Archive of Our Own

The Fellowship of the Sword

Dean had known, of course, that retrieving the Michael Sword would be difficult. After all, the sword was supposedly located in Purgatory – the realm of blinding fog and treacherous paths and dangerous monsters. Even poking around in the outskirts of Purgatory was basically asking to get eaten by a monster.

Still, the sixth time he gets jumped by a vampire, he thinks it’s a bit much.

“Come on – why won’t you – just die!” Dean shouts, hacking at the vampire’s neck. Since he doesn’t have a wooden stake, it’s really the only way to guarantee the vampire won’t just stand back up and come after him, but it isn’t the most pleasant way. Especially since the vampire is hissing and spitting and thrashing like a demented snake. “Oh, shut up and die already!”

Finally, with one last blow, he does it. The vampire’s head rolls away and the vampire itself goes still.

Dean blows out a long breath. On the bright side, when he does a quick check of himself, he doesn’t find any injuries – something he credits to his many, many long hours of training and to his sturdy leather armor. On the not-so-bright side, when he gets up and looks around, he finds that Purgatory still looks the same: dark and foreboding, with no convenient signs pointing to the Michael Sword. Not that Dean expected to find any, but considering that Michael Sword had been lost during the Last Battle, he really thought there would be some clues. Old bones, maybe, or rusted armor.

Then again, the Last Battle had been hundreds of years ago. For all Dean knows, maybe Purgatory has swallowed all the signs of it, bones and armor and all, like a snake swallowing a beast whole.

Almost as if in response to his brooding thoughts, Purgatory gets a bit darker.

“Oookay,” Dean tells himself. “Positive thoughts, Winchester, positive thoughts. You’re here for a quick in-and-out. Get in, get the sword, get out. Piece of cake. Come on, we can do this.”

He grips his sword tighter and heads deeper into Purgatory. Or maybe sideways. It’s hard to tell in the fog.

It’s also hard to tell the passage of time. The fog bleaches the color from everything and dampens the light of the sun, until day and night look pretty much the same: pale and dim, with long shadows stretching from every tree and bush – shadows that are perfect for monsters to sneak up on unsuspecting humans they want to snack on. And Dean would very much not like to become monster dinner.

All Dean wants is the Michael Sword. The fabled sword of the Legions of Heaven, which had fascinated both Dean and Sam when they were young, albeit for different reasons. Sam had always been going on and on about how it had been the sword of the First of the Archangels, and how when the Archangel Michael had fallen in the Last Battle, the very earth itself had trembled and the sword had been lost.

Dean, on the other hand, is a little less interested in the death of an angel centuries ago and a little more interested in the fact that the Michael Sword is rumored to be able to kill even demons with a single blow.

Demons can be killed by humans. Dean’s been trained his whole life on how to kill demons, alongside every other type of monster. It’s kind of necessary if one wants to survive. But it’s certainly not as easy as one blow. Hell, not even a dozen blows. It takes a lot of holy water and blessed blades and exorcisms, not to mention a damn lot of luck. And considering how many demons are roaming about after the humans lost the Last Battle, even luck isn’t enough sometimes.

Of course, Dean’s always been in favor of making his own luck. So when the rumors had started swirling that the Michael Sword had been spotted, he’d grabbed his sword and his armor and left. He had hoped that such a sword would be easy to find.

Now, he finds that his hopes are starting to dim as much as the light does. Also, he’s starting to get hungry, and he only brought so many rations. He’s just considering if it might be safe to stop when he gets jumped for the seventh time.

Dean sees it coming, so he isn’t taken off guard. And it’s Purgatory, land of monsters, so he isn’t surprised either. But he is tired, so he just swings his fist and knocks the latest monster out.

Then, as he’s standing there shaking out his fist, because damn do vampires have skin as tough as stone, he gets an idea.

“Hey sunshine,” Dean says, when the vampire wakes up to find itself tied to a tree. “How about you tell me where the Michael Sword is?”

The vampire spits.

“Well, that’s rude,” Dean says, dodging the venom. He draws his dagger and flips it, careful to make sure that the vampire can see it’s wicked sharp. “Try again.”

The vampire hisses some more. It says, “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, see, I think you do. Cuz your eyes went really wide when I mentioned it. So! Your choice. You can tell me, or I can dig it out of you.”

“You weak human,” the vampire scoffs. “You really think – ”

Which is when Dean leans forward and puts the dagger against the vampire’s throat. He doesn’t break the skin, but he does make sure they both know who’s in charge.

