Chapter 2: Secrets and Scars
Minutes passed. The harsh, razor-sharp stench intensified, coloring the air, invading Castiel’s nostrils and seizing him by the throat. Sam made no comment on it—too deep in his research?
Still paging through his book, Sam brought it to Castiel's table, his long legs covering the distance in two strides. “No mysteries revealed here, I don’t think. Legends of Michael, visions of him, how various religions regard him, but no mention of his Lance, only a painting. How do you suppose”—Sam tapped his fist on the Lance’s silvery blade—“Ramiel ever got hold of this? Michael’s not exactly the ‘leave Heaven’s mightiest weapon lying around for demonic riffraff to grab up’ type.”
That must be it, that acrid, sickly yellow smell. Not from the book or the Sigil, but from the Lance—residue from its time trapped in Perdition. Strange, that Sam didn’t remark on it.
“Cas? Hello? The Lance? In the clutches of a Prince of Hell? Any thoughts?”
Castiel rubbed the back of his neck, straightened his shirt cuffs, fidgeted in his seat. “You should go to bed, Sam. You need your sleep.”
“I need—”
With flat smacks, Sam clapped the old book closed, slapped it down. He pitched forward on his fists and leaned across the table, pushing his face close to Castiel’s. “You’re rotten at evasion, you know that?”
“That’s. Not. True.” Three years ago, Sam had accused him of being a terrible liar, and now— “Before Metatron’s spell wrecked my wings, I’d simply disappear when I wished to evade you.”
“Yes. I. Re.Mem.Ber. Annoy.Ing.”
“Are you—?”
“Snarking, yes. Now talk!”
No.
Best not to. The Lance, in Hell. Sam, in Hell. Likely a connection. Sam didn’t need to know.
Castiel pressed his eyes closed. How could he have missed it, six years ago, that he hadn’t truly raised Sam from Perdition—not all of him, not the most important part. He’d flown to Hell alone, unable to quickly muster up troops: Sam was no longer important to the angels’ plans. But God had been with him, he’d believed. God had opened the Cage to him, he’d believed. God had held off Lucifer and Michael for him, he’d believed.
So that He could watch him fail, he now knew.
With his wings, he’d swept something into the calm center of his True Self. And if this something shone only dimly? If its tones clashed with his Song in an ugly, growling scrunch of sound? Must have been because Lucifer’s possession had temporarily—only temporarily—tarnished and warped Sam’s soul.
And not that his mission had come to grief.
Sam’s fingers drummed atop his book. “I’m waiting, Castiel.”
“I know nothing—”
Sam picked up his hands, banged them down, and the Lance blade and spell bowl and art deco lamp jumped. “Then you have a guess, Angel of Pedantry—I know you do! Out with it ! This could be important. For you.”
“Sam…” Castiel’s heart twisted for him. “Sam, I don’t wish to bring you more pain.”
Sam snatched his hand away from the blade, as if he suddenly feared he might trigger a booby trap. “What’re you talking about?”
“Trust me, Sam. Any guess of mine won’t help either of us—”
“Tell me! I hate secrets.”
Sam Winchester, Human of Obstinacy.
Castiel reached for the Lance blade and haft.
Hesitated, his hands hovering.
“You need to read the runes?” Sam said.
“I didn’t get the chance to, before.”
Too busy being murdered.
“The Lance can’t re-magic itself,” Sam said. “Craftsmanship’s kaput.”
“And we all trust Crowley.”
Castiel’s fingers skimmed over the bloodthirsty blade and haft—
Abruptly, that ghastly smell of the Lance sliced through the air: a stench of brimstone, rotting corpses, reeking sewers—eyeball-bending.
“Go on.” Sam gave him the thumbs-up.
“You don’t smell…?”
“Smell what?”
Castiel wrinkled his nose, sniffed. The stink must be detectable only by Celestials.
He grasped the Lance pieces. His eyes tracing the jagged line of the break, he eased them together, the runic symbols growing whole…
No human-blinding explosion of Michael’s GraceLight.
No re-magicking.
The bunched-up muscles under Castiel’s ribs slowly relaxed, like uncoiling snakes.
Might the runic etchings prove his conjecture false?
