forward to wrap themselves around his shoulders, cocooning both angel and baby in an embrace of childish affection.

Rachel’s wings were pure, pure white.

Charlie’s wings are gold - gold like the sun, sandy like her father’s hair… gold like the Forbidden Fruit, so beautiful, so perfect and so beyond the comprehension of one as tainted such as him.

And yet, they wrap themselves around his own so very trustingly, their owner snuggling into his torso with the innocence that only a child could display. Her Grace warms with affection as she buries her face into his shoulder and promptly falls asleep, a single dribble of saliva dripping out as drool and onto his trenchcoat.

His own wings wrap around hers reverently, winding themselves around her in protectively. He tightens his hold on her, throat and eyes burning with untold emotion, so grateful for her presence that he starts shaking.

Castiel killed his own today, but Charlie’s love doesn’t change even in the face of that.

*-*-*

But the confusion and the deception persist - Castiel follows Sam and Dean on their ill-fated quest to destroy the Mother-of-All.

She’s the only link to Purgatory that he has and the war with Raphael goes badly. He needs her, needs to open those gates now .

But the farce fails - Eve plants the seed of suspicion in his friends’ minds. And Castiel, though he cannot blame them in the least, finds himself hurt that they would distrust him so very easily.

After all he’s given for them, it feels almost like a betrayal.

Crowley  demands that he kill the Winchesters. Castiel refuses, but promises to get them off his back again.

Killing Ellsworth is easy. Watching Dean, Sam and Bobby burst into the room mere minutes after he does so - that isn’t.

“No, you talked, I listened,” Dean snaps at his brother and pseudo-father. “This is Cas , guys. I mean, when there was no one - no one … and we were stuck, and I mean really stuck… he broke ranks.”

Dean’s voice is filled with so much conviction, so much warmth and faith - Castiel doesn’t know how he can ever be redeemed.

So when Crowley’s demons return, Castiel smites them. He takes out his anger, his confusion and his guilt on them - in the heat of battle, it’s all so clear, so straightforward.

Going after Crowley for trying to kill his family feels right in a way that hiding the truth to protect that same family doesn't.

It’s almost a relief to be caught.

In retrospect, he should have known that Dean would catch him.

Or perhaps, he reflects, as he stares at them from within the ring of the holy fire… perhaps, he did know - perhaps, he wanted to be caught.

There are no more lies and it’s the biggest relief Castiel has ever experienced.

But Dean’s face hurts; his soul screams agony and betrayal and the angel refuses to look at it. Distantly, he feels Charlie’s own Grace churn with confusion - cut off from his, she’s beginning to cry, because the holy fire holds him down and she can’t reach him.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not workin’ with Crowley,” Dean demands.

Castiel can't.

So he looks away.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean’s whisper sounds broken and tired and Castiel ignores him in favor of sending what warmth he can across his Grace. Charlie is terrified and he can hear the echo of her ‘Doah!’ across their bond.

“Let me explain,” he pleads, “ Please , you have to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Sam exclaims, “How in the hell are we supposed to trust you?”

“I’m still me ,” he turns to Sam, “I’m still your friend.”

There’s a desperate note to his voice, he knows, and a virulent anger and fear thrums through his Grace - he needs them to understand, needs them to know that he is doing this for them .

“Sam,” Castiel begs, “ I’m the one who raised you from perdition.”

“What?” the younger Winchester says and the angel refuses to turn back to Dean - his soul is angry, churning and so very confused, it hurts Castiel to feel. “Well, no offense, but you did a pretty piss-poor job of it.”

For a second, there’s silence as Castiel lets the accusation sink in, accepting that anger - he did fail, he did do a piss poor-job, but he tried, tried -

“Wait,” Sam’s voice is guarded, “Did you bring me back soulless on purpose?”

Castiel’s eyes fly to Sam’s and he cannot explain the look of betrayal that crosses his own features. Dean is watching them carefully, he notes, his heart breaking - does Dean think that too?

Has he fallen so terribly that his friends would assume him to be such a monster?

“How could you think that?” he whispers hoarsely, his throat tight. Charlie’s cries are growing in cadence, in volume, he realizes numbly, but for a moment, he ignores her, pulling his own Grace back.

His desperation and fear are making her cry.

He’s failed - again.

“It’s complicated,” he tried to tell them.

Dean refuses to understand.

“No, it’s not,” he snaps back. “Why else would you keep this whole thing a secret, unless you knew it was wrong?”

To protect you, he wants to say, to guard the fragile peace you built for yourself, to keep your daughter safe.

But Dean’s right, isn't he? He’s right and Castiel knows - knows - that hiding wasn’t the answer, but he didn't know what else to do.

“What we don't do, is, we don't go around and make another deal with the devil!” Dean’s angry, so angry.

“It sounds so simple when you say it like that,” Castiel’s bitterness is a palpable, visceral thing. He looks up at Dean, and meets those green eyes - eyes that his daughter has inherited. Charlie’s eyes are probably as red-rimmed as Dean’s are right now, he thinks, both of them crying quietly and wanting comfort.

Dean wants him to say that this whole thing is a joke, that he’s not in bed with Crowley.

Charlie just wants comfort, wants to know that her Doah is okay and that everything is alright with the world.

Castiel knows that he cannot offer either of them what they want - he is in bed with Crowley, and he cannot promise that the world will stay alive if he doesn’t defeat Raphael.

Why is always, always doomed to fail?

“Where were you when I needed to hear it?” he asks, suddenly, inexplicably furious.

Because Castiel has never had free will before - he didn't know what to do, how to keep the world safe, how to raise an infant child on his own.

He has only ever followed someone else’s lead; he’s never led. Falling from Heaven was Dean’s command, and so he fell. Fighting his brothers was the right thing to do, but he wouldn't have done it without the Winchesters to guide him.

But Sam fell to Hell and Dean went to Lisa and Bobby went back to his hunting network. And Castiel was left alone, suddenly adrift in a sea of choices, of freedom - it was terrifying.

“I was there ,” Dean insists and Castiel wants to scream at him - you were not, you were with Lisa, you were happy and I was…

I was not.

It was that happiness, that peace that Castiel was trying to protect.

Crowley comes for them.

“Damn it, Cas, we can fix this!” Dean yells and Castiel refuses to listen.

He’s come this far - Charlie, Charlie must be protected. She’s screaming and crying now, feeling the tension seep across his Grace, and she needs him.

He has nothing else left to him.

“Dean!” he snarls back, “It’s not broken!”

He doesn’t know whom he’s trying to convince - the hunter or himself. The truth is that everything is broken, everything is in tatters; his entire world is going up in flames and he’s forced to stand inside this circle of literal fire as everything else burns to ashes around him.

Charlie , he tells himself, Charlie . Because Charlie is the one thing he has left, the only creature who needs him, who has faith in him.

She’s screaming for him right now, calling for him.

It’s the only thing that keeps him afloat, keeps his Grace from shattering into a million tiny pieces… because his friends - his family - have turned their backs on him, because his Father is gone and he has nothing and no one left.

Dean stares at him and Castiel cannot be bothered any longer. He needs them to be safe - he needs Charlie to be safe.

“Run,” he orders, “You have to run, now!”

And they do run - Dean spares one last glance of pain and betrayal at him, but Castiel doesn't say anything, simply bidding them a quiet farewell at the back of his mind.

He has feeling this farewell is going to be permanent.

Crowley comes and his words twist across Castiel’s Grace, snake-like and ringing true in the hollow spaces that the angel doesn't know how to fill anymore.

“I know what I am,” he barks, “What are you , Castiel? What exactly are you willing to do?”

He takes for the skies the minute the demon vanishes and heads to Missouri’s. The psychic has been growing steadily angry with him, the taint of demons worrying her.

But she holds her tongue, her instinctive faith in angelic goodness a deterrent in her protest. And she watches him with Charlie, watches him offer the baby all the love he can - it isn’t enough to convince her that he’s doing right, but it does convince her that he has his heart in the right place.

If only Dean would understand the same.

What are you, Castiel? What are you willing to do?

He appears in Charlie’s room and picks up the screaming baby - she claws at his skin, her wings biting into his own as his fear transmits itself into her Grace, terrifying her.

Looking down at her green eyes - red-rimmed as her father’s were - Castiel knows the truth, feels it settle into his bones.

He’s an angel. He’s Charlie’s protector and the Winchesters’ guardian.

He must do what must be done, just as he went to Hell to retrieve Dean, to bring Sam back, even if he failed the second time.

He cannot back out now - he’s the only thing between Raphael and the Winchesters and he has to win this war, even if it means losing everything that he holds dear.

He’s an angel, after all, not a mere man - war was what God made him for.

And that’s what he tells Dean when he goes to visit him in Bobby’s home for the last time.

“You’re just a man, Dean,” he says. “I'm an angel.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

Sorry I lied - that I’m still lying… sorry that you cannot understand me, sorry that everything - everything - is going to hell and the world is burning and all I can do is protect your daughter and try my best to protect you.

He doesn't voice those thoughts.

“I’m sorry too.”

Dean’s whispers echoes in his ears long after he vanishes from Bobby’s living room.

*-*-*

God doesn’t give him a sign.

He begs and pleads and asks his Father for the smallest of signs.

He receives only silence.

He can't say that he’s surprised.

*-*-*

Crowley kidnaps Lisa and Ben.

Sam calls for him, his voice desperate and worried. In retrospect, Castiel should probably have expected it; he’s a strategist, and this was the obvious move on the chess board.

But he missed it.

He’s slipping, he muses darkly, as he saves Dean from the demon that the hunter is torturing, he’s fraying at the edges, coming apart at the seams. The look of anger on his friend’s face, the way his soul shudders in angry resignation - it chokes Castiel, turns his own Grace dark with pulses of regret and answering passion.

He wants Dean back; he wants to bury himself in the hunter and never come up. He wants Sam at his shoulder, Bobby at their backs and he wants Charlie in his arms, grinning up at him widely as she tries to grab his nose.

