Archive of Our Own

10,000 B.C.

The first time Castiel lays eyes on his soulmate, he feels like he’s been struck by lightning. Granted, it’s just the soul that he can see - not the body it’s trapped inside - but it’s so bright it outshines all of the other souls clustered around it, drawing Castiel towards its brilliance. Radiant as the Sun, hot as an inferno, tendrils of gold and bronze - the Heavens part, allowing Castiel to descend and fulfill his duty of collecting the brilliant energy calling out to him. Attached to him. It’s not a popular practice, to keep pure souls… but they are an important item to have in the arsenal against Evil.

When an angel is born and they breathe their first and only breath, their exhale preserves the utmost purity on the back of celestial winds, dropping the soul down to the Earth where it can grow inside a host. Once the soul reaches fruition - years, centuries, maybe even millennia from inception - the angel then collects it and uses it as a sort of nuclear power source to boost their own grace. It’s a last resort sort of scenario, but since Lucifer fell, Heaven refuses to take the risk.

When Castiel sets foot on Earth for the first time to meet his soulmate, it has a… less than desired effect.

Having a spear thrown directly through his heart hurts physically, but the terrified look on his soulmate’s face hurts emotionally.

Castiel retreats, the flurry of emotions confusing to the soldier.

Better luck next time.

440 A.D.

A new Pope is elected. It’s nothing that shakes the foundation of Heaven, but Castiel finds himself descending on Earth curiously, having caught a glimpse of that glimmering soul that he first encountered so long ago. It’s still bright and beautiful, but after being mistaken for a winged beast the first time, Castiel has learned to exercise discretion. In the few instances he’s touched down on the physical plane since then, he’s worked and perfected a difficult spell to keep his wings hidden from human sight, but that doesn’t mean his visits are any more comfortable.

Or successful. It seems as though Castiel’s ability to come off as a normal human being is sub-par, at best.

The cobbled and uneven streets threaten to throw Castiel off-kilter without his wings spread to balance him as he walks. He does his best in the crowd, trying not to visibly wince when a human brushes up against his concealed wings; thankfully the spell not only conceals the appendages, but tricks people into thinking they hadn’t brushed into anything at all. Everyone is congregating towards the church even though the ceremony has long passed, excited chatter creating a pleasant hum in the air. Castiel is rejuvenated by the positive energy surrounding him.

Off towards the market, Castiel sees a flicker. He carefully deviates from the swarm of people, dodging through bodies to try and get out of the one-way stream of men, women and children. He’s still clumsy, but the closer he gets to the soul, the more sure footed he becomes. Blue eyes scan the faces of the people working in the market, even though the soul will draw him to exactly where it stands - Castiel has always been fascinated by humans, and every chance to study them, he does so.

At last he stops in front of a butcher counter, the man in charge busy plucking the feathers off of a beheaded fowl. Castiel regards the man harboring the pure soul; he is large, fit, and looks as though he personally hunts everything he sells. Sandy blond hair, with freckles - angel kisses - smattered attractively across his features. When the man looks up to meet Castiel’s curious gaze the angel thinks he would lose his breath, were his first exhale not bottled up inside this beautiful creature in front of him.

“Greetings.” The man’s voice is rough around the edges, but when he speaks, Castiel’s eyes are drawn to the full pout of his lips.

“...Greetings,” Castiel greets back. His mind catalogues through this language, little blips of vocabulary words dotting his mind’s eye. “Are you the proprietor of this stand?”

The soul radiating from the man flickers slightly, and Castiel finally meets his gaze properly instead of trying to absorb the beauty radiating from him like a thousand stars. Stunning jade irises flecked with the gold and bronze woven in his soul regard Castiel with intrigue and slight suspicion, before the man finally answers. “I am. What may I help you with?”

It’s clear that the man isn’t used to friendly chatter. Not that Castiel is, either, as this is his first time talking with this human; and, at the very least, the man is unarmed. No spear or weapon in sight. Castiel doesn’t immediately fear for his life, so he replies, “My name is Castiel. I have been looking for you.”

Suspicion narrows the Righteous Man’s eyes even further. His soul tinges red at the edges, and Castiel should take the sign and leave, but… but! It’s been millennia, and he had waited for man to create an easier spoken word to communicate with, had waited for his own schooling in humanity to prepare him to interact with the people of Earth.

“Well, Castiel,” the man removes his hands from the carcass on the table before him, pressing bloodied palms to splintered wood. His shoulders are square even as he leans forward slightly, his stance slightly aggressive, definitely defensive, and ready for whatever Castiel will do next. “Why have you been looking for me?”

Castiel finds himself drawing a blank. Suddenly speaking this language is heavy on his tongue and he swallows around a lump in his throat, eyes shifting to the vendors flanking the Righteous Man’s butcher stall. “I…” He licks his lips, and then levels his gaze with the human’s. “We are soulmates.”

The man’s head tilts at the unfamiliar term. Granted, Castiel doesn’t know what the human word he’s searching for is, so the Enochian rolls off his tongue with practiced ease.

“Where are you from, stranger?”

“Heaven,” Castiel replies.

The Righteous Man nods once, and then slowly brings his hands back to the few feathers left on the dead bird. “I see.” He’s less defensive, but still has lines of caution strewn through his movements.

Castiel frowns, “You do not believe me.”

“I do not,” the man says easily. There are twills of tension in his frame, even as he returns to plucking the feathers at a much slower pace. He must be processing what Castiel said. “What is a…” he licks his lips, drawing Castiel’s eyes to them. When he speaks again, the Enochian is rough falling from his unusually delicate mouth. “Soulmate?”

“Your soul,” the Enochian word, “belongs to me.”

“Something of mine belongs to you?” Green eyes raise up, curious and slightly indignant. “You must excuse me for not being ready to relinquish whatever it is you seek. As far as I know, everything of mine, is mine.”

“It is not a physical object,” Castiel explains. His brother, Gabriel, had mentioned that explaining it to the human would likely be futile. But after seeing the Righteous Man and knowing what… who he is, Castiel can’t just reach inside of him and rob him of his soul. It is a beautiful and powerful soul, but it is also within a beautiful and powerful vessel. Castiel knows he’s against Heavenly Will every time he lays eyes on the Righteous Man and feels that unknown twinge deep within.

The Righteous Man squints. “I do not understand.” But he’s willing to.

Without thinking, Castiel holds his hand out, palm up. An orb of light materializes from what would be the life line on a human’s hand, the haze swirling slowly, gold and bronze and shimmery. The man drops the fowl and takes a step back, eyes widening in fascination, and slight horror.

“What is that?”

“My soul,” Castiel replies. “It is my essence. What makes me… me.”

There’s more black than green in the man’s eyes as he looks up to meet Castiel’s gaze. “I have one of those within me?”

Castiel nods. “And it matches mine.”

The conversation, unfortunately, derails when the jeweler next to the Righteous Man’s stand sees the light in Castiel’s hand. He shouts, commotion follows, and soon Castiel is being apprehended by guards bodily dragging him away from the Righteous Man’s stall. Green eyes watch Castiel with curiosity, but the man does not follow, even if his body is taut like he wishes to do something.

It takes nothing to ditch the guards, Castiel’s invisible wings fluttering and immediately transporting him back to Heaven within seconds. Once alone he rubs a hand over his face, cursing his stupidity. He shouldn’t have shown his soul - not for fear of someone stealing it, but for fear of how the humans would react.

Magic, they had been shouting. Black magic. Burn him!

Castiel won’t be able to see the Righteous Man again in this lifetime. Now determined to not steal the soul from the beautiful man, Castiel will do whatever it takes - for however long it takes - to get the willing consent of the human to merge souls.

An unorthodox way of retrieving it, Castiel is aware. Lucifer could rise at any time, and in that instance, Castiel will have no choice but to take his power reserve from the Righteous Man without consent. But Lucifer has not stirred, and Castiel knows he still has time.

Time is all an angel has, anymore.

1630 A.D.

Castiel finds himself at a port in Great Britain, eyes squinting into the crowd. It’s overcast, but Castiel is always ready to shield his eyes against the radiance of the Righteous Man’s soul. It’s been many centuries on the human plane, but the time had passed quickly in Heaven - Castiel had cautiously looked before he leapt, thankful for the progression of mankind. He will be more careful this time; he will not be carted away to be burned at the stake for magic. It’s still a fear that humans have, he notes, but he plans on being much more discrete.

He walks until his feet draw him towards a ship. Carved into the charming, weathered wood is The Talbot; a passenger ship, ready to set sail for the New World. She’s large and docked, crew members bustling about to make sure she’s loaded and prepared for the voyage. No passengers are scheduled to board today, so Castiel starts walking along the dock, wings tight and invisible against his back as he looks her over.

The Righteous Man is slotted to board the ship and make the passage, according to the prophet that Keeps all of the righteous souls. As far as Castiel has heard, his journey will be a success. It warms Castiel to know that the human isn’t in harm’s way. Blue eyes look up at some of the crew as they roll barrels across planks, and Castiel’s eyes zero in on the Righteous Man as he laughs boisterously at a mate. He is just as Castiel remembers him. Light hair and eyes, freckled skin - Castiel can see solid, firm muscles peeking from short sleeves and bowed legs carrying his frame to and fro. The Righteous Man is truly magnificent inside and out, and Castiel can’t tear his gaze away.

An angel’s gaze is a heavy one.

The Righteous Man turns and peers over the edge of the ship down at the dock, green eyes widening slightly as they land on Castiel. Castiel’s gaze does not waver, and he doesn’t make any motion of acknowledgment when they lock eyes. Castiel feels his stomach do a few flips when the man’s head tilts curiously - does he remember me? - but then someone is calling for the human’s attention, drawing him away from Castiel.

This reincarnation seems a little bit… softer than the last. Well- no, he is definitely firm, Castiel thinks to himself, mind’s eye supplying him with the curve of the human’s biceps. Perhaps ‘receptive’ is the word he is thinking of. The butcher had been so rough around the edges, like a prickly cactus. But this sailor… Castiel squares up and turns on his feet, recalling his knowledge from his observations that the Righteous Man frequents a shanty pub nearby when his work is done. He will go there and wait, and hopefully engage in a more meaningful conversation than last time.

He nearly vibrates with anticipation as he enters the pub and finds a seat. Every time a righteous soul is reincarnated it occupies a vessel physically exactly the same as the last, in a different part of the globe. There is no particular rhyme or reason to it, although Castiel appreciates that his particular breath is trapped inside a very attractive human. No matter the physical form, an angel will always find their righteous soul.

With the extra research he did about this century, Castiel spends the next few hours in the pub ordering drinks and eating human food. He does not have a voracious appetite, and eating and drinking are mostly for appearances than actual sustenance, but he appreciates the flavors exploding on his tongue. He feels cramped in the booth, wings aching to extend, but he’s trying to blend in as much as possible, hoping people overlook his slightly terrible posture. It’s well after dark when the door to the pub opens and brings in a draft; Castiel does not get cold, but he offers a shiver in case anyone is watching.

Suddenly, the seat across from him is occupied. The Righteous Man’s frame is wide but does not take up too much space as he rests his forearms on the table, leaning on his elbows slightly as he regards Castiel curiously. Castiel knows that the man does not - could not - remember him from their last encounter, but their souls being so entwined allows them to be naturally curious about one another, and the angel is unsurprised that the human sought him out.

“I saw you earlier,” the man says. Ah, English suits him much better than the nasally Italian he had spoken last time.

“Yes,” Castiel nods, not bothering to hide the fact.

“Will you be boarding the ship tomorrow?” he asks. A barmaid approaches with a coy smile, setting a pint in front of the Righteous Man. He doesn’t acknowledge her, and Castiel sees the hint of a pout as she walks away. Castiel tries not to feel glee about holding the human’s attention.

“No,” Castiel says, “but I do enjoy admiring the vessels themselves.” A double entendre that only he understands, but he finds great joy in admitting such a fact out loud.

The Righteous Man nods, offering a friendly smile as he picks up his beer. “She’s a beaut. Helped craft her myself.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Did you?”

The man doesn’t answer verbally as he takes a deep drink of his beverage, still looking pleased with himself.

“It is remarkable craftsmanship,” Castiel compliments honestly. “Is it your trade?”

The human nods. His smile pulls at the corners of his eyes attractively, and Castiel would very much like to get lost in the softness of his eyelashes.

“I will be heading to the New World to build ships there.”