For I am the Archangel Michael, and my greatest wrath I direct toward—
Oh.
Oh.
Had Crowley or Ramiel known the full truth?
“Cas, c’mon!”
Scrrritches of sound. Like a transmission over angel radio.
But not from angels.
From the…runes?
Castiel bent his ear closer to them. They whispered to him in soot-dark tones of scarlet. Something about—
“Cas!”
He startled upright. “Fine. Though I don’t understand why you insist on hearing my guess. Are you familiar with Raphael’s—the painter’s, not the archangel’s—St. Michael Vanquishing Satan?”
“As it so happens…” Sam flipped through the pages of his book to an illustration. He slid it across the table toward Castiel, rapped it with his knuckles. “Here. Painted in 1518.”
A dark, craggy setting. Michael, clad in luminous gold and blue, his wings flung wide wide wide, his feather tips glinting cold and hard—like black sapphire gems. He planted a foot on the back of the fallen Lucifer—a naked, twisted creature of shriveled wings, corrupt Grace. With an expression of tranquil rage, Michael gripped the Lance two-handed, readying it to skewer Satan’s skull.
“But Lucifer lived,” Castiel said. “Michael obviously didn’t stab him—”
“Cas— Cas, stop ! Put down the blade! Quit running your hand over it. Just to be safe.”
Castiel dropped the blade as if it’d combusted. It clattered against the table, clattering, chattering, clattering and chattering with metallic laughs. When had he picked it up? Why ? What had it intended him to do?
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, as if he’d been teleported to a tiny, airless cave. My greatest wrath I direct toward—
Castiel gripped the table’s sturdy oak and anchored his Grace. He raked his gaze over Sam. No sign of hesitancy. No sign he’d heard the malevolent laughter echoing through Time and Space, from the Beginning of Creation to the End—and back again. Had the laughter been real? No, no, couldn’t have been.
“S-Sam, I believe Michael planned all along to kill Lucifer with the Lance at the Apocalypse. Not at the Vanquishing.”
At the Apocalypse—when Lucifer inhabited Sam as his True Vessel. Sam’s body would’ve rotted from within, as Castiel’s had. Sam would’ve died in agony. And Dean would’ve watched, helpless. These images pierced Castiel through. He would’ve been worse than useless to either of them: Lucifer had already obliterated him.
Never again. Castiel had vowed it. Lucifer would never again take Sam. Dean would never witness—and experience—that kind of suffering. So when Lucifer tried to force Sam’s hand, Castiel had let Lucifer take him.
Sam blanched, white as charnel bone. “But Michael wasn’t carrying it.”
“Wasn’t he? The Lance can be rendered invisible—we saw Ramiel reach over his shoulder and draw it out from thin air, all nine feet of it.”
“You’re telling me—”
“I’m guessing Michael carried it the same way—sheathed on his back, invisible—when he confronted Lucifer at Stull Cemetery. But you gained control over Lucifer. You chose to fall into the Pit. When Michael grabbed you to stop you, you yanked him in with you. He never got the chance to strike. Maybe he pulled the Lance free during his fall—but he lost it. To Hell itself. And he and Lucifer—”
And Sam. And Adam.
“—landed in the Cage. Demons must’ve grabbed it and eventually given it to Ramiel.”
Sam stumbled backwards, one hand scrabbling at the bookshelves.
“Sam?”
But Sam’s stare had lost itself in the distance—somewhere above Castiel’s head. His eyes widened. As if watching a nightmare resurrect.
As if watching Lucifer and Michael and Adam and Hell chase him through the tombstones of Stull.
“Sam, it’s okay—I’m here for you.” This time, I'm here for you. I failed to rescue all of you from Hell, but I can help you with this.
“Sam? It’s okay—”
Sam doubled up, hands on knees, lungs stuttering.
Sammy!
Castiel rushed to his feet, palm outstretched. Sam shrank away, muscles coiling for a fight, pupils blown. No physical contact, then. Not yet. Castiel murmured words of an Enochian blessing—Noan g etharzi, Sam, noan g etharzi—concentrating the Light of his Grace in the center of his vessel’s palm. He shone it on Sam like a flashlight beam, focusing it on Sam’s forehead.