He wants , and it’s too much.

Dean refuses his offer of bringing Lisa and Ben back to him.

It hurts , Castiel thinks dully, that his own friends have so little faith in him.

He saves the Braedens anyway, because he will do it for Dean, he will burn the world for Dean and for Charlie and for Bobby and Sam, because they are his family.

But what is he to do when it is them that he is fighting against?

Dean’s soul, even in agony, reaches out to him, when he appears before him at the hospital. Lisa is fast asleep in the bed, her son curled up next to her, and looking at them, Castiel feels an irrational pull of rage and possessiveness.

This woman - she took Dean from the hunting world, where he belongs. And this boy… he’s not Dean’s child, not the way Charlie is, but it’s him that the hunter is loyal to, that he protects as fiercely as any sire would his offspring - the way Castiel watches over Charlie.

He pushes the numbness away… it will occur to him later that Dean chose to stay with Lisa, that he himself chose to hide Charlie’s existence from her father, that choice - free will - as wonderful as it is, is the whole reason they are in this mess.

Tangled web of choices, no one better than the other, all leading to a road of ruin… the thought dances at the edge of his Grace as he holds himself back from soothing Dean’s anguish.

Because even now, even angry and hurting and something unidentifiable simmering below his skin, Dean’s soul reaches out to Castiel’s Grace as it has always done; even now, there is some part of Dean that has faith in him, no matter what he says out loud.

Castiel squishes that hope ruthlessly, refusing to believe it. Charlie - Charlie is all he has left of Dean now.

And no matter how much he dislikes the Braedens, he mourns as he erases their memories.

Because Dean’s soul goes dark with the pain of losing his family, even if this was always going to be only temporary, even if they never quite managed to fill the empty spaces.

And the excuse that Castiel was using, the lie he was telling himself…

It goes up in flames.

Because Dean is a hunter, and Lisa and Ben gave him a measure of peace, but that isn't who he is, it isn't his place.

And Castiel wonders numbly how he could ever have forgotten that Dean’s love for his brother and his roots in the world of the supernatural were what defined the elder Winchester.

The thought sends a fissure milk of tired anger and confusion through his Grace - Castiel simply heads to where Ellen Visayak is and captures her.

It’s almost over , he tells himself, almost .

He can crack Purgatory open and then, it will all end.

He refuses to think about what will happen after. The souls… souls are powerful, souls are enormous - will he be able to control such power?

Will he be able to return to Dean and Sam - to Charlie - once he has committed such mass murder?

*-*-*

Castiel breaks Sam’s wall.

And he knows then, that there is no return, that there can be no coming back to Dean, not after this.

Because Dean will forgive any wrong to him , but he will never stand for any wrong done to Sam .

Charlie , he thinks desperately, he has to keep Charlie safe - Sam will not die if the wall is broken, but Charlie will be annihilated if Raphael discovers her existence. Sam’s wall can be rebuilt, but if Charlie dies…

If Charlie dies, Castiel has no more purpose - he doesn't know if she will go to Heaven or to Hell or Purgatory.

She’s angel and she’s human, she’s neither angel nor human.

He has to keep her safe. It’s the only thing he has left.

Until it’s not.

Until Crowley tries to kill Dean, and Balthazar tries to kill him and Castiel is forced to burn both of them, this close to the end.

His existence is fraying, the threads unravelling, because he’s killing , he’s lying, he’s falling, falling, falling , he’s no better than the demon who lies and cheats and maims -

Charlie , he reminds himself, Charlie is all there is.

And then Charlie vanishes.

*-*-*

Missouri’s house in shambles as Castiel drops mid-flight on to the street. She’s gone , he thinks numbly, knowing what he is going to find even before he sees it.

His feet are like lead, the sensation of his shoes dragging over the gravel uniquely grating and immensely human. Every step echoes around him in shattered silence, every splinter piercing through the soles of the rubber even as he walks across the rubble and steps across what was once the threshold of his friend’s home.

Because Missouri was his friend, he can admit that now, she was his friend , the caretaker to Charlie when he could not be.

In a way, she much more parent to his child than he could ever hope to be. The thought occurs as he steps into what used to be Charlie’s nursery, the forest-covered walls he created now lying decimated and broken across her empty crib.

The psychic’s corpse is slowly growing cold against that crib, her fingers still locked in a death grip around the bars, her expression not one of horror or fear, but a characteristic defiance that tells him all that he needs to know.

Even in the face of her eminent doom, she tried to protect Charlie - the child is as much hers as she is Castiel’s or Dean’s.

He bends down, pressing his palm gently to her face, his Grace darkening with furious rage and quiet sorrow.

He should never have brought her into this, he mourns, blinking away the burning in his eyes; he should’ve told her the truth when she demanded it, told her everything so that she would have at least been better equipped to protect herself.

But she would’ve died anyway , he tells himself weakly, because she wouldn't ever have let anyone harm Charlie .

It’s both the truth and an excuse - it will never be the absolution he seeks.

Because Missouri is dead , the Winchesters and Bobby have turned against him and Charlie is gone.

Charlie is gone .

*-*-*

“Never underestimate the King of Hell, darlin’,” Crowley taunts and Castiel turns to him, angry and furious. “Now, I think it’s time to re-renegotiate our terms.”

“Where is she, Crowley?” Castiel demands. “ Where is Charlie ?”

Crowley smirks, turning around when the angel appears in front of him. He places his hand on the demon’s head, intent on smiting him, snarling into his face.

“Where is my charge?” he hisses, “I will smite you, Crowley, where is she?”

“Sweaty hands, mate,” the King of Hell mocks him. And Castiel lets a small strand of his Grace slip past his human skin and into the demon’s twisted self, intent on torturing, intent on destroying - Charlie, Charlie is gone , and he can't sense her -

Nothing happens.

Castiel stumbles back, Grace thrumming with fear-fear-fear - Charlie is gone, she’s hidden to him, and he needs her - Missouri is dead , and Castiel couldn't even stop to give her the proper send-off she deserves, because Charlie is gone-gone-gone -

He’s coming apart at the seams, torn and fraying when he senses Raphael behind Crowley, in her female vessel, smirking and mocking at him.

And Castiel remembers that she needed this new vessel because Balthazar destroyed her previous one, the same Balthazar that he killed.

He’s slipping, he’s an angel and he’s Charlie’s guardian and Dean hates him - hates him -

Castiel is so tired.

He tries to convince Crowley that Raphael will betray him and the demon mocks him in return.

“Really, Castiel,” Raphael mutters, “Protecting a half-breed Nephilim ?” the derision in his tone makes the younger angel furious. “You truly have fallen, have you not?”

“You’re allying yourself with the King of Hell,” he points out, snapping, his Grace searching, seeking -

Charlie, Charlie, Charlie -

He gives them the blood.

But it isn't the blood that they demand.

And Castiel vanishes, searching for her, desperate and angry - he needs her, she’s his charge, she’s his purpose, she’s Dean’s -

He has to keep them all safe, he has to do what he thinks is required, he can't step back now -

Purgatory opens.

The gates give way to the millions of monstrous souls - Castiel swallows them all without hesitation.

But he keeps his Grace open, still seeking the one creature in the world that still wants him, that still loves him -

He’s terrified that he was going to find her here, in this gamut of souls, as neither human nor angel, and gone, gone, gone -

But only monsters come, werewolves and vampires and shapeshifters and wendigoes, and Charlie’s Grace is missing, a void he wants to fill, that he pushes souls into in an attempt to stop the ache, the fear -

He doesn't know if he is happy or sad about it because she's still missing and he's still so angry, so proud, so confused -

She's still gone -  Dean still hates him -

He failed Dean, he failed Sam and Bobby and he’s failed all his siblings. He razed Heaven, killed all those that would stand by him and he’s lost Missouri -

Charlie -

Castiel is lost.

*-*-*

Mitch winces as the stupid kid’s cries increase in volume - honestly, what the fuck was he thinking when he took this assignment? He should’ve told Crowley, no friggin’ no. The King of Hell would have probably roasted him alive for refusing a mission, but then at least he wouldn't be stuck babysitting a goddamned angel baby-bitch.

He’s glad, of course, that boss saw fit to equip him and the rest of his passe with sweet angel-banishing-slash-repellent sigils. It’s enough to keep the fucking insect inside the warehouse and protects them all.

But Crowley forgot one thing - babies fucking cry.

And this whine is beginning to annoy the shit outta him. The only reason he’s not gutting her right the hell now is because Crowley wouldn’t think twice about slitting his throat if he did.

Keep her bloody safe, he’d said sternly, she’s my only bloody bargaining chip for all that she’s a Moose’s niece. If anything happens to her, I will end you.

And Mitch, like the damn fool he is, went ahead and accepted this mission - he’s protecting… babysitting the girl that was born out of a human fucking an angel.

Oh, the sweet irony.

“Why won’t she shut her goddamned mouth?” Corin asks from across the room, looking frazzled as he plays with the knife in his hands. It’s bloody; Mitch sighs as he realizes that his subordinate has been out, having himself some fun.

God, he wishes he had a nice, juicy meatsuit to plunge his own blade into… or a gorgeous, sexy woman to fuck and then bleed dry. It is a full moon, after all and he’s feeling bloodthirsty -

“Because she’s a baby and babies cry.”

The voice is soft, amused and Mitch whirls around to find a scruffy looking man standing right next to the half-breed’s basket, where Crowley had thrown her carelessly, with just enough pillows to make sure she wouldn't roll out.

Mitch blinks - is that man wearing a bathrobe?

The fuck -?

“Who are you?” he growls, yanking out his own blade; behind him, he sees Corin and Elise grab their blades and advance forward, their eyes turning black as his own.

The man just sighs, rubbing his temples as he removes the glasses he’s wearing and walks in front of the hybrid bitch.

“I-uh… well, I’m sorry, but I kinda don't have a lotta time, so…” he says apologetically.