Silence blankets them comfortably, mostly because Castiel is unsure of where to go from here. For all he spent studying the English language, he still has next to no experience actually conversing with humans. He hopes he isn’t coming off as strange, but the human doesn’t seem to mind. After all, he hasn’t left yet.

“What is your name?” the Righteous Man asks, tilting his grog up for another drink, green eyes peering at the angel over the brim.

“Castiel.”

“An odd name,” the human replies.

“I am aware.”

The Righteous Man laughs suddenly, setting his glass down on the table with a clunk. He covers his eyes with a hand, body shaking with laughter, and Castiel is very confused.

“Did I say something humorous?”

“Castiel,” the Righteous Man tries to get his laughter under control. When he uncovers his eyes they are bright with mirth, more gold than green, and Castiel is struck by the man’s charm. “My apologies. I did not mean to be rude.”

Unsure as to why the man is apologizing, Castiel tilts his head, eyes squinting slightly. He’s unequipped to handle the vague direction of the conversation. After a few seconds, Castiel decides to say, “No apologies necessary.”

Nodding his head, the human calms himself, but the amusement is still shining in his eyes. Castiel thinks that he could light up the entire bar with his soul. This reincarnation is absolutely breathtaking.

“You don’t seem to be a local,” the Righteous Man says warmly. “What brings you to port?”

Castiel decides to take a less direct approach than last time. “I am searching for something.”

“Have you lost it?” the man asks, taking another drink. His sets it near the edge of the table, which Castiel finds a bit odd.

“No,” Castiel answers, taking his eyes off of the pint glass and returning his gaze to the human. “I know exactly where it is. It is merely a matter of… attaining it.”

Apparently the reason the man put the glass at the edge of the table was to signify to the barmaid that he was done with it. She approaches the table with a significant sway of her hips, replacing the empty pint with a full one, leaning over slightly so her bosom overflows the ruffly cut of her dress.

“Michael,” she purrs to the human, “I thought your plans were to spend the evening with me?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, voice dark. “He is occupied at the moment.” He does not like the way she talks to him - familiar and… sultry. Unworthy.

The woman looks down her nose at Castiel, “Sorry, bloke, you’re the wrong company for our dear Michael.”

“I beg to differ,” Castiel says, his voice still with an edge.

The Righteous Man, called Michael in this life, reaches forward and gently touches Castiel’s wrist. “Castiel, would you excuse me for a moment?”

Castiel glances sharply back at Michael, suddenly understanding that his gaze and words towards the woman could be seen as offensive. “Of course.” He settles back in his seat, trying to smooth his invisible ruffled feathers. His wings are still cramped in this booth, but there are no empty loose chairs or stools to occupy instead. His wrist tingles where Michael had touched him.

Michael sends him a warm smile and stands up, putting a hand on the barmaid’s lower back as he leads her towards the bar counter. Castiel watches them closely for a moment, wondering if she is Michael’s wife. As far as he knows, righteous souls were meant to be virtuous and pure as the untouched night sky, unable to wed or engage in any romantic endeavors, their personal commandments etched into the very tendrils of their soul. If Michael has wed, his soul has been tainted.

Narrowing his eyes, Castiel uses his Sight to inspect Michael’s soul. It is still bright and clean as ever, so… clearly, Michael has not sinned with this woman. What is the nature of their relationship, then?

Castiel’s Sight recedes when a slap sounds throughout the bar, the resounding silence shocking. He sees the barmaid with red cheeks and her hand raised, Michael tense and stiff, a pink handprint starting to form high on his cheek. Growling, Castiel stands up, invisible wings fluffing up slightly and causing a gust to go through the room. The breeze catches the attention of the other patrons, including Michael and the barmaid, and all eyes are on Castiel as he stalks forward.

“Do not,” Castiel stands between Michael and the woman in a few long strides, “put your hands on this man.”

The overcast sky from earlier opened up a while ago, rain pitter-pattering over the roof steadily - lightning flashes outside and Castiel knows there’s a dark, looming outline of his wings shadowing the walls behind him. The barmaid looks petrified as she takes a step back, trembling; Castiel is brought back to reality when a hand rests on his shoulder, his darkened gaze turning to rest on Michael.

“Hey, buddy,” Michael tries to say easily, but there’s a flicker of fear - of want? - in his eyes. “It’s ok. I said something rude, and I deserved it.”

“No matter what foul things you say,” Castiel says, voice rough, “not even a mere wench should lay her hand upon you.”

“Ok,” Michael soothes, and it’s a little ridiculous because he has no idea who Castiel is, and yet he’s diffusing the situation like he cares about what happens next. “Where are you staying tonight? I’ll escort you.”

The Righteous Man’s touch burns through Castiel’s clothing, tendrils of grace flitting around. It’s a little shock, a little charge, and Castiel has to pull away before he drags the man to him and fully consumes his soul. Because that’s not what he’s here to do - he is here to meet this man, this beautiful, strong man, and hopefully convince him of a consensual union.

“A walk would clear my head nicely,” Castiel finally agrees. He doesn’t miss the apologetic look Michael shoots at the woman as they leave the pub, and once outside in the light drizzle, Castiel tilts his head up to allow the soft spray of rainwater to cascade over his features. He’s surprised he doesn’t steam.

“Hey,” Michael’s voice makes Castiel turn his head towards him. The human almost looks sheepish, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “That was quite a show back there. Do you... “ A wet tongue comes out to lick across pink lips. “Do you know me?”

Things could be worse, Castiel thinks. Michael could be driving a spear through his heart, or he could have him lain on a butcher’s block; but, instead, this time Michael is… kind. Amenable. Understanding. Every bit the Righteous Man that God intended him to be.

“I do not,” Castiel replies carefully.

Michael gives him a look, inquisitive and not entirely believing. “You were about to tell me about that thing you’re looking for.”

“Ah,” Castiel recalls their conversation before it had been interrupted. He still can’t believe he made such a scene - he is here to be invisible and gather what he needs. Not cause panic and rumors. “Yes, as I said… I know where it is, but I need to attain it.”

The light drizzle has waned, leaving the air damp and the clouds murky. Castiel thinks he sees a shiver pass through Michael’s frame, but he doesn’t question it, because the man speaks like he’s unbothered.

“Someone stole it?”

“No-” Castiel shakes his head. “I… I gave it to him. My very first gift.”

Michael’s expression turns confused, if not slightly amused. “Usually when you give a gift, Cas, you don’t ask for it back.”

Cas… Castiel rolls the shortened version of his name around in his skull. He quite likes it. Registering Michael’s words, Castiel nods. “It is the type of gift you loan with the intention of having it returned.”

“Ok, so- why haven’t you gotten it back yet?” Michael doesn’t need to be talking to Castiel like this. There is a very pretty woman inside the bar too happy to throw herself at him, alcohol to be drunk, food to be eaten. And yet Michael is out here, with an angel he doesn’t even know he’s tethered to, skin and hair damp and eyes so bright.

“I am afraid it would be seen as an outlandish request, as the person who has what I seek is unaware that he even carries it.”

“Huh,” Michael’s expression turns mildly surprised. “How do they not know they have it? … What kind of item is it?”

Castiel remembers the cobbled streets, the bright sun, the Righteous Man’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He remembers showing his soul, the tiny orb washing everything in white, and he remembers getting carted off, remembers seeing the Righteous Man’s nonplussed, barely interested gaze following him. He can’t show Michael his soul, like he tried to so many centuries ago.

Given the times, Castiel tries an approach that he’d been researching for a while, with the help of his overzealous brother, Gabriel. And with how Michael has been receiving him… well. It’s worth a chance. “My heart.”

Michael’s eyes blinks a few times, flecks of green and gold muted slightly by the dingy night. “An unrequited love?”

“Of the worst kind,” Castiel says, trying to sound disheartened. It’s a gamble, definitely, exposing a homosexual conundrum to a sailor of all people, but - this is the Righteous Man. Surely he will not judge Castiel, even if the offense is a false one, a metaphor in place of the real thing. Besides, saying that Michael has Castiel’s heart is close enough.

“It must be difficult,” Michael is saying, his expression turning pitying.

“More than you know,” the angel admits freely. He tilts his head back up to the sky, watching the rain clouds as they tumble and start to clear.

“Well,” when Castiel glances back at Michael, he is looking up at the sky as well, almost wistfully. “I wish you luck in finding what you seek. An unrequited love so strong as yours to make you go through great lengths and distances to find it… it must be truly special.”

In that moment, Castiel is once again struck by the man’s beauty. And in that moment, Castiel thinks that telling the man his heart is what he seeks isn’t so far from the truth. Turning his gaze away, Castiel clenches his fists idly at his sides. What is he doing? Michael is clearly welcoming, maybe even understanding of Castiel’s misfortune, even if he doesn’t have the details. Castiel should just tell Michael that their souls are bonded - souls, he knows the English word for it, and he knows the word is more popular and recognizable than before - and hope that Michael will hand himself over.

But suddenly… that isn’t what Castiel wants at all. This Righteous Man, this Michael, this pure soul… is Castiel’s to guard. To protect. To keep - but not within himself. This pure soul belongs inside its vessel, where he can bring light into the lives of the people around him. So Castiel will not harvest the soul tucked tight into Michael’s being. It’s a heavy decision, and it goes against God’s Will, and yet…

“It is special.”

Michael sends Castiel a warm smile, and Castiel catalogues that expression deep within his mind for another rainy day. For a brief moment, Castiel has the suspicion that Michael, too, is looking for something unattainable.

“Thank you for listening to me,” Castiel says. “I apologize for the… scene, I caused.”

Michael shrugs and waves an idle hand, “She’s been going at me for months. I’ve been polite, but I didn’t know how to tell her I wasn’t interested. So actually, you did me a favor.” His smile is handsome, and a bit private around the edges, like he’s sharing an intimate joke with Castiel. “I owe you.”

The hair on the back of Castiel’s neck prickles, “You do not owe me anything.”

Nodding, Michael adjusts his overcoat, glancing back at the pub. Castiel notices, and presses his lips into a thin line.

“I shall take my leave. It was a pleasure meeting you, Michael,” Castiel says, starting to turn on heel.

“Wait-” Michael is darting forward, grabbing Castiel by the shoulder to halt him, fingers brushing against invisible feathers. When Castiel meets his eyes, he’s surprised to see a flicker of hope in the emerald depths. “Board the Talbot tomorrow. Sail to the new world. If- if you can’t find your heart here, maybe you can find a new one there.”

Castiel smiles a bit grimly. He’s found his heart (his soul), and it’s within reach. Gently, he reaches up and removes Michael’s hand from his shoulder, feeling calloused fingers against his own smooth palm. “I will see you again, Michael.” It hurts. Michael’s face twists in confusion.

A flutter of wings and Castiel is gone, unable to stay pinned under that sanguine gaze for too long.

Castiel always thought finding his soul would fill him to the brim.

He’s never felt so empty.

He never thought the emptiness would be reflected in the RIghteous Man’s eyes.

1872 A.D.

This time Castiel doesn’t wait another millennia to touch down. Humans are progressing so far and so quickly, and his last encounter with the Righteous Man is still fresh in his mind. The human’s warm (lonely) eyes, soft smile, rough hands… Castiel often finds himself thinking about what things would be like, if he could roam the Earth with the human. If he could be there for every reincarnated life; see the man grow from infantry all the way up into an elder. As it is, Castiel is lucky that the Righteous Man is even being reincarnated - news of his last visit at port swept through Heaven at the speed of hellfire, and the other angels were talking. Whispering. About how Castiel had touched the vessel of his soul, felt his grace within, and did nothing. Of course, no one knows about Michael nearly pleading for Castiel to leave and start a new life with him. By him? For him. Castiel’s knowledge of human culture is still too naive to think that Michael wasn’t asking for anything but company on his voyage.

But the angels talk, and Castiel fears that God is listening. The punishment never comes, and while Castiel prays for forgiveness, he also prays for leniency. This human is far too special. This vessel is truly a Bringer of Light, and not in the flawed way of his Fallen brother. Surely God can see what good the Righteous Man brings to those around him. Surely he does - or else why would Castiel be so readily (and easily) leaving Heaven to set foot on the Earth again?