Their minds connected.
Black Winds engulfing Sam—whirling him like a scrap of paper, rattling his bones, shaking him to his atoms. Rippling Fire—howling, clawing, stripping off his skin. Sam screamed. Oh God, how he screamed.
Castiel murmured the blessing again. And again. Absorbing the Cage memories into his Self, taking away from Sam their torment. Inch by inch, hunched, buffeted by those unseen Winds, Castiel tottered forward. One step. Another. The beam of his Grace still focused on Sam’s forehead. At last, he reached him—
—and settled his palm on Sam’s chest.
And the Light of his Grace—a healing blue-cool, not the smiting white-hot—poured from the core of his etheric True Form, flowing through his vessel’s palm and into Sam’s parasympathetic nervous system, into Sam’s heart, his lungs.
Castiel staggered. Nearly fell into Sam. He forced himself upright. Furrowed his brow. Refocused the Light of his Grace on Sam’s mind, heart, lungs. Healing—once energizing—now sapped him.
Broken wings. Broken powers. But I can do this. For now.
Sam exhaled, long and slow. Once. Twice. Thrice. His heartbeats—once as loud against Castiel’s palm as stampeding hooves—quieted and thumped more steadily.
Sam slowly unbent. “Thanks, Cas.”
“Of course.”
Sam pulled himself up to his full height. He rolled his neck, shook his arms, as if testing his body’s return to stability. Would he next drop down into pushups?
No. He lunged forward and swallowed Castiel up in a Sam Hug—like being caught by a muscly, plaid-shirted teddy bear.
“Hug back,” Sam said.
“Oh. Forgot again.”
Castiel slid his arms around Sam’s torso. He counted to three, and, when Sam gave Castiel’s back two rough pats, he, a beat behind, did the same to Sam’s. An odd ritual. But nice. Far superior to the brutal Cupid Hug—where a Cupid hoisted you off your feet, shook you around like a terrier with a rat, and nearly squeezed your guts out.
Now, Dean Hugs… He never forgot to return those. The part he often forgot in the Dean Hug was the letting go. Most recently, when Dean showed up at the Bunker after his confrontation with Amara.
Alive! Not blown to bits! Not absorbed into The Darkness!
Castiel captured him in a pythonic hug of near-Cupid intensity.
Dean, squirming only slightly, reminded him he’d exceeded the hug limit with a sharper pat on his back, a chuckle, and a soft, “Okay, buddy.”
Then—with a bit more wriggling, and a bit less air—a second, quieter, “All right, buddy,” when Castiel still hadn’t let go.
They broke apart now, Castiel and Sam. Sam gave him one last squeeze before stepping back.
“Man, that was some guess,” Sam said.
“I warned you.”
Sam scooped up the Lore of Michael book and slapped it against his hand. “When have we Winchesters ever listened?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Castiel shuffled to the table. He stroked the blade’s runes—and oh God, oh Somebody!—
Beneath his fingers, in the pale-yellow rectangle thrown by the art deco table lamp, the runes pulsed to life, glittering scarlet. Cold radiating from them: a cold beyond cold; beyond Time; beyond Space; beyond human conception, needling his Grace. Laughing with—Ramiel’s laughter? Or, or—
Laughing on their own? First the blade laughed, and now the runes?
“Sam! Do you, do you see—?”
But Sam had already turned away to shove the book back into its slot.
The glittering vanished. The cold vanished. The laughter vanished.
“See what?”
Lock the Lance up, Sam! Castiel wanted to shout. But the words sank like mud in his mouth.
“I thought… No. A trick of the light.” He jerked his fingers from the runes. Surely a trick of the light? And a, a trick of his ears—a flashback to the moment when Ramiel had stabbed him, laughing.
Sam gave the Lance a poke. “So, you can read the lettering?”
Castiel shrank into his trench coat. My greatest wrath… “They’re written in the most ancient form of Enochian. And words are missing, from where Crowley broke the haft.”
“But basically? What’s it say?”
“Basically, it says what Crowley and Ramiel said it says.”
Sam gave Castiel the once-over. The twice-over. The thrice-over.