Mitch snarls and races forward, blade ready to be plunged into the man’s heart, whoever the hell he was. No one is getting past him , not Mitch the demon who was Crowley’s first choice to stand guard over his -

Chuck sighs and simply waves his hand at the demon, who disintegrates into fine dust. Behind him, the other two demons come to a standstill, shell-shocked expressions on their faces as they stare at him, wide-eyed and terrified.

In the basket, Charlie’s cries grow even louder as her wings, prickly and angry, flutter forward in an attempt to help her lift off. But they’re nowhere near ready and she’s too tiny, and her cries are helpless and hurt and Chuck suddenly has no more patience.

“ Wh-what- ?” Corin stutters, eyes rooted to the place where Mitch was mere seconds ago. “Who-wh-?”

He vanishes before he can complete the sentence and Elise yelps in fear, turning on her tail and making for the door -

Chuck simply sighs and flicks a finger, rolling his eyes at her loud scream as she also disintegrates and vanishes into thin air.

“Need to work on the effects,” he mutters, frowning, “And setting. And characters who are over-dramatic.”

“ Doah ,” Charlie screams, distracting him from thoughts of his Writing, and he turns around to the ten-month old in the basket, now rocking back and forth in it dangerously, her arms as open as her Grace in search of her father.

“ Dooooah ,” she wails, “ Do ah!”

The sigils carved into the walls are holding her Grace back, pushing into her too-tiny form, trying to squeeze her gorgeous self into an unnatural shape. They aren’t enough to banish her - she’s not angel enough for that - but they do harm and her crying is as pained as it is searching.

Righteous fury burns through the Writer as he quickly waves his fingers at the wall; demons are also his own Creation, he reminds himself.

After all, what story is worth reading without a villain?

Sighing quietly as the age-old conundrum of balance returns to his mind, Chuck simply rolls his eyes and calls out.

“You can come out now,” he says, tone annoyed and irritated. Honestly, all these years and still, he insists on sneaking around in that stupid cloak -

Well, suit now.

Death smiles as he fades into existence, leaning on his cane and raising an eyebrow at the writer, who glares back at him.

“You’ve caused quite the mess,” he says, voice almost bored, as he examines the top of his cane, rubbing the wood almost lovingly.

Chuck rolls his eyes again, opening his mouth to reply, when Charlie shrieks loudly, pushing herself off the basket and falling to the rough ground with a resounding thud.

Their heads snap around to stare at the baby who is blindly crawling towards the writer, arms shaking and trembling, fat tears pouring down flushed cheeks as she wails for her sires. Her wings, so gold, flutter valiantly, pushing and pulling against the air, trying to lift her up, desperation written in their every movement.

“So stubborn,” Death chuckles. “Remind you of anyone?”

He peers at Chuck through hooded eyes and the writer ignores him in favor of walking towards the baby and bending down. With gentle arms, he picks her up and rubs her back, soothing the tangled feathers of her secondaries.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he tells her affectionately, “It’ll be alright.”

It’s almost comical, the way in which she falls silent, watching him with those big, green eyes. She shoves her fist into her mouth, still angry, still hurting and Chuck soothes his hand down the side of her face, rubbing away the tears and pressing his lips to her lips.

With another sigh, he opens his own Mind to her, letting her soak in his presence, soothing the aching longing within her tattered Grace. The removal of the sigils has stopped the physical hurt, but her soul is torn and frayed at the edges and he kisses her forehead as he knits the pieces back together even as his son had once knitted her father’s soul back together.

“You’ve had quite the day, haven’t you, bug?” she recognizes Missouri’s name for him and Chuck allows himself a moment’s regret for the psychic’s unfortunate demise.

She sniffles and buries her face against his shoulder, her wings flapping tiredly and Chuck lets out a small chuckle.

“So like your father,” he murmurs, “Like both of them, aren't you?”

“Ga-gwap-” she struggles and his eyes soften even more, “ Doah .”

“That’s right, baby,” he whispers, “I’m your grandfather. And we’re going to get your Daddy back to your Dad. I promise.”

Because Charlene Mary Winchester can sense the loss of Castiel’s Grace, knows that her Doah is lost to the multitudes of souls that are destroying him from within. Because she understands the love Castiel carries for her true sire and she shares it -

Because she just wants her family back together, even as small and tiny as she is.

“How exactly do you plan on doing that?” Death asks. His voice is plain, but Chuck has known his old friend long enough to be able to sense the slight inflection of curiosity across that tone.

“If you will help me,” he begins, turning to him and holding Charlie closer to him.

Death sighs and it is his turn to roll his eyes.

“Do I really have a choice?” he quips and Chuck offers him a small smile.

“You always have a choice,” he murmurs. “After all,” he looks down at the baby in his arms, whose head is still craning in the direction of her fathers, whose wings still rare to go to her family. He turns back to his friend, “Isn’t that what this has been about since the very beginning?”

Death snorts. “You’ve put me through enough,” he accuses. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t reap you right now.”

Chuck grins at him innocently, “Because we’re family?” he asks cheekily.

Death sighs, rubbing his temple. “God forbid,” he mutters and Chuck laughs out loud at that. In his arms, Charlie squirms, her need for her fathers written clearly across her newly restored Grace.

And Chuck, as her Grandfather, as Castiel’s Father, can do no less than what she demands - after all, what grandparent doesn't dote on their grandkid?

“You’re gonna grow up to be a hell of a woman, aren't you kiddo?” he chuckles and disappears with the baby in his arms. Death follows him with another sigh and another roll of his eyes at his theatrics - honestly, such a drama queen, he thinks.

There is work to be done.

*-*-*

“You will bow down and profess your love unto me, your lord, or I shall destroy you.”

Dean wonders numbly when it all went so wrong, when Cas - his Cas - turned into this.

Sam is behind them, looking confused and lost and Bobby is next to him, just as lost and terrified. Because this is Cas , and apparently he’s lost his collective shit.

When the fuck did his life turn into such a friggin’ soap opera?

“Cas,” he begins but the look that the angel - former angel, fuck, now God ? - shoots him is chills him.

Bobby kneels, “Well, alright then,” he says, “Is this enough or do you want the whole forehead to carpet thing?”

Even browbeaten and tired, Bobby Singer can sound badass, a distant part of Dean’s mind notes. But his heart is racing and he’s angry, so very angry - Cas is - Cas -

He looks at Dean expectantly and every instinct in Dean - every single one of them - is screaming at him to grab Cas by that stupid trenchcoat and shake him until he returns to his senses.

“Guys,” Bobby whispers.

And numbly, Dean watches as Sam bends, he himself bends, about to bow down to Cas - fuck - fuck , Cas can’t -

“Stop.”

Cas’s voice is cold, so very cold and it hurts Dean - because this is his fucking best friend, his only friend in the whole universe, and he’s gone… because Dean couldn't fucking teach him that free will doesn't mean doing stupid shit that’s wrong. Dean failed him and now, they’re all paying the price.

Sam tries to get to him and Dean can only watch numbly as Cas proclaims that they’re afraid of him, that he doesn't have their respect or their love and Dean wants to scream at him, because of fucking course they’re terrified of him, they’re shaking - because this isn’t Cas, it isn't -

“Cas, come on,” he begs, “This isn't you -”

“The Castiel you knew is gone,” he cuts in, voice as cold and lost as it’s ever been.

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but another voice cuts in.

“No, he isn't.”

Castiel’s eyebrow climbs across his forehead as he looks up to see fucking Death standing in front of him.

Dean blinks - where did he come fro- fuck, is he carrying a baby ?

The memory flashes across his eyes even as he stares at the most powerful entity in the whole universe, calmly standing there with a ten-month old baby as though he were simply an old man out for a walk with his infant granddaughter.

Dean was walking down the street, groceries in hand, when the punitive wails of a baby, grating and annoying, stopped him short. He looked up to see a man - about late thirties, dressed in slacks and a shirt, wearing a long coat - sitting on the park bench, holding close a newborn who wouldn't stop screaming.

Blue, blue eyes and a tan trenchcoat flashed across his mind and the ex-hunter swallowed and pushed away the memory. This man wasn’t Cas, even if he did have a head full of dark hair and shoulders the same breadth as the angel who had once been his best friend.

He looked frazzled, tired, as he rubbed the baby’s back, murmuring to her softly. She wasn’t responding, he saw, her shrieks becoming louder and angrier by the minute.

Dean didn't know what he was doing or why he was doing it, but against himself, he found that he was walking straight towards the duo. Something in the way the man is holding the child was endearing, almost reminding him of - of Sam, of when Dean hadn’t known how to handle a baby crying, but given it everything he had anyway.

“You alright there, man?” he’d asked. And the dude hadn’t been able to answer, and had stuttered, which, in retrospect, doesn’t that seem like he was stunned into silence?

Son of a bitch .

Dean remembers the way he leaned over, barely even being conscientious of doing it. Without rhyme or reason, he had pulled the infant into his arms, held her close and rocked her as best as he could.

He remembers the way every instinct in him was clamoring to keep the baby close to himself, to soothe her cries. He remembers the soft red hair that was tangled with sweat and tears, and he remembers the flushed cheeks and wide eyes, all green and big and turning red from her crying.

He remembers the way her father told him that he lost his own siblings when he confessed that he’d lost his younger brother that year. There had been a familiarity to that man, a kinship he’d identified with, made stronger by his own confession and he didn't know why he was telling a random stranger this, didn't know why he was feeling so attached to a baby, even if she was the most beautiful little girl he’s ever seen.

The hunter in him was suspicious, but he’d forced that feeling down, telling himself that this was normal , that people soothed random crying babies on the street all the time. He didn't need to be suspicious.

But it had taken him weeks after to let his guard down again, to be able to relax. He couldn't help the salt lines he’d drawn around his home with Lisa, a prayer to Cas dying a hundred different times on his lips as he swallowed hard in an attempt to replace hard muscle with the softness of a woman’s skin.