This time when Castiel steps down, he is overwhelmed by the quickness of happenings. Horse hooves clodding, carriage wheels squeaking, people yelling and just general commotion; all of it goes hard against the leisurely pace of Europe in the 1600’s. Castiel is a little blindsided by it. And, he notes as he walks through a town he doesn’t know the name of, he is a little improperly dressed. There isn’t much of a wardrobe in Heaven, so every time Castiel touches down, a small murmured spell dresses him in what he’s seen through his observations. Apparently, he’d been observing the wrong town. This one is dusty and dirty, and even though the sun is high in the sky there’s a brown haze lingering around about twenty feet off of the ground.

People here are dressed in worn, dirty clothing, and Castiel is… not. Dark denim, a black button-down shirt with a charcoal vest and a black cowboy hat - he looks entirely out of place, never mind his posture being slightly hunched thanks to his invisible wings, held tight to his back.

“Howdy stranger,” a skeezy voice comes from Castiel’s left and when he turns, he sees a man with few teeth and wild eyes. “Lookit ‘chu. Mighty fancy threads for a town like this.”

Castiel tenses his jaw. This human is seedy and disgusting, and unworthy of an angel’s presence. He stares him down, brow furrowed, eyes sharp.

“What,” the man is, mistakenly, unfazed. “Too good to talk to me, pretty boy?”

“As a matter of fact,” Castiel says, voice dark, “yes.”

The man sneers and takes a step forward. He’s taller than Castiel but more gangly, and Castiel makes a quick inference in his head about the man’s weak knee and shaky hands. Easy to take out. “You better watch yer mouth,” the man drawls, pointing at Castiel with a finger. There’s whisky on his breath. “Looks like it’s good for things better n’ yappin’.”

Castiel glances down at the man’s finger. “Step back.”

Face screwing up, the man jeers, “Or what?”

Castiel looks at the man evenly. “Or I will hurt you.”

“Ha!” The laugh is shrill and the twist of his lips ugly. “What’chu got, pretty boy?” His finger, still pointed, pokes Castiel in the chest.

The man screams bloody murder when Castiel’s hand shoots up and grabs him by that dastardly finger, twisting it and breaking it with a quick snap. But he doesn’t let go; his fingers slide to the man’s wrist and twists there, too, until the man shrieks and falls to his weak knees, gasping and pleading for Castiel to let him go.

A gunshot rings, making the man flinch and cower. Castiel is unmoved, his gaze raising to look towards his left, where the Righteous Man is standing. Gun in the hand raised high above his head, the Righteous Man looks dangerous and… at home. Nothing like the soft sailor that had asked Castiel to sail away with him. Dropping the man’s injured hand, Castiel takes a step back, putting distance between himself and the pathetic human.

“Well now,” there’s a new drawl to the Righteous Man’s voice, and Castiel stupidly thinks it suits him, “what have we here, Lenny?”

The wounded man, Lenny, lets out a sob. “I ain’t done nothin’, Sheriff! Just tryna’ greet a stranger and get my ass handed to me!”

“A likely story,” the Righteous Man says sharply, coldly. Lenny flinches. The Righteous Man holsters his revolver and puts his hands on his hips, bowed legs spread slightly. A power pose. He looks good wearing all black, the slight film of dust doing nothing to detract from the intensity of him, the wide brim of his hat painting severe shadows over his features. “You didn’t get nothin’ you ain’t deserving of, Lenny. Now git, before this stranger decides to put you out o’ your misery for me.”

Lenny ‘git’s, scrambling hastily to his feet and running off. A small crowd had gathered, likely drawn by both Lenny’s cries and the sound of the gun (a gun, Castiel marvels. Humans have truly come such a long way), and the Righteous Man turns his attention to Castiel. A stranger in his town.

“Now,” the Righteous Man’s smile is still as handsome as ever, but there’s an edge to it that Castiel has never seen. “I appreciate a man that can stick up for himself, ‘specially against the likes of the perverted town drunk.”

Castiel stays silent, regarding the human. He blinks, his Sight tracing around the edges of the Righteous Man’s soul - it is no longer just bronze and gold, shimmering and filtering through tendrils of grace. There’s crimson there, too. Small flecks of it.

Blood.

“I assure you, I am not here to cause trouble,” Castiel finally says.

The Righteous Man’s eyebrows raise in a way that surely looks like friendly surprise to the townsfolk, but Castiel can practically see the itch in the human’s trigger finger. “An educated fella. What are you doin’ around these parts?” Something about the tone of his voice makes Castiel think he has an idea. Which is ludicrous. The reincarnations don’t know of their previous lives - of Castiel’s existence.

“Traveling through,” Castiel replies. It’s not a lie, but he is cautious. “I was hoping to find lodgings for a few days.”

Not interesting enough to keep the folks’ attention, the crowd disperses, going about their regular business. Obviously the Sheriff has things under control, and the stranger doesn’t seem to be looking for any kind of hassle.

The Righteous Man glances around, green eyes calculating. Sharp. “Where’s your horse?”

Oh, right. Transportation. Castiel blinks slowly, sending up a prayer and casting a spell at the same time. When he opens his eyes a white steed saddled up in silver and black is tethered to a nearby hitching rail. The insertion is flawless and unnoticed, made to insinuate that the horse has been there the whole time.

“She is tethered and being tended to,” Castiel says.

The Righteous Man follows his gaze, and still seems to be working through things in his head. Over time, it seems, this human only grows more intelligent, sharper, tougher. Something digs under Castiel’s skin.

“A beaut,” the Righteous Man compliments. He takes a few steps forward, the cold look in his eyes receding only slightly. Castiel is unsure if he likes this reincarnation. Strong. Powerful. Smart. Deadly. Holding out his hand, the human introduces his name. “Sheriff Adam Milligan at your service.”

Castiel stares at the man’s hand. It takes a few seconds for the gears in his brain to shift - handshake, this is a handshake, a new form of greeting - and then he’s reaching out to take Adam’s hand. Still calloused against Castiel’s smooth flesh. A shiver courses through Castiel’s body when their grace collides and thankfully, Adam doesn’t notice.

“Follow me, stranger. I’ll get you boarded up somewhere nice.”

Castiel follows. He had come down with the intention to seek out the Righteous Man and finally explain what is happening. It’s been so long since they first met - since the Righteous Man hunted the winged beast - and while Castiel has kept his distance and observed, the pull is becoming too much. He still doesn’t wish to own the soul; doesn’t want to take it wrongfully. But as he follows the Sheriff to the saloon, the townsfolk fearing the man and therefore respecting him, Castiel is becoming more and more wary. Adam’s aura is still bright as ever, nearly blinding Castiel’s Sight - but the vibration of it is all wrong. What happened in this life that made Adam like this?

“Ellen,” Adam greets the woman behind the bar with a tip of his hat. Castiel is briefly taken back to the pub where he met Michael, dingy dishware and splintery wood. Michael’s laugh. Michael’s smile. Michael’s touch. “How’s business?”

Castiel is slammed back to reality. This dingy, dusty, dirty reality where Michael is now Adam, and Adam is a man of the human law - as he should be, Righteous Man - but is also a man with blood on his hands. In his soul.

“Not too hard up,” the woman replies, sending Adam a warm smile. She respects him. She doesn’t fear him. Her gaze slides to Castiel, who stands tall and sure. “Need a room, kiddo?”

“I am not a child,” is Castiel’s reply.

Ellen’s brows raise and Adam snorts, covering his mouth with his hand for a second before reaching back to clap Castiel on the shoulder.

“You really ain’t from around here, huh?” Adam muses.

Castiel frowns, “I have traveled a great distance.” Adam’s touch isn’t reverent like Michael’s. Instead of placating, it causes a rumble in Castiel’s veins. Adam is hiding something.

“Educated,” Ellen echoes Adam’s words from earlier. She smiles warmly, “Could use a guy like you ‘round these parts. Instill a little gentlemanly qualities in the locals.”

Adam feigns hurt, “Aw, Ellen. You know I’m chivalrous.”

Ellen rolls her eyes and turns around, picking a bottle of whisky from the shelves behind the bar. She grabs two (clean, clean) glasses and sets them on the bartop, filling them both to the brim. “Ain’t no chivalry in this town, boy.”

Adam merely smiles, the one where the edges are as sharp as the knife Castiel noticed hidden in his boot. “Cheers.” He knocks back the whiskey and sets the glass on the counter, glancing back towards Castiel. “You got a name?”

Michael had thought Castiel’s name was odd. Surely this version of him would, too. So, dredging up a fond memory, Castiel answers, “Cas.”

Adam’s eyebrows raise now in obvious interest. “That a first or last name?”

Castiel is vaguely aware of the fact that most humans nowadays have up to three names that they call their own. But his reply is easy, honest. “Nickname.”

Green, green eyes rove over Castiel’s figure. The angel does not have a gun on his hip or a knife in his boot, and he perhaps looks a little underwhelming in the dressy clothes. But there’s something in Adam’s eye - a flicker of recognition, an edge, perhaps - that makes Castiel want to fidget. He doesn’t, of course. He always stands at attention, feet shoulder-width apart, hands at his sides. A soldier.

“Well, Cas. Ellen here’ll get you a clean room for a good price.” Adam turns to Ellen and closes one of his eyes - oh, that’s a gesture Castiel has never seen before - sliding his empty glass across the bartop.

“Thank you,” Castiel says.

“This town ain’t much for tourism,” Adam says as he pushes away from the bar, walking to pass Castiel. When their shoulders almost brush, Adam’s voice deepens, quiets. “You better stay outta trouble.”

“Of course, Sheriff.”

Adam exits the saloon and leaves Castiel staring thoughtfully after him.

“He’s a little rough around the edges,” Ellen says, her voice fond. “But he’s a damn good kid.”

Castiel turns to her, his head tilting curiously. “He is also not a child.”

Ellen blinks at Castiel, and then barks a laugh. “Hoo boy. Where did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t,” Castiel replies - not to be cold, but matter-of-fact. He makes his way up to the bar, sitting gingerly on a stool, allowing his wings to relax slightly. The glass is still full of whisky and he knows it’s meant for him, but he can’t bring himself to drink it. He mustn’t fall into temptation. He’s already so close to it, with the Righteous Man so close in reach.

“Hey,” Ellen says softly, moving into Castiel’s range of vision so she can catch his eye, “we’re all runnin’ from somethin’, kiddo. This place is as good as any to get lost in, for people in the outside world to forget about you.”

Castiel’s fingers trace the lukewarm glass, eyes watching the whisky within ripple. “Is the Sheriff running from something?”

Ellen shrugs, taking the Sheriff’s empty glass and grabbing a damp dish towel to start rubbing the remnants of whisky from it. “Seems to me like the Sheriff has the most secrets of anyone in this place. With reason, I’m sure. Ain’t nobody become Sheriff without seein’ a few things.”

Castiel doesn’t grace those heavy words with a reply. He stares down at the whisky, wondering what went wrong with this reincarnation. Was it the Righteous Man’s soul that was flawed, or this period of time? Humans have always been violent and bloodthirsty, but Castiel thought that the Righteous Man would be above all of that. After all, he was the vessel to a pure soul; surely that soul couldn’t commit any atrocity. His mind takes him back to Michael. Pure, sweet, hopeful, nearly offering himself up to Castiel. Not for the first time, Castiel wonders what would have happened, had he sailed to this new world with Michael. Months on a ship, a new life for them both once they land. Would Michael have loved Castiel as much as Castiel loved him?

Love.

Castiel snorts, fingers tightening on the glass and bringing it up to his lips. He takes a sip - nearly winces at the burn - and then sets it down. He is an abomination. A poor excuse for an angel - a guardian. This cannot be love, for the Righteous Man. This cannot be love, for the soul that they share.

“You a soldier?” Ellen asks suddenly, drawing Castiel from his thoughts.

“Yes,” Castiel replies.

Ellen purses her lips and nods. “So is ol’ Sheriff. I see that look in your eyes - same as his.” She continues to clean the glass in her hand, likely more for something to do, rather than clean it until it sparkles. “War changes a man.”

Castiel nods. “I am on a mission. I…” he takes another burning sip of whisky. “I believe I am failing.”

“Hey now,” Ellen chides him softly. She has a mother-like air about her, and Castiel doesn’t know what it’s like to have a mother, but he briefly thinks that this might be close. “In this town, no one’s a failure.”

Castiel glances up, dead serious, “Even Lenny?”

Ellen’s laugh is robust and fills every corner of the saloon. “No, Lenny’s especially fucked.”

The corners of Castiel’s lips twitch, and he thinks that even though the Righteous Man has the most beautiful soul, Ellen’s is pretty stunning as well.

