Author: July
Rating: R
Genre: Gen
Characters: Castiel
Spoilers: through 4.07, to be on the safe side.
Disclaimer: Oh, to be a trenchcoat upon that angel. Never gonna happen.
Notes: This is all
kimonkey7’s fault. She knows I have a big tin hat with Castiel's name on it. No beta, due to time constraints. Written for 
found_fic_spn’s prompt #46. If you squint and tilt your head just so, you can see it there towards the end. Title and summary from an old spiritual called 'Blow Your Trumpet, Gabriel'.Summary:
I turn my eyes towards the sky,
And ask The Lord for wings to fly.
And I hope that trump might blow me home
To the new Jerusalem.
There is an old saying: Don’t look down. We started that one.
When people began to multiply on the face of the ground, and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that they were fair; and they took wives for themselves of all that they chose. Then the Lord said, “My spirit shall not abide in mortals forever, for they are flesh; their days shall be one hundred twenty years.” The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went in to the daughters of humans, who bore children to them. These were the heroes that were of old, warriors of renown.
Genesis 6:1-4
Contrary to what your local authorities might tell you, most people get into heaven. And, if they don’t, they’re not our problem. Genocide, animal cruelty, Faustian bargains—these people are forfeit. We concern ourselves with heaven and earth. Hell has nothing to do with us. Its souls belong to the Morning Star. Except when they don’t.
That’s where I come in. Uriel once called me 'His own personal Cruise missile'. True enough and a label I wear with pride. I am…purposeful, single-minded. I’ve never failed Him before. If He wants something that He doesn’t have, I retrieve it.
I’m God’s #1 Repo Man and I’ve been in this game for a long time.
When they came to the place that God had shown him, Abraham built an altar there and laid the wood in order. He bound his son Isaac, and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. Then Abraham reached out his hand and took the knife to kill his son. But the angel of the Lord called to him from heaven, and said, “Abraham, Abraham!" And he said, “Here I am.” He said, “Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him; for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.”
Genesis 22:9-12
I wanted to save John Winchester from The Pit. I lobbied The Seven for it. I stood in front of their table—a gift from the Shakers—and told them to send me into action. I begged. I pled. I made my case, but in the end, some angels are more comfortable with moral ambiguity than others. The vote split 3-3. Michael, Raphael and Raguel voted in favor. Uriel, Zerachiel and Remiel against.
There was, of course, no seventh vote to break the tie. One hand-crafted chair on Michael’s left sat empty and the vacuum there pulled our eyes towards it, though we dared not look.
The angel of the Lord called to Abraham a second time from heaven, and said, “By myself I have sworn, says the Lord: Because you have done this and, and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will indeed bless you, and I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of the heaven and as the sand that is on the seashore. And your offspring shall possess the gate of their enemies, and by your offspring shall all the nations of the earth gain blessing for themselves, because you obeyed my voice.”
Genesis 22:15-18
It was after that meeting that I was called into His Presence. I did not look at Him. It’s just not done. He considered me carefully and asked me why I was so passionate, why I had requested time and time again to be deployed for John’s sake.
“We do not forsake the righteous,” I said.
“No, we do not,” He said. There was a silence while He rustled some papers around.
“Justice, justice you shall pursue.” It’s one of my favorite passages.
He sighed. “You can’t conceive the appalling strangeness of My mercy.”
It was a dismissal. It seemed that He would leave Winchester to his questionably just deserts. Eventually we understood His plan. John’s fate was waiting for him in a graveyard in Wyoming. Michael was appeased. Uriel was vindicated. I was relieved. It has always been my consolation that while He is unknowable, He is always right. That’s what My Father is.
There is an old saying: You can’t choose your family.
True. But we can choose yours.
In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.”
Luke 1:26-30
They caught me at a bad time. More accurately, they ambushed me at a bad time. It is difficult to be angelic when one has just returned from the field. It is even more difficult to be angelic when John Winchester has you by the collar and is shaking the living daylights out of you.
“What the fuck are you people waiting for?”
“Not now, John,” I said.
Mary put a hand on his arm. “I think what my husband is trying to say is… It’s been eight weeks, sir. It’s been eight weeks. It’s time for someone to go get my son.”
“Past time,” he growled.
“Put me down, John.” And, eventually, he did. “It’s out of my hands.”
“Bullshit.” Mary said, as if my incompetence were a matter of public record.
“Dean.” John took a deep breath. I could see he was trying to gather himself. “Dean doesn’t deserve hell.”
“And you did?” I asked, not for nothing.
“Dean’s different.” John kept his eyes on me. “Dean’s a better man than I was.”
“He sold his—“
“I know what he did,” John said. “I think I know a damn sight better than you.”
“Fair enough.”
“Why?” she insisted. “Why is he still there?”
“Because it is His will.” It was the only true answer.
“You son of a—“
“John!” I drew myself up a little taller, patience gone, and I spread my hands so they can see what’s clinging to my fingers. “Do you know whose blood this is? This is all that’s left of Barachiel. I watched him die, John. I watched my brother die. Do you remember what that feels like?”
Mary closed her eyes and John nodded. His eyes were full of indignation and unshed tears. But this, the war, I know he understands it. I know he still remembers it. He can never forget it.
“Look at me, John. Look me in the eye and tell me I’m not doing everything I can.
“It’s out of my hands,” I told them. “It’s out of my hands.”
When I, Daniel, had seen the vision, I tried to understand it. Then someone appeared standing before me, having the appearance of a man, and I heard a human voice calling, “Gabriel, help this man understand the vision.” So he came near to where I stood; and when he came, I became frightened and fell prostrate. But he said to me, “Understand, O mortal, that the vision is for the time of the end.”
Daniel 8:15-17
“You’re needed,” Uriel says to me. Thank God, I think. But this is not what is relevant, not in this moment.