He remembers not wanting to let that little girl go.

“Castiel,” Death is saying out loud, “Such an insolent little angel, aren’t you?”

It’s been months since he last saw her and Dean knows as well as any elder sibling does that children grow fast, their faces change easily and they look different in a matter of months, but that kid -

That kid in Death’s arms is her, the same baby he did not want to let go of, the same child who fell silent in his arms for the space of a precious few minutes.

Yes, he hears Death’s voice in his head, now you know.

Realization sinks into Dean as he eyes fly to Castiel, who is ignoring all of them, his gaze trained on the baby in Death's arms.

New father? he hears himself asking, the memory playing itself out in his mind again and again.

That means - that must mean -

“What’re you doing here?” Cas’s voice is agitated.

Fuck, Cas’s kid? What the fuck ?

Because that man was Cas, wasn’t it? It was Cas, and for just a few minutes, Dean had had his friend back - for a few minutes, he had been, if not at peace, then something resembling rest, something that he had not had for a year since Sammy went and died on him.

Cas killed his own siblings and he has a kid and Dean doesn't know what the hell is happening here, except that the world is shot to hell and he’s losin’ it, losin’ everything and -

“An old friend asked me for a favor,” Death replies casually, “So I came… only right to bring a baby to her parents, isn’t it?”

Said baby in his arms is sniffling, throwing her arms out towards Castiel and Dean is suddenly reminded of how warm she felt against him.

Wait, parents ? As in plural?

Son of a fucking bitch -

He looks at Castiel - for a second, something unrecognizable flashes across his face, as he stares back at the child intently.

“Charlie,” he murmurs and a jolt runs through Dean at the name.

Charlie - she’s Charlie .

This baby… whatever she is - and Dean knows she isn’t entirely human, it’s motherfucking obvious - she’s reaching out to Cas.

Behind him, he can hear Sam choke out a gurgled protest and Bobby is staring at them, eyes wide and shell-shocked beneath his baseball cap.

Death steps right up into Castiel’s face and for a moment, a flash of irritation spreads through Dean - that’s his thing with Castiel, sneaking into each other’s personal spaces and sharing them.

“Doah!” the baby suddenly cries, reaching forward from Death’s arms and opening her arms for him, “ Doah !”

The way the angel backs up is almost amusing, if it isn’t terrifying. Hope, fragile and small, unfurls in Dean’s chest. He doesn’t know what the flying fuck is happening here, doesn’t know anything beyond this one second, but maybe, just maybe -

“Cas,” Dean speaks up, “Cas, please -”

Castiel stumbles back as if hit, pushing away Death and Charlie, falling onto the table.

“Get away,” he growls, “Go, get awa -”

“Doah, doah, doah ,” Charlie screams, kicking and punching in his direction. Death sets her down and she crawls straight to Castiel, who stumbles back, throwing his arms up in front of him.

“Do-do, doah , do- doiah -” she wails and reaches out for him.

Dean’s heart aches with her cries and he runs forward to pull her back, to keep her safe before Castiel - Godstiel - whatever the fuck that is - can harm her, can burn her, because Cas is beginning to glow, beginning to shake and tremble -

“ Doah !”

Death pulls him back.

“What the fuck?” Dean cries out; dimly, he’s aware of Sam and Bobby reaching out to help, Sam’s arms moving towards where the child is crawling towards her angelic father - how the fuck does an angel even have kids?

Why didn't Cas just tell him?

The betrayal stings, hurts worse than anything Dean’s felt, except when Sammy betrayed him and that’s telling, innit, that he loves Cas so friggin’ much that he’s right up there with Dean’s younger brother and Bobby (and once his parents) on his list of People-who-Dean-would-fucking-kill-for?

“Don't,” Death’s voice is sharp as he holds back Dean with a strength that belies his frail-looking, old man’s form, “Cas is in there, somewhere, but Charlie is the only one who can get to him.”

“He’s gonna kill her!” Sam yells, wincing as Charlie’s screams grow louder. “I dunno who she is or even what she is, but he’s going to hurt an innocent child!”

Bobby opens his mouth, no doubt to add his own protest to the mix, but Charlie beats them all to it.

“Doah!”

Castiel whimpers, throwing his arms up.

“Shut your eyes!” Death yells and pushes Dean down, taking Sam and Bobby as well, even as a bright light burns across and fuck, Cas - the baby - the baby-

“DOAH!”

There’s silence.

*-*-*

He’s floating.

Everything… it’s all so loud . There are flashes, bright flashes, followed by angry and hungry voices that scream, that yell -

They want to rip -

Shred -

Murder, blood, yes-yes-yes - Power -

Devour , the voice hisses, devour and raze the world, bow for we are God -

Not one voice, but so, so many; hisses and screams, whimpers and yells, snarls and growls and furious shrieks -

Eat, eat, eat it all, the world-burn-around-let’s-burn-

He whimpers, curling in further on himself. Distantly, he can hear corporeal voices, hear a rough cadence that asks for those in the vicinity to bow down to him. He shudders, because that voice is terrifying -

Eat-blood-savage-bow-bow-bow-Power-

He closes his ears, pulling his knees closer to his chest -

Surprise flashes across his entire self; since when did he have knees? He’s never been substantial - or maybe he has, and doesn’t remember it, or maybe the world is burning and he’s lost, lost, lost -

He is so tired.

Power-fear us- God-

He shakes, knocking his knees together, and buries his face in them, gasping. His chest is tight, so tight, and he can’t breathe -

The world is so small, with only the voices, the millions of tortured, angry and furious voices that drown everything, that want to rip, kill, murder -

“Cas, come on,” that voice.

It hurts - he looks up, because it hurts , but it’s a good hurt, like when a thorn is pulled out of your toe. And he wonders where he heard that idiom before, because he’s never actually stepped on a thorn or even had a foot for it to hurt.

“This isn't you-”

That voice, it’s familiar. He knows it, adores it, loves it as he has loved Father -  

He lets out a choked sob, pushing-pushing- pushing against the voices - if he can just push , if he can just get out -

“The Castiel you knew is gone.”

No , the voices howl, no-no-no-no, you called us, you invited us, you are ours , we are God !

They push him back and he sobs out loud this time, the pain too overwhelming, too much - too much -

It hurts.

Why does it hurt?

The phantom tears feel strange on his face and he swallows, curling up within himself to drown out the voices. They are the ones that hurt , he thinks, the voices with their millions of years of pain and agony and being trapped.

Even as he is trapped now, surrounded by them and their need for vengeance.

He’s so, so tired.

Why is he so tired?

He wants that voice again, the one he recognizes - he doesn’t know who it is, or even why it’s loved, but it’s a voice that didn't hurt as much as these others.

Revenge- burn-yes, bow, bow, God -

“Castiel,” another voice, so strong, so calm… it’s not familiar, but it strikes a chord, and he tilts his head at the name.

Castiel…

Why does he know that name?

“Such an insolent little angel, aren’t you?”

Angel… he’s an angel…

He’s an angel .

No! The voices shriek, no, you gave yourself to us , you’re ours , you’re no angel - revenge- Power -blood-

He whimpers again, even as he hears that rough cadence from earlier proclaim something angrily.

“An old friend asked for me for a favor, so I came… only right to bring a baby to her parents, isn't it?”

Parents.

Baby.

A sudden burning seizes him, an undefined longing that squeezes his chest - a pair of green eyes, wide and smiling, stretched across a small, elfin face with round and flushed cheeks that are framed by soft apple-red hair -

“Charlie,” he whispers. The name offers itself to him from some deep corner of his mind, and he closes his eyes to capture the image of the infant and sear it across his eyelids.

That’s right - Charlie. His Charlie.

“Doah!”

The voice jolts across his entire being and he jumps up, head snapping this way and that in search of it.

No-! The voices are crying in agony, trying to drown out that voice, but he pushes, no-no-not now -not after centuries - no, you’re ours, you belong to us - we are God , we cannot -

Dimly, he hears that rough cadence - himself, he recognizes, his human vessel - yell at them to get away, to keep the child away -

“Doah, doah, doah! ”

Charlie.

His beloved, beloved baby - his child, calling for him.

He pushes through - it burns, burns his Grace, across the flesh of his entire being, but she’s calling, asking, crying -

“Do-do, doah , do- doiah -”

She wants him.

“ Doah! ”

“What the fuck-?!”

That’s Dean.

Dean too - and he hears Sam, and Bobby -

They’re all here, with his baby girl, and he must get back to them -

No, you’re ours , you will remain ours, you swore, you gave it up !

No, he growls back this time, no, I wanted to fight, not lose myself in you. I will return -

“Doah!”

You’re ours, you may not go, we’re God-

You’re not my Father, he tells them, sudden clarity flashing across his mind, and you cannot stop me.

He burns, by Father, it burns more than anything, more than the holy oil or fire, more than his two flights across Hell, more than being killed, more than Dean’s loss of faith -

It burns.

But he’s Castiel , Angel of the Lord - he’s Castiel, Charlie’s father , and his daughter is calling for him -

He pushes -

The flames snarl across his body, lick their way across his Grace, but Castiel pushes back with everything he has -

“DOAH!”

Charlie, he murmurs, I’m coming.

And he knows no more.

*-*-*

“Good Morning, Vietnam!”

Sam jumps awake at the sound of Lucifer yelling in his head. He winces, massaging his aching temples and pinching the bridge of his nose as he looks up wearily, already knowing what he’s going to find.

In front of him, he sees the fallen angel leaning against the table, arms crossed over his chest and his features arranged into a dark smirk. A sudden flash of burning flashes across Sam’s mind - he’s burning, burning , and it hurts, but Hell is so cold, cold -

A sudden burning in his palm distracts him and he looks down to see that he’s leaning on his hand - a shard of glass, dripping crimson blood, is piercing his skin, having neatly gone through the entirety of his hand, cutting through bone and muscle.

Son of a bitch, that hurts .

Lucifer whistles, tut-tutting quietly.