--

Ellen gets Castiel set up in one of her rooms. It’s clean and has running water, which is a surprise in a town like this, but Ellen says it’s definitely worth the hassle when people sing praises about the Roadhouse all over the wild west. Brings her in a lot of business during the busy season. Adam installed it himself. Castiel appreciates the clean linen and lack of dust. He had said he’d been traveling, but he doesn’t have any gear with him or even a change of clothes. He’s bound to rouse suspicion from more than Adam at this rate. He glances around the room and then snaps his fingers, a knapsack popping into existence on the bed. No one is watching his comings and goings, so no one would be able to say that he hadn’t hefted it up to his room.

It’s nearing dinner time, and Ellen told him meals are on the house. Which she then explained meant “free”, when Castiel had expectantly looked up at the ceiling. Castiel does not require food for sustenance, but he cannot make a scene, especially with Adam watching him like a hawk. He decides to change out of his ‘fancy’ attire, keeping his denim but changing into a grey patterned, worn shirt he conjured up from the depths of his bag. He ditches his hat, knowing his dark hair is a full on mess, but pays the warped mirror no mind as he exits his room and makes his way down the narrow hallway. The other rooms are unoccupied as of yet; March is still chilly in this region of the country, and while this town is a popular watering hole for traveling groups, no one is braving the snow-capped mountains that surround it until the chill of winter has been beaten by the sun.

The stairs creak as he descends, but the sound is quickly drowned out by chatter. Even though the rooms are unoccupied, it seems like half the town is occupying the Roadhouse itself for dinner, drinks, and a good time. There is no hostility in the room, even when Castiel, a stranger, makes his way to sit at the bar, thankful to not be cramped in a booth. A few gazes linger over him - some people he recognizes from the debacle earlier in the day - but no one really pays him any mind.

“Heya,” a petite blonde woman greets Castiel. She has Ellen’s eyes. “You must be Cas. I’m Joanna Beth.”

Castiel nods, “A pleasure to meet you, Joanna Beth.”

She wrinkles her nose cutely, “Call me Jo, please.”

Another nod. “The food smells delicious.” It does - just because Castiel doesn’t need to eat, doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it.

Jo’s eyes sparkle, “That’s ma’s roast beef and spuds. Can I fix you a plate?”

“Please,” Castiel says. Jo first fetches him a glass of whisky, setting it down in front of his folded arms before she flits off towards the end of the bar where a door leads into the kitchen. Castiel’s periphery darkens and he feels the vibration before Adam takes the stool next to him, the angel’s eyes turning towards him. Adam is sitting close, but also leaning slightly away - almost as if he’s subconsciously aware of Castiel’s invisible wings taking up invisible space. “Good evening, Sheriff.”

Adam smiles, the action creasing the corners of his eyes in a familiar way that Castiel can still appreciate. “Evenin’, Cas. How’s the Roadhouse treatin’ ya?”

“Very well,” Castiel answers honestly. “The hospitality is incomparable.”

“The food’s even better,” Adam says, closing one of his eyes. It’s a strange gesture, and Castiel glances to his lips to see that secretive pull at the corners. The one-eyed blink must be an extension of that.

Jo returns with a plate heaped with meat smothered in gravy, potatoes, and cut green beans. She sets it down in front of Castiel along with a fork and wipes her hands on her apron, smiling at Adam in a way that makes Castiel instantly curious.

“Heya, Sheriff,” she greets. She’s still warm, but her eyes seem to flicker with something Castiel can’t recognize. Adoration, he thinks. Sort of like the barmaid, but on a softer scale. “Here for dinner?”

“And a whisky and a chat,” Adam replies easily. Jo is already pouring him a drink and setting it down in front of him. “Thank you, Joanna Beth.”

Jo’s cheeks flush prettily, high up near her temples. “You’re welcome Sheriff. You holler if you need anythin’ else, alright?”

Adam picks up his glass and tilts it to her in salute, before drinking half of it in one go. Jo takes that as her cue to leave, tending to other customers. Licking his lips, Adam turns his scrutinizing gaze over towards Castiel. “You seem to have packed light.”

Castiel pauses in stirring his potatoes, glancing over at Adam, the suspicious edge in his voice too soft for anyone but the angel to notice. “Pardon?”

“I took your horse to the stable for you,” Adam says by way of explanation, “Ain’t got no saddle bags.”

“I cannot afford to bring much,” Castiel says, taking a bite of food. He flips through the catalogue of the ‘wild west’, finally finding something to settle on. “Bandits love a lone traveler.”

There’s a stifling moment where Adam just stares at Castiel, as if searching for something behind the words. Oh, there’s so much to see - but Adam slowly turns his attention back to his glass, nodding. “Smart of you. But also a little dumb. You don’t even have a knife on you.”

Adam could have made this observation at any time. The lack of weapons stored on the steed surely gave way, but also, most men of Castiel’s ‘age’ and stature in this time always have a weapon displayed. Castiel knows Adam has a knife tucked away in his boot but there’s no way that he would know if Castiel was hiding a weapon of his own. Instinct, Castiel thinks. This version of the Righteous Man has incredible instinct. And he’s gauging as to whether or not Castiel is a threat.

“I do not believe in senseless violence,” Castiel says. He hasn’t taken another bite of food, even though it is delicious - miles above what he was served at that shanty pub two hundred years ago.

“Thoughts like that’ll get you killed,” Adam says a bit gruffly, taking the rest of the whisky in one swallow. He slams his glass on the counter and slides it forward - for a refill, Castiel recalls.

“I have managed so far,” Castiel points out.

Jo comes back with a plate of hot food and refills Adam’s glass without a word, even though her demeanor is fluttery and warm. Adam shoots her a small smile, which she seems to take tenfold, before she walks away to heed to Ellen’s calls from the kitchen.

“How long you plannin’ on stayin’?” Adam asks, digging in to his food. He doesn’t have good manners - he’s so rough, so different - and speaks with his mouth full. But Castiel watches him eat, interested in the way his teeth scrape over the tongs of his fork with every bite.

“I am unsure,” Castiel says, turning his gaze back to his plate. He then lifts his eyes to his untouched whisky, “I… am suddenly finding myself unsure as to why I am even here in the first place.”

“This place is as good as any to do some soul searching,” Adam replies with a disarming smile. Castiel is caught off-guard, both by the beautiful action as well as the words that accompany it.

“Excuse me?” Castiel says dumbly.

“Soul searching,” Adam repeats with a shrug. A forced casual action. “Y’know. Findin’ yourself and all that bullshit.”

“Finding your own soul?” Castiel’s nose scrunches slightly in confusion.

“Who else’s?” Adam asks, arching a brow with genuine curiosity.

This is as good an opening as any. “What about a soulmate?”

That earns him a disbelieving stare, even if Castiel can sense some hackles raising. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

Castiel huffs, invisible feathers ruffling and causing a breeze. He hates keeping his wings so close to his back; he’s stiff and sore and getting achy and wants nothing more than to spread them out naturally, keep his balance without feeling like he’s going to teeter over at any second. He hopes that Adam doesn’t find him too fussy when he replies, “Is that so unbelievable?”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Adam turns in his stool so he can face Castiel properly, food and whisky momentarily forgotten, “that you’re travelin’ across this godforsaken country lookin’ for a lady?”

Right. Of course Adam would think it is a romantic adventure, Castiel’s eyes set on a girl who has his heart in a bottle. It takes everything within Castiel to not really ruffle his feathers in annoyance. “A soulmate can mean many things, Sheriff. Not just a romantic love.”

Adam’s gaze turns thoughtful. This is the most open and honest Castiel has seen him; perhaps he had been wrong, earlier, to judge him for his rough edges. Underneath it all, he is still the Righteous Man. “What is your soulmate like?”

Castiel is blindsided by the question. He should have assumed that it would be asked, eventually, but considering that his soulmate is sitting right here, asking the question in the first place - it catches him by surprise. He blinks slowly a few times before reaching for his glass, taking a few heady sips of whisky. It burns, it makes his lips tingle, but he finds it gives him the little courage he needs to open up, even slightly, to this beautiful, beautiful man.

“Radiant. Like a thousand Suns strung together on a string, wrapped around me and keeping me warm,” Castiel starts saying. He’s avoiding gender - Michael had not judged, and although he had said it wasn’t a romantic soulmate, he’s not so stupid to think that times like these welcome a man’s affection towards another man. “Strong. The strongest person I have ever known. From one life to the next… always so beautiful.” He murmurs the last part, taking another drink of whisky, unable to say anything more without turning into a mess and outright telling Adam that what he’s been looking for is right in front of him.

“And you’re chasing this soulmate,” Adam concludes for him. Gaze still thoughtful, he takes another bite of food, but it’s neater this time, and he actually reaches for a napkin to wipe at his mouth when some gravy catches on his lip. Castiel notes there aren’t any green beans on his plate. “Do they know?”

Castiel gazes unwaveringly at Adam as he replies, “No. But I will someday figure out how to tell them.”

“How long you gonna go before you crack?” Adam asks, taking a deep drink of whisky. There’s a swallow left when he sets it down on the counter. “Can’t be healthy, partner, pining after someone like that.”

“It’s not like that-”

“Right,” Adam waves a hand. “Not a romantic love, I get it. Sorta.” He turns his eyes towards Castiel, and the angel is disappointed to see that the freckles (angel kisses) are hidden underneath a light layer of dust that must have accumulated throughout the day’s wanderings. “This person is really so special that you’d cross the country to find ‘em?”

Castiel drops his gaze to his plate. “I will follow them to the ends of this Earth.”

“What happens when you catch up?” Adam prods, but not with haste. His tone is gentle, making Castiel look up at him and regard his features quietly. “What happens then, Cas?”

Feeling his mouth go dry, Castiel falters in his response. Right here, right now, gazing into the Righteous Man’s eyes and seeing a genuine care reflected deep within flecks of gold and bronze has Castiel’s heart - or what he thinks is his heart - squeezing almost painfully inside his chest.

“I should hope I gain the courage to tell them, and I should hope that they welcome me.”

“Anyone would be a right fool to reject you, Cas,” Adam suddenly says, tone gruff. He finishes the rest of his whisky. His plate is nearly empty as he pushes it towards the edge of the bar.

The words make Castiel fumble with his own glass and oh, if his breath were in his body, it would be short. He feels heat rising up on his cheeks and he pointedly looks anywhere but at Adam, trying to hide the tremble of his fingers. “Those are kind words for a stranger, Sheriff.”

“Them’s honest words,” Adam replies. “I see things in people, Cas. Good things, bad things - everything. An’ I see nothing but good in your heart of hearts. Even if you broke ol’ Lenny’s finger.” His voice grouses. “Bastard deserved it.”

Castiel chews his lower lip, taking a drink of his whisky. “You… see people’s true intentions?” A side effect of being the Righteous Man - it’s what keeps him on the good side of Righteousness. Even if this Righteous Man has spilled blood. This is the longest Castiel has ever been around the pure soul, and the more he learns the more he hungers for him. Clearly, this ability is the reason why the Righteous Man is in a position of power. Of Lawful Good.

When he thinks about the glint in Adam’s eye when he was holding his gun earlier, Castiel corrects himself.

Chaotic Good.

“Sure do,” Adam answers his question. “Got a nose for sniffin’ out the truth. Got it from my daddy.”

Castiel smiles ruefully. You got it from Creation.

“My father was a law man before me, and his father’s father. Somewhat of an inheritance - a pedigree. Always on the right side of things.”

A small chuckle escapes Castiel, “You are a very righteous man.” The Righteous Man.

Adam shrugs idly. “I do my best. Can’t always keep my nose clean. There’s alway someone wantin’ to push my buttons.”

Jo picks that time to come and collect Adam’s plate, as well as give him a refill on his whisky. She gives Castiel a questionable glance and he pushes his plate towards her as well - his food is halfway gone, and it had been delicious, but he has no interest in eating now that he has Adam’s attention. She tops off Castiel’s glass as well and leaves with a subdued smile, clearly noting how well the Sheriff and the Stranger are getting along.

“How do you keep yourself straight?” Castiel asks, genuinely curious. He’d seen flashes of the hidden temper within the Righteous Man. He knows blood has touched his skin - his soul - and he wonders not only what it takes to make him snap, but also what reels him back in.

“Blind faith,” Adam laughs like he expects Castiel to. Like he’s said it before and been looked at differently.