“Try again,” Dean says softly. “Where’s the Michael Sword?”

The vampire hisses and spits and squirms. But Dean knows his knots – learned them at his father’s knee, before he was even old enough to practice with live steel – and so the vampire remains tied to the tree.

Finally, it says, “There’s a stream.”

“Go on.”

“It runs to a clearing. Not far from here.” The vampire licks its lips. “I’ll show you.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says. He presses harder with the dagger. This time, he makes sure to draw blood. “How about you just tell me?”

The vampire breathes a little faster. It gestures with its chin. “That way. Follow the stream. There’s a clearing. You’ll find the Michael Sword there.”

Dean looks at the vampire. After a long moment, he nods. “You know what? I believe you,” he says. He pulls his dagger way. “And – ”

“But you won’t like what you’ll find,” the vampire cackles.

“Oh yeah? And what will I find?” Dean asks, playing along.

The vampire’s lips draw back into a horrible smile, all sharp fangs and dried blood. It looks genuinely gleeful, which is not exactly a great sign for Dean. It says, “Your end.”

“ . . . You gonna be more specific?”

The vampire cackles again. “Whenever anyone seeks the Michael Sword, it never ends well. The sky bleeds, the ground quakes.”

“And what is making the sky bleed and the ground quake?”

“Something big. Something cosmic.” The vampire grins even wider. “And it’ll be your end.”

“Huh.” Dean digests that. He hadn’t exactly planned on the Michael Sword having any kind of guardian or protective measures. Then again, it is the fabled sword of the First of the Archangels, so maybe he should’ve planned on that. Still, it’s not like he’s going to walk away now. Not when he’s so close. “Well, thanks for the fairytale – it sounds straight out of a children’s book, by the way – but I’m gonna be on my way.”

“I’m warning you,” the vampire hisses, “it’ll be your end, human!”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I’ll be fine.”

“What makes you so special?” the vampire demands. “To think you will succeed when all others have failed?”

“Well,” Dean says lightly, “I like to think that my perky nipples will give me the edge. But, uh, honestly? Because whatever that cosmic thing is, it scares the hell out of you. That tells me it’s a lot stronger than you. And anything that can scare a monster is a good guy in my book. And hey! Maybe once I talk to it, it’ll want a monster snack or two.”

The vampire’s eyes narrow. “When it leaves you broken and bleeding,” the vampire says, “I’m going to take great pleasure in reaching down your throat and ripping out your lungs. As my snack.”

Dean doesn’t bother to reply to that. Instead he gives the vampire a patented Winchester grin – all teeth and no mercy – before he leans forward and shoves his blade into the vampire’s head. And keeps going, as it chokes and gurgles, until all of the light fades from its eyes.

“Snack on that,” Dean tells it.

Then he gets up and starts heading in the direction the vampire indicated, because it’s not like Dean has any other ideas about how to find the Michael Sword.

Luckily for Dean, he does come across a stream. It’s not a very large stream – barely large enough for Dean to dip his hand in and drink, if he wanted to – but it is water and it is moving, so it’s good enough for Dean. He follows it, occasionally pausing to hide from or kill more monsters, until he pushes through one last pile of brush and ends up in a clearing.

And not just any clearing. This isn’t some pleasant little spot where the trees have grown apart and the sun shines through. No – this clearing looks like it has been leveled by some terrible explosion. Trees lay fallen or askew, as though toppled by a great force; rocks and stones are scattered around the edge, as though they had been picked up and thrown. Even the stream bends around the clearing, as though even the water doesn’t dare to intrude.

Most damning of all: nothing is growing in the center of the clearing. No saplings, no moss, not even a single blade of grass.

It is undeniably the clearing the vampire spoke of.

It is also undeniably a remnant of the Last Battle.

Dean whistles lowly. He’s heard of tales of the Last Battle, of course. Everyone has: how the humans and angels formed a last, desperate alliance and marched on Purgatory to face the demon armies summoned from the depths of Hell. How Dean’s long-ago ancestor, Henry Winchester, had fought side-by-side with Michael, the First of the Archangels. How they’d actually been managing to turn the tide of the battle and how victory had been so near.

Until the Archangel Michael had fallen and the Legions of Heaven had, as one, turned and left.

It had been a slaughter, after that.