“Does that hurt, Sam?” he taunts and Sam shuts his eyes again, because this isn’t real, he isn’t in Hell - Castiel got him out, Cas -

Cas!

Sam’s eyes fly open a second time, neck snapping to the side as the memories of the past few hours rush into his mind. Behind him, Lucifer chuckles again, a snigger that reminds Sam of childhood bullies.

“Did he really raise you, Sam?” he asks mockingly, “Or are you still in Hell and imagining that you’re out?”

Sam ignores him, ignores the way the doubt clamors his mind, ignores the way his skin prickles uncomfortably.

“After all, he raised only your meatsuit, didn't he?”

The younger Winchester inhales through his nose, refusing to pay attention to him. Without realizing it, he presses down on the palm that’s injured and yelps, the sudden, burning flare of pain clearing his head.

He turns his head - Lucifer is gone.

With a sigh, he finally looks up. A second later, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

Because right there, in front of him, are Cas and the baby, wrapped around one another in a tight embrace. The child - Charlie, he recalls - Charlie is slapping at Castiel’s still form with impossibly tiny fists, fat tears pouring down her flushed cheeks and it tears something within Sam to see Cas’s daughter so angry and hurt.

Cas’s daughter.

Damn if that isn’t a total mindfuck.

Sam chances a look at his elder brother, worried. He knows - knows - that Cas means a lot more to Dean than the hunter will ever let on, that the angel’s betrayal broke something within him that not even Sam has been able to fix.

Dean is simply staring at the prone form on the ground, eyes blank and numb. There is a silence that hangs heavy around him, not the steady quietness that Sam’s used to, but a shattered void that speaks volumes to the state of his mind.

“You alright, Sam?” Bobby asks from next to him and he nods, feeling a rush of relief at the sight of their almost father, looking exhausted and terrified, but alive.

Cas…

Sam pulls himself to his wobbly feet and stumbles over to where Charlie is still crying against the angel. Her loud shrieks have quieted down to soft whimpers and whinnies and if it isn’t so very heartbreaking, Sam would almost call it adorable.

“Do-do-” she keeps mumbling into Cas’s neck, “ Doah .”

She’s nuzzling him, he’s startled to realize as he gets closer, she’s nuzzling and petting him, wrapped around him at a strange angle, her shoulder flexing back and forth in tiny little movements, almost as though -

Almost as though she has wings.

He stumbles at the thought and at the corner of his eyes, he sees Lucifer’s form reappearing, the same smirk still wide on his face.

“Wings, Sam?” he sighs, “Really? Well, she is half angel, isn’t she? But then… which angel would even fuck a human, Sam? Which angel would let an abomination such as her live?”

Sam resolutely ignores the Devil in his mind, pushing away the stray thoughts floating into his head - there was an angel who fucked a human, there is an angel who once had compassion enough to turn against all of his brethren -

But Anna died, he tells himself, and Cas is Charlie’s parent and he’s in a male vessel.

Castiel is lying so still, so quiet, Sam worries. Despite everything, Cas is his friend, his only friend other than Dean, and he’s still family.

It would destroy Dean if he died.

Dean is still just sitting there, watching Bobby and Sam as they exchange a glance. The younger Winchester moves to pull the crying baby away from the prone angel, relieved when he sees the up and down movement of Cas’s belly - he’s breathing at least.

Though what good breathing is going to do for a broken angel, Sam doesn’t know.

He’s just about to pull Charlie away from Cas when he hears that calm, detached voice.

“Don’t,” Death is standing there, hands on his cane and eyebrow raised.

“Oh, he’s still around?” Lucifer hisses in his mind, “I should’ve bound him harder the last time, shouldn’t I, Sam?”

Sam grits his teeth and presses down on the burning palm, watching in satisfaction as the bastard vanishes.

“What’d ya mean, don't?” Bobby asks, and Death tilts his head towards the baby still crawling over Cas’s prone form.

“Don't remove her, not yet,” he says. “She’s knitting your stupid little angel’s Grace together. The fool nearly tore himself apart in an attempt to push all the souls back into Purgatory.”

“He shouldn’t have opened ‘em up in the first goddamned place,” Dean’s voice is low, rough, and Sam knows his brother well enough to sense the hidden tears in it.

“Indeed,” Death’s statement is almost a sigh. “Speaking of,” he turns to the wall behind Cas and waves his cane around in a wide circle, murmuring something under his breath.

Sam watches in fascination as the symbols that Cas and Crowley had drawn rearrange themselves into a different combination, newer carvings appearing over them, even as the Gateway reseals itself.

“There,” Death rolls his eyes, “I’ve done as he asked.”

“As who asked?” Bobby demands and Death turns that quiet stare at the old hunter, who flinches but doesn’t look away.

“You’re lucky she was here,” the entity gestures towards the still hiccuping baby in lieu of an answer, “There are things far older than souls in Purgatory, things that would’ve escaped and done your world harm had she not pulled your idiotic angel back from his crusade.”

“What things?” Sam asks curiously and Death shrugs.

“The Old Ones,” he tells them mysteriously, “Leviathans. Why do you think God made Purgatory in the first place? Long before angel or human, He made those… I liked them, but he was worried they would gobble up the whole Petri Dish… so he shut them away in Purgatory and threw away the key.”

Dean snorts, “Well, he did a pretty piss-poor job of it,” he snaps at Death, “If one rogue angel and one dumbass demon could find that key and crack it open.”

Death raises an eyebrow at them.

“Your rogue angel went nuclear, Dean,” he says firmly, “And isn’t that choice what you wanted to teach him? You taught him free will, you didn't tell him that free will came with responsibility.”

Dean’s mouth snaps shut, jaw ticking furiously as the hunter looks away, features arranged into a look of self-recrimination that Sam’s seen all too many times.

He opens his mouth to defend his brother, but Death continues in that same, detached tone.

“Lucky for you, responsibility found him when you were off playing families,” he tilted his head at the baby, who was now sniffling into Cas’s trenchcoat and gripping the sides of it with strong but small fingers.

Silence falls over them, Sam bubbling with irritation on behalf of his brother and Bobby watching them both silently. Dean simply sits, staring at the unconscious angel and his child, lips pursed, jaw ticking, an expression of angry numbness on his face that Sam is all too familiar with.

“Who is she?” he snaps finally, “Who the fuck did Cas have a kid with-?”

Death blinks at him owlishly.

“Are you really that much of a bumbling oaf?” he asks, sounding almost cross, “Or do you truly not know?”

Dean breathes in sharply and looks away, refusing to meet his eyes.

“What’d ya mean, how’re we supposed to-?” Bobby begins and suddenly, just like that, Sam knows.

He knows.

“She’s Dean’s,” Sam mutters quietly, the statement nevertheless thundering across the room. “Isn’t she?”

Death inclines his head, even as Bobby’s face snaps to the younger Winchester’s, who ignores him in favor of watching the way his brother recoils.

“Sam, she can’t- she’s not- ” he stammers, shaking his head vehemently, refusing to admit to what Sam knows is the truth.

“Look at her eyes, Dean,” he cuts in forcefully. “She’s got red hair. Remind you of anyone?”

“Anna’s fucking dead , Sam!” Dean cries, “Her body was destroyed when she swallowed her Grace, don't you fucking remember?!”

“And yet, her child survived,” Death answers calmly before Sam can respond. “She stole a little portion of that Grace to protect herself, to heal herself, the same way you did when Castiel raised you from Hell.”

Dean’s jaw snapped shut at that, his breath catching as the implication of that sunk in.

“I-stol- what ?” he sputters.

“A complete thief, your brother is,” Lucifer’s silky voice returns and Sam presses down instinctively on the wound in his palm, the burning hot and heavy in his fingers. “You were supposed to be mine , Sam, and he wouldn't let you be.”

But it doesn’t work - Lucifer doesn’t vanish.

“It’s not gonna work, Sammy,” the Devil taunts him, “I got my finger wiggling around in your brainpan.”

Death’s expression alters ever so slightly, a small frown crossing his face as he turns to Sam.

“You’re hallucinating,” he says bluntly. “I told you not to scratch the wall.”

Dean’s head snaps to his and Sam ignores him resolutely, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Fix him!” he demands, his voice shaking, and Sam knows that his brother is close to his breaking point. “ You put that wall up, fix him , fuck you!”

Dean has a daughter - a daughter . Sam’s an uncle . And Cas has been looking after this little girl for the past one year; somehow, somewhere he found out about Anna’s daughter and protected her.

Did Cas know during the Apocalypse? Was that where he went when he was searching for God?

Or did he find out much later, after Sam had nose-dived into Hell? Had he raised that girl on his own, even as Dean was raising Ben?

“You mean when Dean was living your dream for you, don’t you Sammy?” Lucifer mocks and it burns, burns because yes, it’s Sam who wanted the white-picket fence and the 2.0 kids and the whole home.

Dean simply wanted to keep his promise to his brother.

And looking at him now, watching the shattered, betrayed look on his face… Dean’s in love with Cas, has been for a while now.

How the fuck had he missed that?

It’s not like it hasn’t occurred to him, given all the staring and touching, but he always dismissed it. Because Dean never showed any inclination and that dream with Lisa Braeden confessing her love for him was so very misleading.

“ Fix him!” Dean demands again and Death raises his hands in answer.

“Sorry, Dean,” he says, “One wall per customer.”

Lucifer’s knowing chuckle makes Sam clench his own teeth and he shakes his head hard to clear it.

Can’t be fixed. Fucking figures .

Dean’s about to break, Sam knows, and the idea that his brother is now beyond repair - contrary to popular belief, Sam’s always known that he’s Dean’s everything, known that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Sammy.

It’s been the driving force of his life - he hates and adores the fact in equal parts.

Death tilts his head towards Charlie, staring at her thoughtfully.

“Although…” he murmurs, “I wonder…”

Before anyone else can say anything, he’s swiftly yanked the child from her angel and is striding towards Sam.