“Even blind faith is better than no faith,” Castiel says honestly. Then, quieter, softer, “Is there a church in town?”

Adam nods, picking up his whisky to sip at it instead of gulp it down like he had been earlier. “Service every Sunday. School for kids durin’ the week.”

“Do you attend?”

A rue smile filters its way onto Adam’s lips, his gaze staring unseeing at the shelves where the alcohol is kept. “I don’t wanna catch fire for the sins I’ve committed, Cas.”

Brazenly, Castiel reaches out to put his palm over Adam’s left shoulder. It’s meant to be a comforting touch, perhaps a bit intimate between strangers, but the motion has Adam snapping his attention towards the angel. Castiel freezes, fingers rigid, palm ready to retract, apology already on his lips - but then Adam reaches up and gives the back of Castiel’s resting hand a small, welcoming pat. Letting his hand linger for a moment, Castiel chooses his words carefully, speaking them so only Adam can hear them.

“Your very existence absolves you of any sin you could commit.”

Adam’s fingers tighten around Castiel’s wrist, and he expects the man to slap it away. Castiel’s words are oddly forward, and even more strangely sincere, but they’re true; as a Righteous Man, this human could commit atrocities and still be the one called upon by Heaven for the reckoning. Castiel has the fleeting thought that a pure soul can’t stay untainted forever. Not when it’s already predestined to war - when it’s already promised a bloody, valiant fight.

In a roundabout way, it makes sense that the Righteous Man would eventually sin. The sunbursts of his soul are only tainted with blood, nothing else; Castiel had thought a man as beautiful as this would lose his chastity, first. He is pleasantly surprised. Secretly greedy. What a strange sensation.

And this Righteous Man has secrets. Castiel desperately wants to know what’s hidden behind those roguish smiles and glowing eyes. Feels as though he should already know.

Adam pulls at Castiel’s hand until it rests on the sharp curve of his jaw, stubble scratching against the smoothness of Castiel’s palm. His green eyes are narrowed in thought, not hate, and Castiel allows himself this touch - this comfort - because it’s clearly what Adam had been seeking. Castiel wonders if Adam lets anyone touch him softly. Wonders if he has anyone who would be willing, someone who wouldn’t be afraid to get burned. Jo, perhaps. Although it seems that despite the warm glances and gentle smiles, Adam keeps his distance.

“You’re a good man, Cas.” Adam finally says. He lets go of Castiel’s hand and, reluctantly, Castiel lets it fall to his whisky glass. “Ain’t never met someone like you.”

Castiel tries to show a little humility, “You barely know me”, even if Adam’s words sing like a bird song inside his head.

“Well then,” Adam has a decisive tone to his voice as he downs his whisky in one smooth swallow. He flashes a playful, charming, heart-stopping smile. “Let’s get to know you.”

--

Castiel hadn’t intended on spending so much time on Earth, but it was easy to get swept up in small town life. He helped Ellen and Jo man the Roadhouse in exchange for lodging and food; he did a lot of heavy lifting - crates of food and alcohol, repairs and maintenance - and Ellen and Jo, strong women as they were, were secretly thankful for the extra help. It’s been three weeks since Castiel landed and he’s only gotten closer to the humans, Adam especially.

The Sheriff will stop by randomly as he pleases. When Castiel is sweeping the porch, when Castiel is changing out the whisky barrel for a new one, when Castiel is covered in flour and kneading dough for Ellen’s famous pie recipe. Castiel knows that Adam frequents the Roadhouse anyway, even without the angel there, but knowing that the Sheriff always makes a point of checking in on him makes Castiel feel… good. His wings are still tight to his back, invisible - sometimes dust gets caught in them and he has to spend a few agonizing hours preening in the privacy of his room (it’s so hard to do it by himself, but he knows he can’t ask for help), but he always is left refreshed. Sleeping is not something he needs to do, but he finds comfort in lying on the soft mattress on his stomach, wrapped up in blankets with the stars framed by his window. The Earth is so beautiful from this angle.

It’s not hard to tell that Joanna Beth harbors feelings for the Sheriff. She’s young, barely out of adolescence, and Castiel thinks that her love for Adam could be easily confused for idol worship. Castiel would consider it blasphemy if he, too, weren’t so entranced by the Righteous Man’s very existence.

Week four is quiet. When Adam comes by his words are softer, inquiries a little less specific - but his hands. His hands fidget - at first with each other, then on his belt, then his hat, and then steadily… they stray towards Castiel. Touching fingers, adjusting the bowtie Castiel sometimes wears (at Ellen’s behest, because she thinks he looks good all fancied up), brushing flour from his hair. Each time Adam touches him the sensation doesn’t reach his eyes, emerald hues guarded against what’s actually happening. Castiel allows it. Castiel stays neutral - he doesn’t lean into touches or instigate them. Whatever Adam is doing… he must feel the draw of their souls. There’s no other explanation for the rough-and-tumble Sheriff to develop a soft spot for a drifter. It’s got the townsfolk talking. Not directly, of course, because no one wants to be on the wrong end of Adam Milligan, but they still talk.

It’s May 23rd when Castiel realizes what a cruel world it is.

Bandits come in the middle of the night, torches and guns blazing. Such a sleepy town. Everyone has a gun, but everyone also has a bedtime, and there is nothing but chaos as a dozen riders wreak havoc. People are getting shot, shops are getting raided; Castiel herds Ellen and Jo down into the hidden cellar of the Roadhouse, telling them to be quiet, they’ll be safe, he’ll be right back for them.

When he finds his way to the street, it’s a battlefield. Townsfolk are rioting in turn, but they’re getting slaughtered; the bandits have endless ammo, lots of fire, and plenty of hatred. Castiel will never know why they chose tonight, why they chose this town, but Castiel will be the one to put an end to it.

A bullet goes whizzing past his ear, and he doesn’t even flinch. Mortal weapons cannot harm him. Whatever this town sees tonight, they’ll talk of for centuries, he knows. But this town… this town is his home. These people his friends and family.

And first and foremost, Castiel is a soldier.

“Cas!”

He hears Adam’s shout before he sees the man. He’s up on his horse, a beautiful black mare, a gun in each hand and ammo strapped across his chest as he uses his knees to steer his beast. There’s a rifle hanging off of his saddle and he looks like a warrior. Castiel almost loses his breath. He would, were it not currently keeping the man across from him alive.

“Here!” Adam rips the rifle out of the strap and tosses it over to Castiel, who catches it easily. Then he takes off one of his straps of ammo, the one carrying the correct shells, tossing that over as well. He speaks while Castiel straps up, “We gotta get this under control before more innocent people die.”

Castiel stares at the rifle in his hand. He has never had the need for a firearm - or a human weapon - before. The novelty strikes him as odd, but flattered that Adam trusts him enough to hand over one of his prized possessions. He looks up at Adam, “What do you want me to do?”

“Get up here, behind me,” Adam says, reaching his hand out. “Your back to mine, buddy, we gotta keep on swivel and shoot anythin’ bad that moves.”

Without hesitation Castiel grabs Adam’s hand, marveling at the man’s strength as he hauls the angel up. Wings tight to his body, Castiel can’t really lean back against Adam’s shoulders like he’s instructed. Adam doesn’t notice, digging his spurs into the flanks of his horse to get them galloping towards the action. Recalling the few times he’d seen it done, Castiel loads the shells into the gun, cocking it and bringing the butt up to his shoulder. The galloping of the horse is a little jilting, but Castiel is a Soldier of God, and nothing short of perfect on the battlefield.

He takes out a bandit on top of the Roadhouse as they gallop away from it. He takes out another bandit trying to break into the post office. Three, four, five - five humans dead thanks to Castiel, and he thinks that this might be true irony. Adam is firing as well, and Castiel knows that men drop dead because of it. There had been more than a dozen bandits but now their number has dropped significantly, and the sound of guns firing becomes less and less as the bandits decide that they should hide and come up with a plan.

Adam circles his horse in the town square, no doubt searching every visible nook, cranny, and shadow for a bandit. Castiel looks as well, calmly loading the next round of shells into his rifle, and when he turns to say something to Adam, the words get cut off and his vision blackens around the edges.

He’s yanked off of the horse by a rope lassoed around his neck, his hands dropping the gun in favor of hastily slipping his fingers between his neck and the rope to try and keep his skin from flaying off. He’s not worrying about suffocation, but this is quite uncomfortable, the scratchy rope burning against the skin of his throat. On his stomach, Castiel’s invisible wings quiver above him and he hears Adam shouting but he can’t distinguish what he’s saying - suddenly Castiel is being hauled up by the rope tethering him, and he’s pressed up against the side of a foul-smelling, beast of a man.

“You let him go you sonuvabitch,” Adam might be yelling, but his voice sounds so dangerous it reverberates deep within Castiel.

“Nah, nah- he’s gonna escort us far away from this shithole town,” the man yells back. “A consolation prize for our troubles.”

There are buildings on fire, people still screaming, and Castiel’s eyes finally find Adam’s. He can’t read the emotion in them, so he blinks and he Sees, and he nearly screams in shock. Adam’s soul is raging with the inferno of a locked supernova, gold bronze and crimson flicking wildly about, crackling through the air with rampant electricity. Each near lash sends jolts through Castiel’s grace and he feels the power weaving through his core, feels the vibration - that wrong wavelength that he’d barely glimpsed when he first met the Righteous Man of this world - and Castiel trembles.

He fucking trembles in the arms of some brutish human who can’t really restrain Castiel. But Castiel pretends. Pretends to be the damsel. He pretends because these people can’t know, the Righteous Man can’t know-

“You ain’t leavin’ here alive, handsome.” Adam’s voice has taken on a honey drawl that he can’t control when he’s emotional, and it’s the only tell that he isn’t as calm as he appears.

“Pretty boy is gonna die before you can get to me,” the man spits, tightening the rope on Castiel’s neck. It’s burning his throat and the fingers trapped between.

Adam cocks both of his revolvers, holding both out in front of him, steady as they train on the man. “You think I won’t shoot through him to get to you?”

Castiel doesn’t dare to even blink. Adam would do anything for this town - for these people - for Castiel. And if saving Castiel means killing him, the angel has no doubt in his mind that Adam could accomplish it. Because Adam would rather Castiel die a heroic death than be dragged into whatever this man is trying to do. And Castiel would rather, as well. That is, if he could die. Imagining being shot is unpleasant, and imagining the events afterwards - namely, the reaction when he doesn’t die - leaves bile bubbling in his stomach for the first time in his existence.

But the man, the man tenses at Adam’s words. Like he doesn’t believe him, but knows better than to not believe him. He growls and suddenly something hot, slick and wet is sliding up the shell of Castiel’s ear, making him flinch away in disgust. The smell lets him know it’s the man’s tongue, defiling him, all while he goads Adam.

“What if I just take my prize an’ leave? Won’t hear nothin’ from me ever again. I came here lookin’ for a good time, after all.”

Adam’s eyes narrow. “Keep your tongue in your fuckin’ mouth. Last chance, idiot. Let him go, or die. Both of you.”

The man’s hand is suddenly down the front of Castiel’s pants, cupping him, fondling him lewdly and Castiel’s resolve snaps. He sees white, he sees the flutter of his midnight black wings - the gust from their flapping puts out fires, knocks people off their feet, and Castiel is soaring up to the sky, this pathetic excuse of a human screaming for mercy, crying, sniveling, pissing himself as Castiel’s powerful wings take him higher and higher. The town is a speck, barely visible now that the fires are out, and Castiel is holding the man by the scruff of his shirt, looking down at him with pure menace.

“Oh, God-!” The man screams, face turned up to Castiel in horror.

Castiel lets a murderous smile snake over his features, “God can’t save you.”

And then he drops the human.

--

Adam is the only one who saw Castiel’s wings. And Adam doesn’t talk about it. Castiel doesn’t even know why he’s still around - helping load lumber, pound nails, rebuild the town. He works side by side with the humans he saved - that Adam saved - like he’s one of them. Wings once again invisible, tight against his back, Adam hasn’t talked to Castiel in the six days that have passed since that terrible night. They work silently together, eat silently together, drink silently together.

Castiel supposes he’s still around because he’s got an attachment to these people. They’re a bit untrusting of outsiders at first, but they soon welcomed him as their own - especially Ellen and Jo. And Castiel can’t leave them broken like this, because he is firstly a soldier (guardian), but secondly a servant. Often he finds himself with his arms full of Jo, her tears and her babbling So many people died, Cas! - but she’s never weak for long, wiping her tears, sniffling her cute little nose, and setting about the task of rebuilding with new determination.