“What’s changed?”
Uriel looks me over very carefully. “They’ve broken him.”
“What?” I whisper. “What did you see? What has he done?”
“You don’t want to know,” Uriel says. And that, that horrifies me. “I’m here because He’s asking for you.”
Being called back into His Presence makes me nervous. It is an unnerving duty, but one you can never ignore. It is quieter this time, tense with an anger even I can feel and something else that I cannot identify.
“I’m sending you in.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“This is important, Castiel. This is very important.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“Vengeance is mine,” says the Lord. “Here, take some with you.”
The Seven, minus one, are waiting for me outside His Chamber. I’m humming with a bloodlust that I have never felt before, even in my line of work. I don’t really need a pep talk, but that’s not what they’re offering, anyway.
“Trust the mission; work the plan,” Remiel says.
“Watch over the boy,” Zerachiel says.
“Be gentle with him,” Raphael says.
“Tell Lucifer we say hello,” Raguel says.
“Don’t be a hero,” Uriel says.
“Go forth and smite the bastards,” Michael says.
I don’t say anything.
“He shall grow strong in power,
shall cause fearful destruction,
and shall succeed in what he does.
He shall destroy the powerful
and the people of the holy ones.
By his cunning
he shall make deceit prosper under his hand,
and in his own mind he shall be great.
Without warning he shall
destroy many
and shall even rise up against
the Prince of princes.
But he shall be broken, and not
by human hands.”
Daniel 8:24-25
I don’t know what I expected. But this. This is bad. He’s facedown in his mother’s living room, in a house in Lawrence that only ever existed inside the mind of a djinn. There is a great deal of blood pooled all around him, far more than could possibly be the result of any normal exsanguination. Someone clearly has a taste for it.
His back is in pieces. It looks like it’s been worked over with a steak knife and a cheese grater. They’ve removed all the flesh over his shoulders and the infrastructure is visible: every tendon, every ligament. I can see the white bone of each scapula. I can’t help staring, for a moment, at it.
“You like my new toy?” All at once, she is standing over him, headed tilted towards me in a childish way.
“Hello, Lilith.”
“I wanted to see what he looked like on the inside. Very disappointing.” She leans over and shoves a few fingers into the open wound. Then she pulls and there is a small tearing noise, like someone just pulled out a hem. When she stands, she has a piece of his subscapularis in her hand. She puts it into her mouth and chews delicately, a connoisseur.
“I keep trying it,” she says. “But he tastes just like everybody else. It’s frustrating, is what it is. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I’m here for Dean.”
“He's mine.” Lilith smiles, swallows. “He’s mine-all-mine.”
“No. He’s not.” And I take a step forward. I let my wings fly and my eyes light up with the singular notion of Holy War.
“You can’t do this.” At least she’s taking me seriously, now. “You can’t even be here.”
“Wanna see my permission slip?” I hold out my right palm so she can see what’s collecting there: a pool of kinetic white lightning. She’s not the only one gifted with storms.
“You can’t take him anywhere!”
“Oh, Lilith. I think we both know that’s not true.”
“You can’t be here,” she repeats. “You’re not even that important.”
“No. I’m not.” I advance on her now. “But I’m important enough.”
“You can’t—“ And then I lose my temper. It’s an occupational hazard when you walk around moved by The Spirit.
“Get away from him, you heretical, white-eyed whore of Satan or so help me God I will put your head on a pike outside the Pearly Gates just for the sheer novelty.”
She shrinks back, now. She doesn’t have back up, I realize. Not one worthless demon. And that only makes me angrier. The cocky little bitch is going to get what’s coming to her. She is and I know it. And she can see that all over my face.
“This isn’t over,” she hisses. And then she’s gone. And with her goes the set, the charade of Dean’s family home. What’s left is just his cell. It’s small, it’s black, and the light from my eyes and from my hand, My Father’s gift to me.
I kneel next to Dean and roll him over. He makes a little splash in the pool of his own blood. The impact is enough to bring him screaming into consciousness. His voice is gone, though, so it’s really just a terrible scratching sound he makes. His larynx isn’t even engaged. Then he sees me and that really spooks him.
“Be not afraid,” I say.
It doesn’t work. He’s moving his mouth like a fish out of water now, mouthing the same word over and over. Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam… God help him.
“Compose yourself,” I say. But I already know it’s fruitless. He’s breathing shallowly, pupils dilated and irises flying back and forth. The light illuminates the blood and sweat on his skin, the bloodshot red in his eyes.
“Hang on to me,” I say. No response, just the rolling, panicked eyes. Cage crazy, that’s what they call it upstairs. My God, I think, what if You sent me too late? What if You waited too long?
I put my right hand on his left shoulder and grip him tight. The electricity is a living thing in between us. It’s more than enough for what I came to do. In other circumstances, perhaps it would be painful for him. But he’s completely shut down now, behind his green eyes.
It hits me, suddenly, how very sad this is. How very sad that he should have to be like this. He was a different person, before all of it started. I am profoundly grateful that I will never again have to see him like this. I will never have to see him so terrified, so disconsolate, so utterly without hope. And that is what he is. I have nothing to offer him, now, except the mercy of The Lord. Dean’s face, the fear, it pulls at me. I lean forward and whisper.
“There is a plan. I promise. We have a plan.”
I take his right hand in my left and thread our fingers together.
They are not human hands.
Then the seventh angel blew his trumpet, and there were loud voices in heaven, saying,
“The kingdom of the world has
become the kingdom of our Lord
and of his Messiah,
and he will reign forever and ever.”
Revelations 11:15
That’s not the plan, though. I’m sorry, brother, but that hasn’t been the plan in a very long time.
NO SPOILERS beyond 4.07. Thank you.
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