She shrieks in protest, slapping at his face with her fist angrily.

“Doah!” she demands, and Death sighs, catching her hands easily and holding her in place as she squirms against his grip. “ Doah !” she cries again.

“The hell?” Bobby exclaims.

Dean is up on his feet in an instant, fingers clenching and unclenching protectively as he reaches out for his daughter.

But Death ignores all of them in favor of walking to Sam and just dumping the baby in his arms.

He blinks, startling back at the sudden weight in his arms. He’s never held a child before so he moves gingerly -

Charlie screams .

She kicks at him angrily, pounding at his chest with small, closed fists, pulling at his jacket and butting her head against his neck.

Sam almost drops her in shock as she struggles against him, kicking at his stomach with her bare toes, shoulders moving back and forth as though she’s trying to escape, as though she could fly away from him.

It hurts.

Because this is his niece - he’s known her for all three hours, and already, a sense of warmth and affection is spreading its way through his bones.

But she doesn’t want him - it hurts .

“Look at that,” if Sam didn’t know any better, he would say that Death sounds almost surprised. “She senses the wrong within you.”

“What the hell is happening here?” Dean growls and Death sighs, rolling his eyes.

“Your daughter,” he says crossly, “unlike a Nephilim, is not just any crossbreed. She’s neither angel nor human - she’s both angel and human.”

“What does that even mean?” Bobby questions and Death just offers them a mysterious smile.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” he mutters.

“Even the child knows, Sam,” Lucifer taunts at the back of his mind, “Even she knows how broken you are… just how much you belong in Hell.”

“Shut up,” he whispers furiously. Charlie falls silent in his arms, watching him with wide, green eyes so like Dean’s, Sam knows she can’t belong to anyone else.

“Sa-Sa,” she hiccups, reaching out with fingers small and delicate, “Sa-sa-sa…”

She knows him.

Sam almost stops breathing as that realization hits - she knows him, enough to call him by name. She knows him.

Does she know Dean too?

Refusing to look at his brother, he bends down and leans his head against her red hair and she places those tiny fingers against his cheek. Her fingernails are chipped, he notes, and the incongruence of it - the imperfection, when the rest of her fingers are so soft, so beautiful… it brings a smile to his face.

Because this is his neice.

He’s an uncle .

Dean has a daughter - Cas has a daughter.

He closes his eyes and a warmth spreads through his entire being, emanating from the point where her fingers rest against his cheek.

“You’ll never be rid of me, Sam,” Lucifer’s voice grows distant in his head, “I’ll always be your personal Hell - did you ever leave at all?!”

“Sa-sa,” she sighs, “Sa-sa, Sa-sa, Sa-”

Her voice becomes thunderous in his mind and it drowns out the loud yelling, the mocking and derisive tone of the Devil as he sighs.

“Sa-Sa,” she whispers again and when Sam opens his eyes, he sees her smiling at him with a pretty, pink mouth, sporting exactly three teeth.

God, she’s perfect.

Lucifer is gone. Sam doesn’t need to look around to see it - his brain feels so clear, so warm and Charlie in his arms, grins widely, resting her forehead against his clavicle with a small sigh. I

“What. the. Fuck.”

Dean’s voice is so tightly controlled, Sam wonders how much longer it will be before his brother completely snaps.

He whirls to Death, who is still watching them with an expression that can only be described as mild curiosity, and snaps at the entity.

“What the hell just happened?” he snarls, “Why was she glowing? Why is she with Cas? WHO IS SHE?”

Death sighs, massaging his temples.

“You got Anna pregnant,” he says slowly, “And she saved that child by moving it into another woman’s body, a woman who would have otherwise been barren. She died before Daphne could give birth and your stupid angel found her when she was in labor. The rest, as you say is history.”

“Well,” Bobby says, “That’s… that’s uh…”

“She’s not mine,” Dean hisses, “She can’t be - Cas didn’t -”

He looks helpless and Sam looks down at the child in his arms. She’s swaying back and forth, eyes fluttering shut in a sleepy manner and he knows Dean wants to lie to himself, but the truth is right here in front of them.

“She is yours, Dean,” he mutters quietly. “Can’t you see it?”

His brother doesn’t answer, eyes narrowing at Death.

“Why now?” he demands, “You called us all insects before, you said you weren’t interested in helping any of us. So why now?”

Death simply rolls his eyes a second time and his grip on his cane tightens.

“An old friend came by,” he says stiffly, “And called in a favor. I couldn’t say no.”

“What old friend?” Bobby demands, “What’re you talkin’ about?”

He smiles.

And then, he’s gone, leaving behind one comatose angel, one sleepy baby, one bemused old hunter and two Winchesters at the point of breaking.

Offhand , Sam thinks as he collapses against Bobby, it was quite the exit.

*-*-*

The bed is warm, but it’s Charlie’s wings that Castiel feels when he comes to.

She’s wrapped around him, sucking at the skin of his neck and the feeling, so very familiar and welcoming, warms his Grace. Her soul is open, shining and seeking his - he lets himself bask in her presence, nuzzling into her skin and stroking her back. She smells like her father, all leathery and warm and -

Father.

Dean .

Castiel shoots up in bed, taking the ten month old with him as she begins to cry, protesting the sudden movement.

“Awake are you?” Dean’s voice is rough from next to him and Castiel’s head whips around to see the hunter sitting next to his bed and watching him with a guarded expression.

Bobby’s , he recognizes the house, he’s at Bobby’s.

And Dean is here - Charlie is here.

Dean knows Charlie.

Dean knows .

“Dean-” he begins, fear thrumming through his Grace as the memories of the past few days rushes back. He feels dizzy, guilt and anger and terror pooling beneath his skin, hands shaking. The world is suddenly too small and Charlie feels suffocating where she’s cuddled against his chest, a living and breathing reminder of the fact that he’s lied, that he’s been lying to Dean -

“No,” the hunter cuts him off. “Just… fucking no, Cas.”

Castiel falls silent, unable to articulate the utter horror that is bubbling beneath his skin - he killed so many, he hurt his friends, he nearly hurt Charlie -

Charlie.

She sniffles and buries her face in the crook of his neck, sucking at the skin there. The movement is so familiar, so warm, it soothes the fear racing within him.  

Castiel looks away from Dean's knowing glare and focuses instead on opening his Grace to his charge’s, feeling the gentle warmth of her soul mingling with his own.  

“Were you ever gonna tell me?” Dean asks, his voice deceptively soft. Castiel can sense the anger thrumming beneath the surface, the tension bubbling below the surface of Dean's skin, wound tight like a rubber band ready to snap.  

He looks up to meet the hunter's eyes, so hard and come cold.  

He did that.  He caused it all.  

“I have a daughter and Crowley knew about her before I did.”

The accusation is clear, the condemnation even more so and Castiel swallows hard, Grace reeling back from the the guilt that threatens to bury him.

He killed Balthazar. He broke Sam's wall.

He lied, cheated - he made the man he loves bow down to him and make him his God.  

And though it all, only her little voice, calling out to him so desperately -

Doah -

Daddy.

“Would you have accepted her had I told you?” he demands, suddenly, inexplicably angry.  

He lied, he destroyed and he cheated but he did what he thought was right, he did what had to be done, he was trying to protect Dean and Sam and Charlie -

“She's my daughter , Cas!” Dean yells, “I had the fucking right to know!”

Charlie startles from the sound. She looks up at Dean, her lower lip wobbling and lets out a small, shrill whimper of her own, green eyes going wide and scared, filling with big, fat tears.  

Castiel throws a glare at the elder Winchester and shakes his head, pulling Charlie closer to him. He offers her his wings, wrapping them around her in a protective cocoon and she falls silent almost instantly, going back to sucking his skin hungrily.  

“Shit,” Dean's whisper sounds raw, broken and Castiel wants to fix it, wants to just tell him that he was doing it all for Dean, because of Dean -

He wants his friend back, even if he can never have more than that.  

“Dean?” he calls quietly.  “Dean, please, I-”

“No,” the hunter throws his arms up, eyes suspiciously bright as he looks from Charlie to the angel, as though seeing something new.  “ No , I can't , this is, I-”

He throws his arms up and jumps off the chair, stalking to the door and walking out of it without a backward glance.  

And Castiel can only watch him go in silence, Grace thrumming with resigned acceptance and guilt, because he knew, didn't he, that he'd lost Dean?

He's lost Dean, but Charlie is still here.

For now, that will have to be enough.

*-*-*

It's later in the day that Castiel finally makes the trip downstairs. He's been lingering in the room that Dean left him in, still recuperating from the trauma of swallowing and then regurgitating so many souls. He didn't want to go down, to face Bobby or Sam or what he did to them.

So he hid out instead, holding Charlie close, humming her to sleep and reveling in her presence, because he almost lost her and that was the most terrifying moment of his life.

Because, he's realized, he's her father too - or something more than that, he doesn't know. He's her Doah , and that makes all the difference.  

He will never leave her again - he shouldn't have left her in the first place.

If she is his purpose, as he wanted her to be, he should've stayed with her and Missouri, kept them both safe. Instead he fought a war in heaven that he lost miserably even when he won it, because the sacrifice was not worth it.

He lost Dean, he's lost Sam and there is no way Bobby is going to forgive the sins he has committed against his boys.

So hiding, though cowardly, was another choice Castiel made that he isn't completely proud of.  

But he can't hide forever. Eventually Charlie rouses and starts crying - wars, broken hearts and guilt trips don't stop a baby from demanding sustenance and he doesn't know if he's glad or angry that he gives such routine to his day.

Castiel walks down, holding her close to him, wings wrapped around her own, which are flapping impatiently but still soothing nonetheless. He'd be lying he he says that she isn't his shield at the moment - she's ten months old and she carries him when can't carry himself.  

It's a paradox he intends to ponder later.  

Bobby's sitting with a frazzled looking Sam at the front table.  The elder hunter's gaze turns guarded the minute Castiel enters, but Sam turns to him with a soft, if cautious smile.  