Adam is distant. No one dare approach him, save for Castiel. And it’s not that he approaches him so much as encumbers his presence upon the Sheriff, still needing to be close, still needing to protect and support. He tries to pretend that he doesn’t notice his own soul reflecting Adam’s - gold, bronze, and crimson - and he also tries to pretend that some of Adam’s malicious intent wasn’t responsible for Castiel killing that human so violently. But that night their souls touched, their grace mingled and they bled for one another.

Up in his room Castiel is fresh from a wash, sitting cross-legged on his bed wearing only his pants. No one ever comes up to his room, always guaranteeing his privacy. His wings are unbound, visible so he can comb his fingers through the parts he can reach. It had been so long since he’d flown in this realm, some of his flight feathers molted from the stress of being used so quickly, so suddenly. The midnight black of his wings calm him slightly, their royal blue gossamer reflecting his eyes sweetly. It feels good to preen - he hasn’t done it since a few days before that dastardly event - and he wishes he hadn’t waited so long. But he’d been so busy helping the townsfolk, hugging people who need it, pounding hammers for those too weary to do so.

A knock to his door has Castiel’s attention snapping upwards. He should leave. He should disappear from this plane of existence and retreat into Heaven where he can wait out the next reincarnation. He should-

He should tell Adam the truth, because the man is standing on the other side of Castiel’s door, finally ready to talk after a week.

“Come in,” Castiel says softly. He doesn’t hide his wings or shrink them against his body; he allows them to stay relaxed and extended, taking up the entire room, the tips folding gently against opposing walls.

When Adam walks in his eyes widen slightly, but not with shock or surprise. Curiosity, recognition, unbidden in those jade hues, as he steps inside fully and shuts the door softly behind him. Castiel regards him quietly; he wants Adam to speak to him. He wants Adam to… to tell him what he should do.

“I-” Adam licks his lips. Whenever he does that - a habit hard to break, even through life times - Castiel’s eyes flicker down towards his mouth and back up again. “I never said thank you.”

Castiel’s head tilts with minor confusion. “For what do I deserve thanks?”

Adam seems enamored by Castiel’s genuine confusion, because he laughs warmly, shaking his head and moving to lean against the behemoth of a dresser that contains only a few articles of clothing. “For saving the town. For saving lives, for protecting them, for- for rebuilding.” His gaze lowers, like he’s spent the past week rolling his next words around on his tongue. “For not leaving.”

Castiel understands. He nods but stays silent, encouraging Adam to continue with warm, soft blue eyes.

“I really would have killed you, you know?” Adam says, wiping a hand over his mouth, dragging his features down minutely as he regards Castiel. “I’da killed you, and then killed him.”

“I know,” the angel replies calmly.

Adam’s eyes take a moment to rove over Castiel’s wings. It’s a long look, one that Castiel feels like a touch, his feathers rustling slightly at the open admiration painted on Adam’s beautiful face. “You wouldn’t have died though, huh.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I would not have.”

“So I shoulda done it anyway, yeah? ‘Stead of gettin’ all chickenshit.” Adam’s eyes go to the floorboards, tone gruff.

“It is not wise for me to be shot and not die in a town full of simple, kind people.” Castiel explains.

“It wasn’t wise o’ you to fly off either, now, was it?” Adam’s tone is still rough, but he lifts his gaze to Castiel’s. The gold flecks in his eyes are glowing in the amber light of the sunsight leaking in through the sheer curtains drawn over Castiel’s windows in a semblance of privacy.

“No,” Castiel admits.

“You’re really hard to get into an argument with, y’know that?” Adam huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his sandy blond hair, fingers pinching at the back of his neck. Castiel accepts the soft fondness in Adam’s voice, reading that he’s not actually angry at Castiel. “I always knew there was somethin’ strange ‘bout you.” He gestures idly at Castiel’s inky black wings.

They flutter in response, and Castiel resists tipping up his nose at the human. “I am perfectly normal where I come from.” Except for the whole in-love-with-his-soulmate thing.

“Can I…” Adam’s voice starts out strong, then trails off as he flexes his fingers at his side. “Would it be ok…”

Again, Castiel’s head tilts, but this time indulgently. His wings lower slightly, scapulas relaxing as his primary feathers brush across the floor. “I was preening. There are some spots I cannot reach…”

“Yeah,” Again, Adam licks his lips as he steps forward, boots sounding unnaturally heavy on the floor. “Show me…?”

Castiel’s wings shudder slightly, and then he hunches over a little bit to show Adam the feathers that are ruffled in odd directions. “There are… glands,” Castiel explains. “The oil from them keeps my feathers healthy and soft.”

Without explicitly explaining, Castiel knows that Adam understands. The man rolls up the sleeves of his plain black button down, Sheriff badge shiny on his chest as he looks at Castiel’s wing with concentration and a bit of reverence. Reaching, Adam’s fingers sink into the softness of Castiel’s feathers, searching around genty, before swiping along the bits of flesh covering the bones of his wing. Castiel shivers - his wing, too - but he tries to keep himself contained as Adam starts running his fingers over the fluffed areas, smoothing them down almost expertly.

After ten minutes Adam decides that the left wing is complete and moves over to the right wing of his own volition. Castiel can’t tell him how good it feels - emotionally and physically - and he can’t trust his voice to speak right now, anyway. Another ten minutes or so and then Adam is stepping back, looking at the residual oils on his hands.

“Here,” Castiel calls him over, holding up a rag that he’d been using to keep his own hands clean. Adam moves to stand at the edge of the bed, holding his hands out, allowing Castiel to clean them tenderly, warmly. Long after his hands are dry Castiel is still holding them, staring at them, committing each curve, callous, and scar to memory.

“Why are you here?” Adam finally asks.

“Because of you,” Castiel finally replies.

“Am I…”

“Yes.”

Silence blankets over them, and then suddenly Adam is stepping back, looking as though he just fell back into his body. “Shit, Cas, that’s - I’m nothin’ special. You can’t be here for me.”

Castiel doesn’t want to listen to Adam’s self-deprecating tirade. “I am here because of you. I am always here because of you - no matter when, no matter where. Whatever life you live next, wherever it is, whatever you do - I will be right here. Waiting.”

“Why,” Adam croaks, voice thick with words he can’t say.

“Because you are my soulmate,” Castiel says. He can’t stand the emotions radiating from Adam’s soul - self-torture, confusion, fear.

“I can’t be, Cas,” Adam’s smile is strained around the edges and doesn’t meet his watery eyes. “I ain’t no good for nothin’.”

This hurts. The Righteous Man discovering Castiel’s true existence and reason for being… hurts. Hurts worse than the spear through his chest, hurts worse than being carted off by witch-hunters, hurts worse than watching him board a ship to sail far, far away. Castiel had no idea the ramifications of admittance would be so dire. He had no idea that the soul he seeks would be so… broken.

“Maybe not in this life,” Castiel replies to Adam’s words of self-hate. “But in the next…” he offers a small smile.

“You’ll really find me in the next life?” Adam asks, almost sounding hopeful.

“As true as the Sun rising over the horizon every day, Righteous Man, I will always seek your light.”

“... I’m a damn fool, Cas.”

Castiel leaves before his heart breaks.

When Castiel returns to Heaven, he learns his Righteous Man is prophesied to commit suicide the following week. It’s wrong - so wrong - because when he’d initially left, Adam Milligan was destined to live a long life and die of old age.

Castiel will find him when the time is right, he’s sure of it. But he will keep these past months close to him until he does, a reminder of a soul so bright, yet so harrowed, and even still… capable of Greatness.

2018

Castiel can’t mess up, this time. The Prophet sees the end of the bloodline, sees that the Righteous Man will reincarnate no more. Castiel had found the pure soul in the womb, watched him grow and develop - watched him learn how to ride a bike, cry when he scraped his knees, baby his brother. The most different thing about this life is that the Righteous Man has family - a loving mother, a hard working father, and a sweet little brother - and Castiel wonders if this will all be over because the Righteous Man finally got what his pure soul deserves.

This Righteous Man - this Dean Winchester, the last of his holy bloodline - is so unlike his previous reincarnations, and yet so similar. He has the love and warmth of Michael, he has the fierce protective strength of Adam, he has the bartering skills of the butcher in the market and he has the bravery of his caveman beginning.

The Righteous Man is nearing his thirtieth birthday when Castiel touches down. By now Castiel is tired of waiting, tired of making himself behave - tired of telling himself that he doesn’t harbor a romantic love for this pure soul. He has spent the past one-hundred and fifty years coming to terms with the fact that he will not harvest this man’s soul. Heaven is uproarious over the fact; how dare Castiel go against his mission? It is Castiel’s breath bottled up inside that human, and it should take nothing to take it, to snuff it.

But he can’t.

He won’t.

And he prays to God often, asking for guidance but mostly for forgiveness, unsurprised when he gets no answer in return. He supposes no news is good news, as the human saying goes. Castiel is thankful that he gets to keep his wings when he descends, even knowing that this is the last time he will step foot on Earth. He has spent so much time examining the culture this time around, and is humbled by just how intelligent the human race has become.

‘Things that go bump in the night’ are no longer just horror stories. Monsters of all sorts are being slain by select chosen humans - those who are strong, brave, and resourceful. Dean is one such hunter, and a very good one at that. Castiel holds on to the memory of Adam regarding his wings with reverence, hoping that when he reveals himself to Dean, he will see something similar.

If he gets the chance to reveal himself to Dean.

Wings tucked tight - because even though humans accept all sorts of creatures exist, that doesn’t mean Castiel will out himself immediately - Castiel visits where Dean likes to hang out the most. It’s a seedy bar, a place that Castiel desperately wishes would just burn to the ground so Dean could find another place to haunt. But Dean is attached to the place and the people, and when Castiel enters, he doesn’t feel entirely foreign in the crowd of miscreants. There are some vampires and werewolves - adapted into society, no more threat than the kitten on the doorstep - and Castiel knows that humans have seen glimpses of angels. Whisper about them. Wonder about them.

Castiel approaches the bar, taking a seat on a stool. He shifts uncomfortably every time someone stumbles into his wings, and ends up leaning forward slightly with his forearms crossed on the bar counter as his eyes raise to peruse the selection of alcohol displayed above.

“Bonjour, Blue Eyes.”

The angel’s gaze focuses on the bartender approaching him. A vampire, but a handsome one, with a gingery golden beard and warm blue eyes. He’s wiping his hands with a dish towel and he tosses it over his shoulder as he leans his palms on the bar, showing a warm, fangless smile.

“What’s your poison?” The drawl is Southern and charming, but Castiel purses his lips into a thin line.

“Whisky.”

The vampire’s eyebrows lift in surprise, but he grabs a glass, turning around towards the shelves. “Somethin’ good or somethin’ strong?”

“Bit of both,” Castiel replies. His wings quiver and he knows Dean is nearby, but he refuses to let his gaze wander. He’s going to play a different game today.

“Bit of both,” the bartender repeats it like a prayer, selecting a bottle and deftly pouring the amber liquid into a beautiful crystal tumbler. He slides it towards Castiel, cerulean eyes twinkling. “Where you from, sweetheart? Never seen you before.”

Very hospitable for a vampire, Castiel thinks idly as he draws the glass towards him.

“Doesn’t matter where I’m from,” Castiel says, “only that I’m here now.”

“Wise words,” the vampire nods his agreement. “Name’s Benny. I’ll get you anythin’ you want, darlin’. You just let me know.” He raps his knuckles on the counter and walks away, and for a second, Castiel is back at the Roadhouse, confused but comforted.

The music playing overhead is a nice change, Castiel thinks. Better than being able to hear all of the conversations happening around him. He nurses his whisky slowly and indulges Benny in small talk whenever the vampire has a few moments of free time (“Here on business?” “Of sorts.” “A man of few words is mighty desirable ‘round these parts. You got anyone special?” “Hoping so.” “I understand, brother. I understand.”), and there are a few moments in which he thinks Benny is… flirting with him… but Castiel thinks that’s wrong. Mostly because he’s never been flirted with in all of his existence - after all, only one soul has him ensnared.

When Dean sits down next to Castiel, he’s radiating happiness and satisfaction. “Benny!”