Castiel kept his face a definite blank. But his fingers again crept toward the blade, a strange fascination with it overtaking him ever since he’d read the runes. For I am the Archangel Michael, and my greatest wrath I direct toward—
Sam grabbed the haft and blade and shoved them to the far side of the table. “What’re you hiding from us? Why are you shaking? Because you’re not totally cured? That’s what the runes say?”
Castiel drooped into his chair. “More likely because—” He bit his lip.
“Cas, c’mon, talk to me.”
Castiel fingers twisted together, then apart. “Something strange happened to me in my…in what I believed were my last moments. In that splittest of seconds before Crowley broke the Lance, many, many images of my time on Earth tore through my mind—my entire mission, captured in an eyeblink.”
The memories slammed into him again. He clutched at some. Thrust away others. Tried to. No control. He nearly whipped wide his wings, as if to stop himself from crashing into a space rock. Mustn’t. Sam would be alarmed. He braced his hands against the edge of the table. Every catastrophic mistake, every unearned blessing, every fumbling choice—they blipped through his Grace like spliced film:
First contact: Rescuing Dean’s soul, this remarkable human soul—as dazzling as the sun, as hot as anger, as light as hope—and anchoring it inside Dean’s newly rebuilt body.
Their first meeting face-to-face: Castiel flaring out his wings of storm, their lightning crackling across the barn walls, their thunder rumbling through the loft. And all of Dean’s and Bobby’s preparations—the magic of the wall wards, the stab of Dean’s demon knife through his vessel’s heart, the impact of Bobby’s shotgun salt-pellets—proving harmless against an Angel of the Lord.
Castiel delivers his message, straight from God:
You are chosen, Dean. You are worthy. We have work for you.
Purgatory: Running away from Dean, endlessly running through forests of perpetual gloom, luring the Leviathans away from Dean. And Dean, bloody, dirty, lines of weariness crowding around his eyes, relentlessly searching for him—to bring him home.
Dean clutches Castiel tight. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”
Castiel stays stiff in the embrace. “Just leave me, please.”
This is where I belong. This is my penance. I am not worthy of you.
The Purgatory fog thrums in low, jangling, dissonant sounds. Remorse. Shame. Unforgivable.
Dean steps back. He spreads his arms wide, as if to gather to him everything about their relationship—the good, the bad, the betrayals, the faithfulness.
“Cas. Buddy. I need you.”
His Grace sparks. For a moment, it shimmers, dancing in curtains of greens, reds, and blues, an aurora rising inside him, irrepressible.
But no, impossible, impossible for him not to stay and pay for his deeds.
His Grace grays to the shade of the surrounding shadows.
“Dean—” he chokes out.
Dean’s jaw sets. “Let me bottom-line this. I’m not leaving without you.”
The Angel Tablet Fiasco: Brainwashed by Naomi, turned into an automaton, Castiel ruthlessly plunging his angel blade into Dean, killing him. Over and over. A thousand times. Each time, Dean’s voice—pleading, breaking—“No, Cas. Don’t. Please.”
Another Dean kneeling before him, battered by Castiel’s fists, whispering through blood: “Cas. I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Cas, it’s me. We’re family. We need you. I need you.”
It’s me. I need you.
Words of the real Dean. The only words that could destroy Naomi’s control.
Castiel drops his blade. Wants to drop to his knees. His wings Sing. A soft hymn, its ultra-sopranic tones the color of lilacs and jade. A hymn of thanks. To Dean.
And this very evening, in another barn, amidst the stink of straw and dung, Castiel pushing himself upright on trembling arms. He tugs aside his tie and shirt collar. Tendrils of rot snake underneath his skin. His Grace sputters like a dying star.
"Just run,” he rasps to Sam and Dean. “Save yourselves. I’ll hold off Ramiel.”
Both brothers stand quiet. They do not run. They never do. Don’t they understand? This time they can’t win.
"Please, please.” Castiel’s breath catches in his throat like thorns. “Don’t make my last moments be spent watching you die. Just run!”
Dean’s voice, as unyielding as rock: “Cas, no. You’re family. And we don’t leave family behind.”
Castiel weeps.