“Hey Cas,” he greets normally - as though Castiel didn't break him beyond repair, as though Castiel is still his friend -

As though Castiel deserves his friendship at all.  

Charlie nudges him forward with a small pinch to his neck. She wants food and she wants it now and he moves forward on autopilot as he settles her on his hip.

“Hello,” he greets and Bobby glares at him.

“Mashed potatoes on the counter,” he says abruptly.  “She'll inhale em like her father used to when he was a kid,” the word father is said pointedly and Castiel hears the accusation for what it is.  

“Bobby,” Sam begins tiredly.  “He-”

“No, Sam,” Bobby cuts in angrily, “He… He proclaimed himself God . And now he wants to feed a kid? Ya, damn curveball this one.”

“I'm sorry,” Castiel whispers. Charlie, sensing his distress, rubs his skin with her tiny little fingers. He looks down at her to see her watching him with big, round eyes, wide and seeking, lower lip pouting in hunger.

It occurs to him then, that he has no real claim to her, has no actual reason to be with her.

Because she was never his, not really. She is Dean's and Anna's and he's just been her caretaker, loving and protecting her when no one else could.  

He loves her, but he's not her father.  

It's a distinction he must remember - clearly, the Winchester don't seem to have a problem with her being supernatural.  

They could take her away from him.

And Castiel would allow it, because it is no less than he deserves.  

He sorts down quietly, doesn't say anything beyond a murmured offer of gratitude as he  takes the mashed potatoes and sets Charlie down on the counter.  She leans forward and he jumps up to make sure she doesn't fall off, struggling with the the spoon in one hand and her small form in the other.  

“Here, Cas,” Sam's voice is less harsh than Bobby's, but there's a definite tone of caution that is entirely warranted.  

He turns to see the younger Winchester holding up a high chair, meant for babies, same as the one Missouri had in her home.  

Missouri’s gone now , he remembers, lost to the war he brought to her doorstep.  She’s dead because Castiel couldn't protect her and he never even gave her the funeral she deserved.

Pushing away the thought, he lets the spoon drop back to its late and places Charlie carefully on the seat, strapping her in with extra care.  She oohs , opening her arms out in a venture of feed-me that he's seen before and he can't help but smile at the way she rocks back in eagerness when she realizes that she's about to be fed.  

Castiel steadily ignores both Sam and Bobby as they watch him feed her. Charlie giggles, splattering food across her nose and he wipes it away, nuzzling her flushed cheek with the back of his thumb.

The silence is oppressive, no sounds passing between them except Charlie's soft coos and chews. Castiel finds that he can't take it, filled too many apologies and quiet accusations.  

He doesn't know why he does it, but he begins to hum softly, the words flowing easily after ten months of singing his child to sleep with them.  

Missouri pulled him aside and ordered him to learn all the classics that he could, because Charlie will not sleep for anything else and it's all his fault, boy, you'd better learn em cuz you got her used to it!

She will never again wrangle him into doing things. The thought hurts.  

“Hey Jude,” he rasps shakily, “Don't make it bad, take a sad song -”

“We'll, I'll be damned,” Bobby mutters. He gets up abruptly and walks out, murmuring to himself about idjits and angels and Castiel wonders numbly if he will ever have to honor of being called idjit again.

“That's the song that Dean used to sing me to sleep,” Sam speaks up, “that mom-”

“I know,” Castiel cuts in, “I thought it a tradition to be passed on.”

Silence falls between them again before Sam, brave Sam, breaks it.  

“You wanted to explain before, Cas,” he murmurs.  “We didn't listen as well as we could have.”

He gestures to the child happily chewing on the mashed potatoes Castiel holds up to her face, more than half the mixture rubbing over plump cheeks which dimple with her grin.  

“Explain now,” he asks.  

And Castiel is suddenly so angry, so, so furious, he turns away, refusing to meet those knowing hazel eyes.  

“WHY?” he demands, “why now? So that you can condemn me further? So that you can take her away from me?”

“She wasn’t yours in the first place, Cas,” Sam retorts.  “But somehow, you've made her yours, and you've loved her and given up everything for her.  Dean knows it, I know it - she brought you back, she got through to you. That's why.”

Castiel has no answer,  because Sam is right - Charlie isn't his, but she's his in every way that matters and she's all that he has left.  

If telling the truth is what he has to do to keep her with him, it's a cross he's willing to bear and a rather easy one at that.  

Even if it's the hardest thing he's ever done.  

“Please, Cas,” it's the quiet plea in Sam's voice that breaks him, “we're still your friends.  Tell me.”

Sam is his still his friend.  The relief that pumps through his Grace at that statement leaves Castiel shaking so hard, he almost drops the spoon.  

“Sam, he begins, “I-...”

“Please tell me everything, Cas,” he asks.  

So Castiel does.  

*-*-*

Bobby forgives him within the week.  He watches as Castiel mangles the words to Mary's favorite songs, as he feeds and bathes and plays with her, refusing to think about Heaven, or the massacre he's caused or even the fact that Dean is so clearly avoiding him.  

He's glad that he doesn't have to explain everything a second time. Sam informed him that Charlie fixed the wrongness in his mind, that she destroyed the marks Hell left on him and he looked down in wonder then, at this child who’s so beautiful, who was currently sucking on her own toes.

He’s grateful that he doesn’t have to tell Dean the story of her birth - he doesn't think he's brave enough to tell the story a second time. Telling Sam was bad enough.  

So he ignores all of it, ignores the outside world and makes Charlie his purpose as she should have been all along. Something in Bobby is pleased at that, pleased at the way he takes responsibility for his beloved charge, and before he knows it, the elder hunter is slapping the back of his head and calling him an idjit once more.  

“Do shit like that again,” he says gruffly, “And I'll stab you in the gut with angel blade myself.”

Castiel nods, basking in the forgiveness - because that's what it is and it feels so, so wonderful.  

“I'm sorry, Bobby,” he says quietly because he needs to say it.  Bobby slaps the back of his head again and walks out, leaving Sam and Castiel to play with the ten month old who's crawling towards the old and battered television.

*-*-*

Dean continues to avoid him.

Castiel can't say that he’s surprised, or even angry.  He broke something in their relationship and he is so very sorry about it.  

He understands Dean's reticence towards him.  

He does not approve of the same reticence towards Charlie.

It's the very reason why did not want to tell Dean about her in the first place - Charlie is not human, not fully, and Dean's apparent resistance to accepting her as his own is not something Castiel wants to watch.  

Sam, on the other hand, takes to being an uncle naturally.

“Give him time, Cas,” he clasps the angel’s shoulder, patting it gently. “Dean… he doesn’t do well with lies, you know that. He just needs time to process.”

Castiel swallows hard, nodding quietly. It’s what he’s been telling himself, it’s what he says when the hunter passes him without so much as a glance of acknowledgement.

It’s what he says when he has to soothe Charlie into sleep when Dean won’t even look at her.

But it never gets easier, especially when Sam takes so naturally to Charlie. He adores the baby, crawling after her wherever she goes, making faces at her and throwing her up in the air just to hear her shall laughs and happy giggles.  But he defers to Castiel, however, clearly having cast him the role of primary caretaker even if Sam is the one with the legitimate claim to her as her uncle.  

So when one night, they are about to put her to bed - quite the production,  since she does not want to sleep tonight - she rolls off the crib and hits her head on the bars, Sam leaves the soothing of the irate child to the angel.

Charlie is screaming loudly, kicking her arms and legs angrily even as big, fat tears pour down the side of her face. She only bumped her head - there isn't even a small swelling or wound, but the shock of it stuns her and she wails at the top of her voice.

Her wings are prickly and tired and her small face is flushed with tears and Castiel’s heart soars as she pinches him furiously.

He almost lost this, almost gave it up in the heat of battle and his stupid, useless pride - she’s angry and hurt and annoyed, and yet, he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of seeing her flushed face.

Sam backs away, throwing his arms up in defeat, leaving Castiel alone with a cranky baby.  

“What's all the racket?”

We'll, almost alone.  

Dean stands in the doorway, holding a hand to his temple as he watches Charlie guardedly.  Castiel doesn't say anything, a sudden tightness in his throat that he does not know how to speak beyond.  

Charlie, however knows her sire very well.

Her screams increase in intensity and her kicking begins anew as she yells, her Grace filled with that familiar longing for her father that the angel remembers from such a long time ago.  

“Dee!” she screeches, and he's started to realize that she is calling for him , that Dean is Dee where Castiel himself is Doah .

“Deeeeee- dee !!!” she thrashed against his embrace.  

Dean's face closes and he turns his back to them abruptly, walking out in a stiff manner. Castiel watches him go, numb and tired and focuses on the irate baby in his arms.  

He can't soothe her any longer, for suddenly it is not him that she wants - she wants her father and Castel is not that.  

“Dee,” she whimpers, her voice hoarse from all the screaming.  “Dee. Doah, Dee .”

She's asking him for her father and he can't give him to her.  

It hurts more than anything else Castiel has ever felt.  Losing Dean was the most painful thing he's been through and yet, this helplessness crosses even that.  

He wonders numbly if all human parents experience this aching, for surely, there must come a time when a parent cannot give their child what they need?

Did Father feel this way? Is that why He left, just as Dean has now gone?

The abandonment hurts far worse, Castiel decides, at least Charlie has him to lean on, to hold on to while her tears dry.

Whom did Castiel have to guide him?

A parent may not be able to offer their child everything, he think, but love… love is unquestionable. And sometimes, that love will have to be enough.

It is enough.

So, when finally Charlie cries herself to sleep, Castiel goes in search of the hunter, determined to get answers.  

Because he can accept Dean's anger for himself , but he will not let Charlie fall victim to it.  He can forgive slights against himself, but Charlie is innocent; she is his everything and he will not stand for her pain.  

Dimly, he wonders if this is what Dean feels towards Sam.  

If it is, then he can understand the deal he made for Sam's soul.