Dean gazes at the clearing, the sight of so much history and bloodshed, and takes a deep breath. He reminds himself that it is history, and right now, his concern is the present. The present, and all of the demons from the Last Battle that survived and now roam free wreaking havoc and causing death. The demons that Dean could kill with a single blow, if he gets his hands on the Michael Sword.

He raises his sword and surveys the clearing. He doesn’t see any monsters, which is nice, but he also doesn’t see anything he could use as cover, which is less nice when he remembers the vampire’s warnings of a cosmic guardian that can make the sky bleed and the ground quake.

“Guess I got nowhere to hide,” Dean says ruefully. “Time to make my stand, then.”

He doesn’t get exploded on his first step. Nor on his second, or his third. By his fourth, Dean is ready to walk normally, albeit slowly, into the clearing.

It’s eerily quiet in the clearing. Dean can hear his own damn heartbeat, it’s that quiet, as if all sound had ceased to exist in the fallout of the Archangel Michael’s death. Or maybe it’s just that nothing is in the clearing. Even the fog of Purgatory hangs back, like it knows this ground is sacrosanct. It also leaves Dean feeling rather exposed, so he ends up spending just as much time looking over his shoulder as he does watching where he’s walking.

This is how he almost ends up tripping over the Michael Sword.

“What the – whoa . . .”

The Michael Sword doesn’t look like anything special at first glance. Dean actually has to get closer and squint at it, because beyond perhaps being a tad long, the blade seems like ordinary steel and the hilt ordinary leather.

Except, perhaps, for the fact that it is impaled deep in the ground, dead center in the middle of clearing, as though in his dying breath, the Archangel Michael had tried to make sure no one could ever take it up again. Also the fact that despite all the centuries that have passed, the blade looks as new and shiny as though it had been forged yesterday.

And, you know, the fact that shadows from a pair of gigantic wings are seared into the earth on either side of the sword like a monument.

Or a warning.

“Well, that’s not creepy at all,” Dean mutters. He glances around one more time, but upon seeing no monsters, he sheathes his sword. He crouches down and peers at the blade. “Alright, so how do I get you out?”

The sword, on account of being a sword, does not answer. Which is not surprising, but also not very helpful.

“Uh, pretty please?” Dean tries.

The sword does not move.

“I’m a hero in an hour of great need?”

Still nothing.

“I’m the descendant of Henry Winchester, who fought alongside the Archangel Michael at the Last Battle?”

Still nothing.

Dean sighs. “Elbow grease it is,” he decides, rolling up his sleeves. He surveys how deep the sword is in the ground; unhappily, it looks like it’s going to take a lot of effort to get it out. Which Dean is perfectly willing to expend to get his hands on the Michael Sword, of course, but he also calculates grimly that it’s going to suck.

He takes a few breathes to pump himself up. He reminds himself who he is: he’s a Winchester, of the ancient line that leads back to Henry Winchester himself. And he reminds himself why he’s doing this: not for glory or fame, but to save lives and kill monsters.

Once he’s got himself as ready as he can be, he wraps a hand around the hilt. When he doesn’t immediately get fried or exploded, he adds his second hand.

“Alright, let’s ring this dinner bell,” Dean says, and he starts pulling.

The sword does not at all cooperate. It does not budge even an inch, no matter how Dean huffs and puffs or strains and tugs. Even when he throws his full body weight against the blade, trying to gain leverage to wiggle it, the Michael Sword remains firmly and deeply lodged in the ground.

But Dean didn’t come all this way to give up. He grips the hilt tighter, until his palms sting. He closes his eyes and pulls, with all his might, everything he has, for everyone he loves –

And the sword comes free.

It comes free so abruptly, actually, that Dean topples over himself from the force of his own effort. Dazed and on the ground, he frantically checks himself for injury, but fortunately finds nothing except for cuts on his palms, presumably from gripping the hilt too tightly. His legs, though, are fine, so somewhere in all of his flailing, he managed not to slice himself open, which is a victory in and of itself in Dean’s book.

Unfortunately, Dean doesn’t have long to enjoy that victory, because no sooner does he realize that he has the Michael Sword in his hands does the screeching begin.

It’s like being screamed at by a banshee, but a hundred times, a thousand times worse. At least a banshee only screams in defense or when someone is near death; this screaming goes on and on and on, high-pitched and without end, so painful that it’s like being stabbed all over with tiny sharp knives. Dean covers his ears, but that’s about as useful as trying to hold back the ocean with one hand.

Which is to say, not at all.