The vampire lights up like Dean is the best thing he’s ever seen (Dean is probably the best thing anyone has ever seen) as he comes over and shakes his hand heartily. “Was worried you were ignorin’ lil’ old me, brother.”

“Nah, Benny,” Dean’s voice is warm. Fond. Full of love. It makes Castiel… uncomfortable. “I always got time for you.”

Castiel’s gaze is focused on his empty glass when it falls silent between the two men; he knows that humans have a language without words, one that relies on glances and body language alone, and he has a feeling that’s happening in this very moment. He won’t intrude. This Righteous Man doesn’t know him.

Suddenly something spicy and woodsy is infiltrating Castiel’s nostrils and he doesn’t need to breathe, after all his breath is caught in the lungs of a Righteous Man, but he scents Dean and he turns just in time to see Dean leaning towards him, lips curled in an inviting grin. Dean’s eyes reflect the colored lights hanging above the bar and Castiel wishes he could see their true emerald shade, but - he can’t feel too disappointed, because Dean is looking at him like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Heya Cas.”

Castiel’s brain slows to a halt. Benny switches out his empty glass for a full one, but Castiel doesn’t touch it - he’s frozen, staring searchingly into Dean’s warm eyes which are holding his like… like he owns him.

The Righteous Man owns the angel Castiel.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel’s reply is gravelly, and he tries clearing his throat. Dean doesn’t seem surprised that Castiel knows his name. For some reason, Castiel isn’t surprised that Dean knows his.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, you know that?” Dean says, shooting back the liquor that Benny puts in front of him.

“I don’t think I do,” Castiel replies. A hand wraps around the new glass, and he thinks he prefers lukewarm whisky over the slightly chilled liquid he’s been given tonight.

“Yeah,” Dean’s still smiling, but his gaze turns thoughtful as he regards Castiel’s features. “I’ve been lookin’ for you for a long time.”

Stupidly, Castiel is grateful for the sweet honey drawl that still tumbles from Dean’s lips. This suits him. All of this. The hunting, the bar, even his name - this is… right. Dean’s words sink in a little belatedly, and Castiel blinks. “How?”

Dean’s smile brightens as he taps his temple, “You think I don’t got resources?” Benny slides over a beer and Dean tips it in salute, before he bodily turns towards Castiel. “Ever since I was a little kid I felt eyes on my shoulder. Mama always said it was a guardian angel.” Dean shrugs, but his eyes are still warm - and filled with knowledge beyond this world. “Once I was old enough I started remembering these… dreams. And then I started doing my own digging. I got a long bloodline, y’know.” He says it as a fact, not as a question. Castiel remains silent, his eyes watching Dean’s face as he talks. “The Milligan’s rogue son, Adam. Left behind two brothers, all of which continued their lineage.” He takes a long drink of his beer, not missing the way Castiel’s eyes drift to his plush mouth. “Sucker killed himself. Ain’t that interesting?”

Castiel’s gaze rips away, shame blossoming in the form of pink cheeks and dark eyes. He takes a deep drink of whisky, choosing not to answer Dean’s rhetorical question. He knows Dean will keep talking.

“Rumor has it he was in love with an angel and couldn’t stand to be without him.” There’s no edge to Dean’s voice, but not sympathy either. “That angel saved a whole town and he was the only one who knew. Then he was all alone.”

“I didn’t-” Castiel’s voice breaks, and he cuts himself off. “I didn’t want to leave yo-... him. But I had to. It wasn’t… time.” He stares at his whisky, knowing Dean is still looking at him, those green eyes leaving fire in their wake. “I promised him I would find him in the next life.” Castiel finally raises his gaze towards Dean. “I found you, Dean.”

Any heat in Dean’s expression softens. Chewing his lip, he glances behind Castiel - like he can see his invisible wings - before he scoots his bar stool over. “I’m sorry for the third degree, buddy. I just- I been dreaming about you and our past lives ever since I was ten years old and I’ve been waitin’ so long.”

Castiel looks at the human with disbelief written on his expression, “You can’t have… saved yourself for me.”

Dean’s smile turns cheshire. “Righteous Man, remember? I can do anything I set my mind to.”

“But-” Castiel frowns. “You could have married. Had children of your own. If you did your research then you would know that this is the end. Your last chance at normalcy.” The end of the bloodline.

“You think I ain’t thought of that?” Dean says, voice tight. “You think I didn’t try datin’ around? Hell, Cas. Knowing who - what - I am, I couldn’t do it.”

“You had a choice when you learned,” Castiel says, voice hard. “You should have chosen happiness.”

“I chose happiness when I learned I got an angel on my shoulder, waiting for me to breathe life into him.”

Castiel falls silent. He’s stunned, to say the least. This Dean is an amalgamation of all of the Righteous Men before him - all of their best qualities, and their one major flaw (stubbornness) - and he’s… so beautiful. Castiel blinks and sees his soul glowing, soft embers instead of the furnace of the Sun, tendrils of gold, bronze, and crimson. He focuses on Dean’s face, searching his eyes. “I plan to Fall for you.”

Dean has the gall to smile. “That’s real sweet, Cas.”

“No, Dean-” Castiel allows himself to feel a little frustration. “From Heaven. Ever since I left you at the Roadhouse, I knew the next time I saw you, I would Fall. When you breathe life into me, Dean… when you return that breath from whence it came, I will no longer be an angel.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to search Castiel’s expression. “Not a weapon of God?”

Castiel resists the urge to pull at his own hair, settling for wrapping both hands around his whisky glass. He stares at it once more, dark eyes intense, trying to gather his thoughts. “I was a soldier, once. It was my mission to fight for God - to wait for the right time to collect the purest soul from the Righteous Man and ride into war against Lucifer. But God- God stopped answering my prayers.” Castiel frowns. “The first time I laid eyes on you, Dean, you were magnificent. Without even a spoken language you lead your people fiercely, bravely. You threw a spear directly through me to protect them.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Shit, man.”

“At the time I had full intention to bond with you, which would make it easier for you to relent when it came time to collect your soul. But I had frightened you, and that frightened me. So I waited… thousands of years, until a language I could grasp was invented. When I saw you next you were still unsure. Always guarded, always careful. I made a mistake and had to leave before I could explain myself.” Castiel still berates himself for such a juvenile trick. He takes a sip of his whisky, and then continues. “The next time I met you, you were… radiant. Your soul was blinding and I couldn’t stay away. I was charmed. Enamored, even. And when I started to tell you about my mission, you listened.” Castiel raises his gaze to Dean’s, eyes soft and imploring. “You wanted me to stay. I refused. You have always felt right, but the timing was always off. I could not risk a mistake.” Taking in a deep breath, Castiel drops his gaze again. “I didn’t wait as long to see you, the next time. I ended up staying for almost two months. The townspeople - you - it was the first time things had felt like home. Like I could stay. Like I was loved.”

“So why didn’t you stay?” Dean asks, his voice soft.

“If I had stayed then,” Castiel says, not meeting the human’s eyes, “I wouldn’t have you now.”

“And how did you know this time would be better than the last?” Dean asks skeptically.

Castiel offers the tiniest of smiles. “Look around you, Dean. A Fallen angel wouldn’t be the strangest thing to land on Earth, during these times.”

“So you just banked on the fact that you would have me in this life,” Dean says, a tone of disbelief tinging his words.

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel tries not to snip, but his voice gets an edge. “I ‘banked’ on it. A gamble I was willing to take. If you don’t receive me tonight, then I’ll-” he swallows. “I will accept my punishment as God sees fit, and spend the rest of eternity wandering without you.”

Stiff silence falls between them. Castiel is reminded of the week after the bandits pillaged the town, the days where he and Adam didn’t speak a single word to one another; the days where they soaked up the big secret, let it build and loom between them. Hard, long days of restoration and emotional support that left Castiel drained physically and emotionally. Silence with the Righteous Man has never been uncomfortable, even in situations where it should have been - even now.

“D’you think that after all I’ve done in this life,” Dean starts, his voice thick, “after all we’ve been through in previous lives, that I would just let you walk away from me?”

Castiel blinks. He looks over at Dean, who is picking at the label wrapped around his dark beer bottle, brows furrowed and pretty lips pursed in a pout. He has been watching Dean in this life, yes, but apparently not close enough. The way time passes in Heaven is so different on Earth, which means Castiel only caught snippets of the Righteous Man’s comings and goings. How much has the human done? Those dreams - how did Castiel not know he’d been having them, searching for him in turn?

“Dean-”

“No, Cas.” The familiar way Dean speaks to him makes his heart - his soul - ache. But he quiets, allowing Dean to continue. “You don’t get to decide what happens this time. You are here because I want you to be here. You are here because I-” own you “-need you.”

“Dean,” this time the name falls from his lips in a plea.

Hunger flashes in flecks of green-gold-bronze and Dean stands up, his hand going to Castiel’s elbow to encourage him to stand as well. “I can’t wait any longer. I need you.”

“I don’t-” understand gets cut off by Dean’s mouth covering Castiel’s. A kiss. Castiel’s knees weaken, the contact unlike anything he’s ever felt before. Dean’s soul fills him from the inside out, tongue swiping along Castiel’s teeth and coaxing embarrassing sounds from him and Castiel clutches at the man’s sleeves, the inferno ripping through him blanking out his mind.

When Dean breaks the kiss he stares deeply into Castiel’s eyes, searching them. “Don’t leave.”

Castiel nods, “Have me.”

There are things Castiel has yet to experience - plenty of them - but being dragged a few blocks from the bar to an apartment complex is something new. All the while Dean can’t keep his hands off of Castiel and while the angel understands the basics of copulation, his knowledge is still limited, ready and willing to let Dean show him the ropes. The human’s apartment is a fairly nice size, and once the door shuts behind them Castiel’s wings expand and shudder, Dean’s hands immediately moving to his scapula to run his fingertips all the way to the alula.

“Dean,” Castiel nearly whines.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean pulls back so he can get a full view of the angel, eyes roving over every inch of wing and body, hair and eyes, and Dean’s soul is the brightest it’s ever been. “Jesus, you’re gorgeous.”

Castiel can’t be humbled by the compliment, not when God’s most beautiful creation is standing right in front of him. Reaching up to the buttons on his shirt Castiel starts undoing them methodically, enjoying the way Dean’s eyes flicker down to watch the motion. Dean moves to undress as well - he pulls his shirt over his head to reveal his toned body, an anti-possession tattoo covering his heart, skin otherwise free of ink. Castiel’s fingers make haste, and belatedly he realizes that he needs to rip his shirt off anyway to get free thanks to his wings - he does just that and Dean lets out a groan, crossing the short distance between them to cup Castiel’s jaw and bring him in for a hungry kiss and oh, Castiel is inexperienced (and a quick scan of Dean’s soul tells him that the Righteous Man has, in fact, remained chaste throughout his millennia of existence) but Dean takes charge in a way that has the angel trembling.

Strong hands map out the expanse of Castiel’s body for the first time - thumbs pressing, blunt nails dragging, catching in dips and crevices and stuttering over bone. Castiel’s arms wrap around Dean’s neck to hold him close, their chests tight together, swallowing Dean’s pants and moans as they pass. Dean’s fingers circle where the scapula of Castiel’s wings protrude from soft skin and Castiel shudders, groans, wings flexing and rippling.

“We can’t fit in the bedroom,” Dean suddenly says with a laugh, all the while kissing down Castiel’s stubbled jaw.

“Here is fine,” Castiel replies, mostly because he wouldn’t be able to offer a solution anyway, what with his virginity and stalled brain not working very well together on the same team.

Dean backs them up towards the couch, allowing himself to fall back onto it in a seated position. Without body contact it’s easier for them to divest the rest of their clothing and Castiel does so without question or shame, standing naked as Dean pulls off his socks. The Righteous Man is glowing brighter than before, the light shining through his eyes as he looks up at Castiel with such longing, such… love. Castiel moves to straddle Dean’s lap, hands on the man’s shoulders, his wings stretching out to either side of them, knocking over a lamp (“don’t worry about it”) and a picture frame (“you just owe me a new one”). With Castiel bared and sprawled and perched on Dean’s lap, he has a general idea of where this is going to lead, but he’s thankful for Dean’s warm, big hands, resting on his hips and caressing slowly.

“Dean…” Castiel says.

Green eyes peer up from under soft lashes and Dean offers a crooked smile, his body flushed. “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

“I will never leave you,” Castiel finds himself promising, finds himself meaning it. His hands slide up from Dean’s tanned shoulders to cup under his jaw, clean-shaven skin suiting his features in this life. “I am yours, Righteous Man. Claim me.”