He can do no less for Charlie.

*-*-*

He finds Dean next to the Impala, as always.  The hunter has the car's hood thrown open, his back to Castiel, bent over the engine.

Castiel doesn't know if the car even needs any maintenance, but he knows that this is what calms the elder Winchester down. So when he steps behind him, he isn't surprised to see that Dean simply is changing oil, mind a million miles away as he tinkers with the engine.  

“She's your daughter ,” he doesn't beat around the bush, instead jumping straight into the accusation.  “She was calling for you, Dean.”

Dean drops his wrench, jumping back to greet the angel. The look on his face is not one of surprise so much as it is resigned acceptance and that just makes Castiel even more angry.  

Because Dean knows that Charlie wants him, knows that Castiel will do everything he can for her, and yet, he runs - his childish anger means that he’s running and hiding, and though he’s aware of the hypocrisy of his own reaction, Castiel cannot help but rage against it.

“You had it handled,” he answers coolly, picking up the wrench and going back to the car. “She didn't need me, not with you there.”

“You're her father , Dean!” Castiel grabs the hunter's arm and yanks him around to face him, “Hate me if you wish but don't you dare ignore your own-”

“ Daughter ?!” Dean cuts in, “MY daughter? Cas, I didn't even know she existed a month ago.   You've known, you've known for over a fucking year and you've-!”

He cuts himself off in frustration, biting his lip and Castiel stumbles back.  

“I'm not the father she needs,” Dean says on a low voice before stepping away.  “She already has a dad and it ain't me.”

“She needs you ,” Castiel whispers.  “ I need you.”

Dean offers him a humorless, tired smile.  

“No, you don't,” he says hoarsely. “You made that very clear over the past year. If you needed me, you'd have called… you went to Crowley, Cas. Crowley .”

Sudden, thrusting fury pulses through his Grace and Castiel wants nothing more than to push Dean down and just make him understand -

Dean was gone .

Castiel was alone, and then he was a parent and he was fighting a war in Heaven - he was alone, so completely cut off from the few people he calls family… he failed to bring Sam out, he failed , and it’s something that makes his Grace churn with guilt even now.

But he tried ; Father knows, he’s tried . He's so, so tired, of explaining himself, of justifying his own actions to himself and to the world, of wanting to keep everything from falling apart -

He wants Charlie, he wants Dean, he wants-wants- wants-

He presses his lips to Dean's.  

The kiss comes out of nowhere and Castiel has no idea what he's doing before he has his lips pressed against the warm heat of Dean's wide, wet mouth. He can feel the hunter’s soul, churning beneath his skin, so bright, so angry and yet, so very warm.  

He's just like his daughter.  

A second later, he wrenches himself away from Dean, stumbling back as realization crashes into him -

He's just kissed Dean - he kissed him.  

“I-I-” he stumbles back, as if physically hit, and stares at his friend, wide eyed and incredulous.

What has he done?

“Cas, what the-?!”

Castiel flies out of there before Dean can finish.

What has he done ?

*-*-*

“You don't get to do this,” Dean's voice furious, its cadence rough and strict with virulence. Castiel whirls around to see the hunter watching him angrily as he packs Charlie's few essentials, ready to take her and leave.  

He doesn't know why he's lingering; he could have always grabbed her and then run off, could've bought the supplies he needs to look after her much later. Yet, when he fled to Charlie's room, he decided to pack her bags the human way, take all her essentials in an actual backpack, not quite ready to leave.  

No, that's a lie - Castiel knows exactly why he didn't leave instantly.  

He wanted Dean to follow him, wants his friend, even now,  to ask him to stay, to forgive him.  

Charlie is fast asleep in the old, battered crib that Bobby built her out of scrap wood lying around the yard; as always her arms and legs are thrown over her head and her little belly moves up and down as she breathes in long and deep.  

But the flush on her face is brighter than usual, the tear tracks still fresh on her face, and it lights Castiel’s Grace with fury all over again every time he sees it.  

“Do what?” he snaps back at Dean, who hovers at the doorway menacingly.  If Castiel wants, he can just disappear, but that doesn't seem to stop the hunter from looming as threateningly as he can.

“You don't get to just come and go as you please, Cas!” Dean snaps back. The harshness of his tone and the loud volume of his voice is waking Charlie; she stirs, whimpering softly, and Castiel glares back at Dean.  

Without a word, he stomps over to the crib and places two fingers on Charlie's forehead, sending her into a deep slumber.  Dean watches guardedly, even as he turns back with a sneer.

“ You don't want her,” he snarls, “So I'm moving her to a place where she will be wanted.”

“And where's that?!” Dean hisses, “Heaven?! Hell ? With Crowley and Raphael and all those douches who would destroy her like the abomination she is?!”

Silence crackles in the air as Dean breathes in sharply, having realized what he just said.  

Castiel offers him a steely glare, refusing to meeting his gaze. This hurts, oh Father , it hurts, because Dean thinks his own daughter is an abomination - he doesn’t want her.

It’s everything Castiel has ever feared for his child.

“Sorry, I-I didn't-” Dean spares a glance at the baby, eyes growing softer and the angel growls in response.  

“Yes, you did,” he cuts in.  “And that's why I'm leaving.”

He turns back to the crib, about to bend down and lift the child up, when a harsh grip on his arms pulls him back. Castiel is whirled around to face Dean, who is glaring at him in an unbridled, furious manner.  

“Dean, let-”

Before he can say anything else, Dean's lips are pressed against his, biting and angry. The kiss isn't soft, it isn't explanatory or anything Castiel imagined his first kisses with the hunter to be like - it's angry and biting and brutal.

A thousand apologies and accusations are written into the lines of Dean's hard, unyielding body, even as the elder Winchester grips Castiel’s shirt tightly and yanks him forward, devouring his mouth.  

“Don't,” Dean whispers hoarsely, damply, against his lips.  

“Dean,” Castiel begins, but Dean kisses him again, this time soft and sweet.  

“You-you… keep doing this, Cas,” he says quietly when they break apart.  “You… you can't decide unilaterally what's the best choice for her.  She's my daughter too.”

“You called her an abomination ,” Castiel points out, refusing to let the hope unfurl at the way Dean calls him his daughter ‘too’.  “You don't want her.”

“I didn't even know she existed before this month!” he protests.  Silence falls again as the hunter breathes in deeply, trying, struggling to find the right words.  It’s hard, Castiel knows, because Dean has never been the one to say what he feels.

“Cas,” he says, “Look… I just… I need time .  Alright? I'm not denying that you're her Dad, in every way that matters. I'm pissed as hell, scared shitless and I dunno where the fuck I'm going, but this…”

He looks at Castiel, meeting his eyes with a wide, open expression of his own.  

“This,” he repeats, leaning closer and pressing his lips to the corner of Castiel’s mouth.  “I want this.  Her. You . Sam and Bobby… I want it and it scares me how much I want it.”

He steps back and watches Castiel through guarded eyes.

“Yo-you,” he clears his throat, looking away, unable to meet the angel’s eyes. “You… uh…”

He swallows hard, looking up again, his expression one of utter terror and a quiet desperation. “You kissed me,” he whispers, “Did… you meant it, right?”

He sounds so lost, so broken, it shatters something within Castiel to hear it.

How could he have forgotten Dean’s greatest fear? How could he not comprehend that the hunter is terrified of losing those closest to him, that he feels so very unworthy of any love, even that offered freely, wholly, and willingly?

Stepping forward, he catches the hunter by the forearm and yanks him in, savoring the quiet yelp of surprise at the angel’s superior strength.

“Dean,” he says softly, running his tongue over the syllable as adoringly as he knows how, “Dean, I have always loved you.”

He doesn’t give him time to respond, simply leaning in and swallowing his sweet protest by pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. Dean lets him in instinctively, winding his arms around Castiel’s waist, pulling him closer and rubbing his own hard chest against his. Castiel plunders his mouth, hands sliding up into that golden-brown hair, pulling at it as he tastes Dean, drinks in the essence of him greedily as he’s wanted to for so very long.

“Cas,” he sighs, “I’m not… I… this…”

He moves away abruptly and looks down, shuffling in an awkward manner. His shoulders shake as he walks to Charlie's crib and Castiel watches quietly as he bends down, running a gentle finger down the side of her face.  

As though sensing him, she flexes in her sleep, her small frown vanishing into a sweet smile as he nuzzles her chin.  

And Castiel can see it - see the way Dean's soul shines with the same longing that Charlie's does, sees the warmth and the tenderness and the fear, both real and contrived, for Castiel, because of Castiel.

“God help me, I want it,” he whispers.  

He straightens and looks up at Castiel helplessly, expression torn and worried.

“I want you,” he admits hoarsely, “I want to be her Dad too. But… Ben - an-and Lisa- Cas… I just…”

A sudden rush of understanding floods Castiel who simply sighs. Dean wants it all, he realizes, wants to be the father Charlie deserves, wants to be everything Castiel wants him to be - but he’s so, so afraid.

Given that the one attempt at being a husband and father went so wrong, Castiel cannot say that he’s surprised.

The angel steps forward and without a word, wraps his arms around the hunter. His movements are jerky, hesitant, but he doesn't pull back even when Dean stiffens in his embrace.  

“You can have it, Dean,” he offers.  “You do have it.  Both me and Charlie… we're not going anywhere if you don't wish it.”

Dean shudders and goes limp,  hugging him back and pressing soft kisses to the side of Castiel’s throat.  

He isn't her father, not yet.  

He isn't Castiel’s lover either.  

But he's Sam's brother and Bobby's son, and maybe one day, he can be both the father and husband he wants to be - because he does want it, he sees, Dean’s soul shining with a longing clear as day even as it twines shyly with Charlie and his own Grace.

It's a hope of a hope, but for the first time in more than a year, Castiel has not pride, but faith.  

It will have to be enough.  

And eventually, as they breathe each other in, standing guard over their infant daughter, it is.  

- end -