And then the screaming stops, as abruptly as it had begun. Dean opens his eyes to find that he’s ended up curled on the ground, for all the good it did. He feels his ears, and upon finding no blood, he staggers upright, using the Michael Sword to steady himself.

That is when he realizes that the Michael Sword is glowing.

And not a little bit, either. The entire blade is glowing, as if wreathed in fire or lit from within. Dean would shrug and call it magic, except he’s seen the mages do their work, and no human magic looks like this. This, he knows at once, is angelic craftsmanship. Absently, he wonders what the glow means. He peers at it –

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t scream. He most definitely, totally, absolutely doesn’t scream like a baby being confronted with a spider. Definitely doesn’t.

He does remember that he has a sword, though, so he gets that up and in front of him. “Who said that?” he demands. “Show yourself!”

“If I did that,” the voice says, in the sound of a thousand bells, “your eyes would burn and your ears would bleed and your brain would melt. I do not think you want that.”

“ . . . Yeah, I’d prefer not . . . that. Any of that,” Dean says cautiously. “But I can’t just talk to thin air, that’s weird. You don’t have a body? A face? Something?”

“You’ve been talking to thin air since you set foot in Purgatory.”

“What the – how the hell do you know that? Who are you?”

“Castiel,” the voice says, and somewhere in those thousand bells, Dean is pretty sure he hears a hint of pride.

It would be great if he knew why such a name was a hint of pride, but the name rings no bells at all for Dean. He clears his throat. “Cool name, but what I really meant was what are you?”

“I’m an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean is scoffing before the voice even finishes talking. “Get the hell out of here. There’s no such thing.”

“What makes you say that? Your kind have fought alongside mine before.”

“Yeah, and the angels abandoned my kind,” Dean spits. “The Legions of Heaven fled from the Last Battle. Turned tail and ran. Like cowards. They got cursed for their cowardice and no one’s seen them since. They’re probably all dead now.”

Dean is expecting his words to make Castiel angry. He’s expecting to see the sky bleed or the ground quake. Hell, he’s even expecting for that terrible screeching to start up again.

What he is not expecting is for glowing silver mist to coalesce in front of him. It’s like watching a windstorm come together. It grows and twists and grows some more, until it looks like the incredibly blurry outline of – well, not a human. Not with the churning wheels at the edges or the strange heads at the top, which, if Dean squints, remind him faintly of animals. But something.

Someone, as it turns out. And someone with wings, for Castiel stretches them out like a lion sprawling out to bask in the sun.

And, well. Even if Dean hadn’t seen the wings burnt into the ground by the Archangel Michael’s death, only one kind of being has wings like that.

“This is your problem, Dean. You – your kind – have no faith.” The wings flicker and vanish, but the silver mist being remains. “I am Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord.”

Castiel says it like he thinks it’ll be the point to end all arguments, but Dean grew up with Sam. He sets his jaw.

“Some angel you are,” he says, putting every ounce of derision he can into his voice. “The Legions of Heaven ran. They were cowards to do it, but at least they had that excuse for not helping when the demons started cutting all of my kind down. What’s your excuse, huh? You just wanted a nap?”

“I have orders,” Castiel says. “The Michael Sword could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”

“Then why not just move it?”

Castiel pulses, very gently, like a firefly. “It is the Michael Sword. It cannot be ‘just moved’. Only one of Michael’s descent could even lay hands on it.”

Dean snorts. “Well, I’m pretty sure you’re wrong again, because look at me. I’m holding it,” he says, twirling it a little. To his delight, the balance feels absolutely perfect, as though it had been forged for him. He would’ve worked with the Michael Sword even if it didn’t, but this just makes it all the sweeter to have found it and pulled it free. “And nothing happened to me.”

“Yes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You are Dean, son of John Winchester, descended from Henry Winchester. You are of Michael’s line.”

“Bull – ”

“I am not a cow. Why do you address me as such?”

“I was not – ” Dean throws his hands up. “There is no way I’m descended from angels.”

“You are. It is why I thought you would be able to perceive my true voice.”

“What the hell do you mean, your true voice? Since when I have – wait, do you mean that unholy screeching?”

The silver mist bobs up and down gently. Like a nod.

“That was you talking?”

The silver mist bobs again.

Dean rubs at his one of ears, scowling. “Next time, lower the volume. By a lot.”

“That was my mistake,” Castiel says, and he actually sounds a bit remorseful. “Certain people, special people – they can perceive my true visage and my real voice, even without a vessel. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong.”