No. No, this can’t be. What I feel for him in this moment—it’s more than admiration, connection, gratitude. It’s love. Not angelic love. Something far more human.
And now it’ll be taken away from me.
End of reel. The closing image: the barn, Dean spinning toward him, Dean’s sea-green eyes sweeping over his features. Emotions, human emotions, rushing through those eyes, soft as silk. Relief. And…more? Possibly more?
I love you, Castiel had said. Roses. And ash.
And now, here they were.
“Sam.” Castiel unbraced, forcing the tension from his arms. Control regained. He traced the wavy patterns in the oak table with a finger. “I found the experience enlightening. But also, um…”
Castiel tugged at his tie, as if it were a tightening noose.
“Distressing?” Sam groped for the chair beside Castiel’s and felt his way into it. “Yeah, I get it. Before I fell into the Pit, my life flashed before my eyes too. Not exactly a stream of peace and joy and cosmic unity like it’s cracked up to be, huh?”
“I-I’ve nearly died—I have died before. But I never experienced anything like this, peaceful or not.”
Sam leaned closer, his forearms resting on his thighs. “So maybe there’s a special reason. My flash gave me the strength to take control from Lucifer. Maybe yours is leading you somewhere too?”
Castiel slunk a sideways glance toward the kitchen. “Or maybe it goes nowhere.”
“If I can help in any way—”
Sam stopped, some thought going off in his head with an almost audible bang. He made a hitchhiker’s fist, jabbed his thumb toward the kitchen, and spoke in a murmur. “Your flashes—they were about him ?”
“No. No.” Castiel’s feathers twitched. “About, about…things.”
“Things, yeah.” Sam’s words came slow, his voice softer than his whispers, a tiptoe of a voice, creeping up on his words as if they’d startle. “Now I understand, I think—why this matters to you tonight, why you’ve been asking Dean all those questions. Second chances and all that.”
Castiel stilled his wings. He clasped his hands in his lap, each one trying to stop the trembling of the other. He strove to display the majestic calmness of a mighty mountain. But Sam’s sharp gaze scratched at Castiel’s mind—and once again tonight it was useless to try to deflect him.
“Cas, as your friend, as your brother, I feel I should point out that Dean is…” Sam’s mouth worked a moment, trying out words, rejecting some, settling on, “Dean is Dean.”
Castiel tilted his head and squinted, trying to see the human’s reasoning more clearly. As usual, squinting didn’t help. “That’s a tautology.”
“Isn’t it just.” Sam’s fingers carved through his shaggy hair and gathered it in a makeshift ponytail. “But maybe sit with it awhile, and you’ll see what I mean.”
Castiel turned the phrase over in his mind as if it were a puzzle box. How could he open it? What was the first step? What lay inside?
“Or who knows?” Sam said. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
Dean is Dean.
Or Sam is wrong, and Dean is not Dean?
This made no sense. This made him want to smash the puzzle box.
“I wish I could be more help, Cas. But I’m afraid that’s something for you and him to work out. You know him—stubborn as hell about some things, scared as hell about others. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which.”
Sam pushed to his feet and gestured at the Lance. “But I’d be happy to help with any other lethal concerns—say, whatever you’re not telling me about the runes.”
Castiel stayed silent.
“Have it your way, buddy. What a night, huh? Between Ramiel, the Lance, Crowley pulling off an ass-save, and near-death things ?” Sam gave his body a stretch, and it was almost a surprise that his arms didn’t reach from wall to wall. “Tell Dean I’m skipping the beers—what’s taking him so long, anyway?”
“He’s eating pie,” Castiel whispered, “and trying to eavesdrop.”
“And that’s how Winchesters get in trouble—eavesdropping, I mean. See you both”—Sam checked his watch—“much, much later this morning. But wake me if you think talking would help.”
Sam lightly fist-bopped Castiel’s shoulder. His footsteps slapped away down the hall.
Abomination, indeed. How could he ever have thought that?
“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel called after him. “And thank you, Dean,” he called toward the kitchen.
Thank you, thank you both. Whatever else comes—knowing you has been the best part of my life.
And Dean, what I feel for you… It’s not duty. Not Celestial. But it’s mine. I love you.