Under Castiel’s touch Dean’s head tips back, baring his throat; Castiel dives in and presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to the tendons strung under soft skin, a litany of moans falling from Dean’s lips. Dean’s hands on Castiel’s hips guide the angel to start rocking against him - for a moment, Castiel is unsure what that moment could accomplish, until the sensation of their cocks brushing draws the faintest of mewls from the winged man’s lips. That noise encourages Dean to help him rock down more solidly, the lengths of their erections slipping against each other with more friction than smoothness but it feels so, so good.

Inexperience barely touches Castiel’s periphery - both his and Dean’s - as he gets lost in the sensations. Dean’s hands are still rough, calloused, strong and huge as they map over Castiel’s naked form. Everywhere they touch they leave fire and the room is dark, the one lamp providing light having been knocked over by Castiel’s wing, but their souls shine so bright Castiel has half a mind to squint against them. Dean leans forward, his teeth scraping over Castiel’s collarbone, causing the angel to wrap his arms around the width of Dean’s shoulders, holding him tight to him.

“Dean…” Castiel sighs.

“Cas, I… fuck,” Dean lets out a breathless laugh, hands sliding down the curve of Castiel’s back to grip at his ass cheeks, groping them and spreading them apart. “Everything I need is in the bedroom.”

Castiel’s blue eyes blink dazedly, spine arching into Dean’s touch as he glances down at the human. “What do you need?”

“Lube,” Dean replies, chewing his lower lip and closing his eyes, brows furrowing a little like the way Castiel is grinding against him is painful.

A quick reference supplies Castiel with the definition of what Dean needs and he reaches his hand up towards his mouth, sucking three fingers in. The movement catches Dean’s attention and he watches, pupils blown, Castiel working diligently but messily to soak his fingers with his saliva. Dean reaches up a hand between them, thumb catching on Castiel’s lower lip to pull it down slightly; the motion causes some drool to slip out of Castiel’s mouth, clear fluid dribbling messily over his chin. When he pulls his fingers free Castiel reaches behind himself, circling a finger over his rim - his knees tremble where they bracket Dean’s hips and he slumps a little, burying his face into Dean’s neck.

“Shit,” Dean breathes. “Holy shit, Cas.” There’s wonder in his voice as one of his hands moves so his fingers can circle Castiel’s wrist, helping guide the angel with what he’s doing.

Castiel’s middle finger slips into his body to the second knuckle easily enough; Castiel knows that this isn’t how angels are supposed to bond with their soul at all, knows that this is against everything he’s been taught, and yet… yet it feels like he was made for this. Made to open up under Dean’s soft praise and reverent touches, made to submit to the Righteous Man, made to give himself over wholly and fully to his Earthly tether. Panting against Dean’s sweaty neck Castiel shifts as he works - one finger becomes two, two becomes three, and everything is so new and foreign to Castiel that when he strokes deep within himself he cries out, stilling his wrist, body locking up, wings shuddering to expand and touch opposing walls.

“Hey, hey,” Dean coos softly. One hand is still guiding Castiel’s but the other reaches up into dark hair, combing through the messy strands comfortingly. His heart is pounding, Castiel can smell his arousal. “Let me take over, angel.”

How odd is it to be called that - odder still the accompanying flutter inside Castiel. He slowly pulls his fingers free from the tightness of his body, wrist aching, and then keens when two of Dean’s much thicker fingers find their way past Castiel’s slightly puffy, sensitive rim. Dean takes his time stretching and probing, moving with an expertise that Castiel finds himself curious, and simultaneously envious, of.

From where his face is buried in Dean’s neck Castiel tilts his gaze downwards, taking in Dean’s arousal. Cock hard and flushed, pearly liquid shimmering at the top, Castiel can’t help but reach a hand down to wrap his fingers around the shaft, marveling at the firmness, the velvety slide of skin beneath his own. Dean’s breath hitches and his hips flex slightly, using Castiel’s distraction to slide a third finger into the angel’s body. The stretch is only mildly uncomfortable but Castiel is so entranced by this beautiful creation beneath him, he can’t be bothered to worry about how Dean’s thick cock is going to fit inside of him. Another few moments of hushed movements and finally Dean is using his own spit to slick himself, helping guide Castiel over his lap.

For a moment, Dean freezes, one hand on Castiel’s hip and the other at the base of his own cock. He’s looking down between their bodies and Castiel knows what the human is thinking - so he rocks his hips, letting the head of Dean’s erection catch slightly on his rim.

“Please, Dean,” Castiel breathes, his low voice tinged with want. “I’ve waited for thousands of years to be yours.”

Glancing up, emerald meets sapphire, sparks flying between them. Dean pulls Castiel in for a searing kiss at the same time he seats Castiel on his dick and it’s explosive - the pleasure that burns through Castiel is gold bronze and crimson and consumes his entire being. Dean helps him bounce with strong hands, flexes of his thighs, and Castiel rests his hands on Dean’s shoulders to keep himself upright. Their motions are automatic, bodies chasing after the pleasure denied by them for millennia; but everything is in flashes. Lips on skin, hands in hair, sweat dripping. Perfect symbiosis of two bodies merging to become one, the apartment around them lighting up with the intensity of their souls physically manifesting and crackling through currents of electricity. Castiel’s wings draw inward to cocoon them as they fuck, chasing their ends, both accepting that neither of them will last much longer. Words get stolen from mouths and instead they kiss, bind to one another, and when Dean’s hips stutter out of rhythm from Castiel’s the angel squeezes his body tight, coaxing the release from the human. Castiel’s insides go warm at the same time Dean grabs his cock to stroke and it’s nuclear when they come together - their souls leak from their parted, gasping lips and tangle together above their heads and that’s the last thing that Castiel sees before he slumps and faints, curled in to Dean’s equally exhausted body.

--

Castiel wakes up with a gasp. More specifically: he wakes up with breath. Lungs that have never functioned before heave to try and suck in much-needed oxygen, Castiel squirming and pawing around to try and get purchase on something, anything to try and calm his new, erratic heartbeat.

“Woah, woah-”

Dean. Castiel hears Dean’s voice and snaps his eyes open, finding himself pinned underneath the human’s solid body. Propped up above him Dean looks down at him with concern, freckles so close Castiel dazedly thinks about finally counting them. Glancing around, Castiel recognizes Dean’s apartment, the soft morning sun filtering through the balcony doors on the opposite side of the room. Putting a hand on his chest, Castiel winces slightly, the feeling of his own heartbeat foreign under the palm of his hand.

“I can breathe,” Castiel says.

Dean pets sweaty hair away from the angel’s forehead, leaning down to kiss it. “Does it hurt?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Feels strange.”

Dean’s kisses move over Castiel’s features before settling on his lips, chaste and sweet. When Dean pulls away Castiel becomes aware of their nudity first, and then something truly startling, second.

“My wings-” Castiel bolts upright, nearly knocking Dean over. Patting himself down and contorting to try and reach his hands around his body, Castiel feels nothing - sees nothing - and feels a strange burning sensation in his eyes. “They’re gone.”

From where Dean is on the other end of the couch, he looks sympathetic and - guilty? - as he nods. “Yeah, Cas. They… last night, when we, uh. There was a really bright light and your wings… vaporized. Turned to gold dust.”

Castiel glances down to the floor on reflex, seeing shimmery flecks of gold splattered around various surfaces, catching on what little sunlight is filtering into the room. Drawing his knees up to his chest Castiel tries to steady the panic trying to filter its way through his body; already needing to breathe and feeling his heartbeat is strange enough, but now his wings are gone, and Castiel feels entirely vulnerable.

“I Fell,” he finally says after a few moments of tense silence.

Dean shifts, grabbing the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He’s sure and steady as he wraps the fabric around Castiel and draws the angel - is he even that anymore? - towards him, curling the slightly smaller figure up into his side. “I got you, Cas.”

Castiel had known this day would come. He knew he was going to Fall for the Righteous Man - he knew his wings, his status, and his grace would be stripped from him. He knew that Dean would return his first breath to him - give him new life - and yet… grief fills Castiel. His wings had been every part of him as his toes and fingers, and now they are gone. A tremor wracks through his frame and Dean tightens his embrace, tucking Castiel’s head under his chin.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Dean murmurs. It’s exactly what Castiel needs to hear, and what Dean knows to say, because they are soulmates.

Castiel stays quiet for a long while, and Dean holds him for the duration, not uttering a single complaint about what is surely an uncomfortable position, what with Castiel practically draped over his lap trying to fuse them both into the couch. The burning sensation in his eyes, Castiel learns, are tears, and they make lazy rivers down his cheeks for longer than Castiel can bother to count. Eventually he pulls away from Dean, wiping at his face with his palms, taking in a deep, slow breath.

“I apologize,” Castiel says softly. “The loss of my wings was expected, but… startling.”

“It’s ok,” Dean says, voice understanding as he rubs Castiel’s back. First down the spine, and then over each shoulder blade, where wings once protruded. Castiel’s throat feels tight at the sensation - or rather, lack thereof.

Another few moments of silence pass between them, until a weird garbling sound emits from deep within Castiel’s stomach. Alarmed, Castiel looks down, placing a hand over his navel. “What-?”

Dean manages to laugh. “Hungry?”

Castiel frowns. “Hungry…?” He rubs his palm over his skin thoughtfully, feeling his stomach twisting in on itself. “I… I believe I am.”

Dean gives Castiel’s shoulder a comforting squeeze as he stands, “I’ll fix us some breakfast, angel.”

Angel.

Castiel watches Dean grab his discarded boxers and pull them on, bowed legs carrying him into the large kitchen. Dean looks right at home as he opens up the refrigerator and starts sifting through its contents; meanwhile, Castiel reflects.

Angel.

He has Fallen, but he is still Dean’s angel.

Castiel fingers the edge of the blanket where it splits over his bent knees, his back pressed into the soft cushions of the couch. Without his wings he will live with much greater comfort on Earth. He won’t have to worry about casting any spells or shifting uncomfortably when strangers accidentally touch them. It is… somewhat of a relief.

Smiling to himself Castiel stands, wrapping the blanket better around him as he follows Dean into the kitchen. Dean, throughout all his reincarnations, has always been adaptable. And right now, right here in this moment: Castiel feels whole. At peace.

At home.

--

“I get these dreams, sometimes,” Adam says softly.

Both Adam and Castiel are perched on the roof of the Roadhouse, looking up at the clear night sky. The edge of the galaxy is in view, magnificent and bright, and Castiel relishes this private moment with the Sheriff. Glancing over, Castiel waits for Adam to continue.

“Sometimes they feel like memories,” Adam continues. “Or- maybe like… visions of the future.”

Castiel arches a brow. “What do you see?”

“Myself,” the Sheriff draws his knees up, loosely looping his elbows over his knees, index fingers hooking together. “But it’s not really what I see that sticks- it’s what I feel.” When Castiel doesn’t speak, Adam shrugs a small laugh and continues. “Kinda stupid, really.”

“What do you feel?” Castiel presses gently. If Adam is having dreams connected to his righteous reincarnations, that could mean a number of things. Castiel has a feeling that if the Righteous Man becomes Aware… it could mean the end of the line. He won’t have much time after that to merge their souls.

“At home,” Adam says, green eyes turning skyward. “I mean- obviously this is my home, y’know. But instead of a place, it feels like a person. Kinda feels like…” A rueful smile filters over Adam’s lips. “You.”

Castiel blinks slowly, and then turns his gaze up to the night sky as well. “I see.”

Adam seems to become shy, because he waves a hand and shifts his body to scoot about an inch or so away from Castiel. “Yeah- stupid right? Anyway, since you came along I don’t have those dreams as often.”

Castiel shifts so that his knees fall, legs criss-cross for comfort as he rests his hands on his thighs. “They are not stupid, Adam. I believe dreams are gateways, of sorts. They are not meaningless.”

Only the sounds of crickets chirping in the distance fill the space between them, and after a moment, Adam reaches up to drag his palm over his mouth. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re right about that.” He turns his head to regard Castiel - who in turn regards him plaintively, trying not to give anything away on his features. Adam smiles small, his soul lighting up his eyes. “I kinda like that feelin’, anyway. Bein’ home.”

Castiel feels a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips at Adam’s confession, holding his gaze for a moment longer before once again looking up at the cosmos.

“Me, too.”