“Well, at least you can admit it. Although, uh, this isn’t your true visage? Then what the hell visage are you in now?”

The silver mist coils and churns. “This? This is . . . the best I can do. Given the curse. But it shall have to suffice, given that I expect you shall take the Michael Sword with you.”

“Well, yeah, of course I’m taking the Michael Sword with me,” Dean says, pulling the sword closer. “But what’s that got to do with you imitating a misty cloud?”

“I have orders,” Castiel says again. “I am to guard the Michael Sword. As you are its new wielder, I will guard you.”

Dean blinks. To hear an angel so casually announce that he is the new wielder of a sword so legendary that even the greatest demons had fled from it is not at all what he had expected. “Uh, not gonna lie, I honestly thought I would have to, I don’t know, fight you for the sword. Or, uh, prove my worth or something.”

“You could not fight me. You would lose.”

“Hey!”

“As to proving your worth,” Castiel says, blatantly ignoring him, “what would be the point of that? The Michael Sword has chosen you. Therefore, you are its wielder.”

“ . . . No way is it that easy.”

“It is.”

“Well, I’m not buying what you’re selling, so you’re gonna tell me the real deal here. Why are you letting me just walk away with the sword of the First of the Archangels? The sword that you’ve been guarding here for, I don’t know, centuries?”

“I told you,” Castiel says, and Dean gets the distinct impression that if he had a face that wasn’t formless mist, he’d be frowning. “The Michael Sword has chosen you.”

“Riiight,” Dean says. “And why would the Michael Sword – the Michael Sword – chose me?”

“Good things do happen, Dean.”

Castiel says it so matter-of-factly that Dean actually has to pause to take in air. Mostly because it’s that or start ugly cry-laughing. Good things? Happening to Dean Winchester?

“Not in my experience,” Dean forces out.

The silver mist spins a little faster. It also gets a little closer to Dean, like Castiel wants to loom over Dean but can’t quite figure out how. It is not in any way reassuring.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asks. “You don’t think you deserve to be chosen?”

Dean swallows hard. This time, he’s the one who blatantly ignores Castiel. “Why’d you do it?” he replies instead. “Why’d you let me walk up and take the Michael Sword? Why not just – just make the sky bleed and the ground quake, or burn out my eyes and melt my brain?”

Castiel pulses again. “Because I have orders. And because the Michael Sword has work for you.”

“ . . . You’re talking like it has a mind of its own.”

“Of course it does. It is an angel blade.”

“That explains absolutely nothing, thanks,” Dean says, eyeing the Michael Sword warily. The fact that it hasn’t stopped glowing does not make him feel better.

Especially since he realizes that it is actually glowing the same bright silver as Castiel’s mist form.

“You will see,” Castiel says. “You and the Michael Sword – you will form a fellowship.”

“A fellowship of what? It’s a sword!”

“Exactly. A fellowship of the sword.” Castiel pauses. “Be not afraid. I will help you.”

“ . . . That is so not reassuring.”

The Two Soldiers

Dean runs into exactly zero monsters on his way out of Purgatory, which is both nice and frightening. Nice, because Dean hadn’t been looking forward to being jumped by every monster desperate for one last chance at a human snack; frightening, because Dean can’t tell if the monsters are avoiding the Michael Sword or the floating, glowing mist blob trailing behind him.

Especially when his floating, glowing mist blob starts talking.

“It’s not me,” Castiel says.

Dean jumps. For a moment, he glances wildly at the Michael Sword, but then he remembers that even though Castiel still insists the sword has a purpose, he never said it could talk. He looks at Castiel. “Not you what?”

“The monsters. They’re avoiding the Michael Sword, not me.”

“What, have the monsters forgotten that you can smite them?”

“No. But it is harder for me to do so in this form.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, seems like it would be easier when you’re in blob form. Can’t you just start glowing? Or call down lightning or something?”

“I could. But drawing on the might of Heaven without a vessel is . . . inconvenient.”

“Angels can be inconvenienced?” Dean asks in disbelief.

“Inconvenient for you,” Castiel replies, in a tone of voice that implies Dean is an idiot. “A vessel allows me to control the channel of Heaven’s power. Without that, I would be at risk for smiting everything within a hundred mile radius.”

Dean sighs. It’s not like he can argue with Castiel’s logic, because up until an hour ago, he didn’t even know angels still existed. He’d never bothered to read up on their lore, and sadly, Sam – the nerd who probably memorized every Enochian text they have – is not here to relay that lore. But at the same time: “Why does everything with you involve nearly killing me?” he gripes. “I thought angels were supposed to be guardians. You know, fluffy wings and halos. Harps.”

“Why would I have a harp?”

“Uhhh,” Dean says. “Because angels sing in heavenly choirs?”

The light in Castiel’s blob flutters, as if he’s sighing. “Read the Enochian Bible.”

“Excuse me?”

“Angels are warrior of God. I’m a soldier. I’m not here to perch on your shoulder.”

Dean snorts. “No offense, but I don’t want a floating misty blob on my shoulder, so pass on that. Also quit trying to sound all special. I’m a soldier too.”

“You’re only human.”

“Yeah, and unlike you, I don’t have the ability to burn out people’s eyeballs or smite monsters. I kill monsters with nothing but steel and grit. I’ve trained my whole life for this. I came all the way here to Purgatory, fought every single monster on my way in, and got the Michael Sword out. Something no one else has done – including you, Mr. Warrior-of-God. So maybe you should show me some respect.” Dean pauses. “And also your harp.”

Castiel’s light flickers rapidly, brightening and fading, brightening and fading. He doesn’t smite Dean, thankfully, but he sounds very confused and exasperated when he repeats, “Why would I have a harp?”

“It’s a joke. Relax.”

“ . . . I don’t understand it.”

“Well, fortunately, you don’t need to. You just need to help me figure out this Michael Sword thing so I can kill demons better, and then we’ll be all good. Deal?”

Castiel, for once, doesn’t immediately respond. For a moment, Dean worries that he’s about to get smited anyways.

But then Castiel’s light steadies. The flickering ceases; the light grows a hue warmer, more of a silvery-blue than the almost-painful brilliant white of before. Castiel says, “Very well. But just remember, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, voice going ice-cold, “I allowed you to walk out of Purgatory with the Michael Sword. If you break this deal, I can throw you back in. And ensure that you never see the light of day ever again.”

“ . . . Glad to work with you too,” Dean mutters.

Fortunately, they finally make it out of the fog of Purgatory then. The sun is setting, so it’s not much brighter outside of Purgatory than inside, but the air is sweet and just seeing the landscape is enough to brighten Dean’s mind. He takes a deep, long inhale of the free air –

Castiel says, “There is no one else here.”

Dean blinks. He runs back over their conversation in his mind, but he’s pretty sure he never said anything about being with anyone else. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “I came alone. Didn’t even bring Impala, because I was worried a monster might snack on her.”

“You went into Purgatory alone? With no one to help you?”

Dean snorts. “What, you think the armies of Winchester just follow me around? They’ve got better stuff to do.”

“Hmm.”

Dean hasn’t known Castiel that long, but he’s always been good at reading people – even glowing blobs masquerading as people. As such, he’s all but certain that Castiel’s hum is less impressed and more judgmental, but he decides against pursing that line of questioning. Mostly because he’s pretty sure he won’t like whatever Castiel says about his decision to enter Purgatory alone.

“So,” Dean says as he sets off towards the road, “mind giving me a crash course in wielding the Michael Sword?”

“The Michael Sword can only be wielded by a true Servant of Heaven,” Castiel says. “You must give yourself wholly to the service of God. You must swear to follow His will and word as swiftly and obediently as you would you own father’s.”

Dean thinks back to every single moment where he did exactly the opposite of being swift or obedient to his father. He winces. “Is that, uh, really necessary?”

“If you wish to use the Michael Sword to its true potential. Otherwise it shall be nothing more than a regular sword.”

Dean looks at the Michael Sword. It’s stopped glowing now, so it looks just like a regular sword. He’s sure that an angel-made blade will be better than any human steel even without any special powers – but he didn’t come all the way to Purgatory to get a sword that just didn’t break or dull. He came for the Michael Sword.

He sighs. “Fine, I’m in.”

“You give yourself over wholly to the service of God?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Say it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Dean groans. “Fine. I give myself over wholly to serve God.”

“And you swear to follow His will and word as swiftly and obediently as you did your own father’s?” Castiel presses.

“Yes, I swear,” Dean says, and feels only mildly bad that it’s not a very good vow. Then again, he’d grown up real fast after his mother’s death; he’d definitely been obedient after that. He hopes that that will be enough. “Now what?”

“Now we wait. The next time you face a demon or a monster, call upon the Michael Sword when it’s time.”

Dean glances down at the Michael Sword. It still looks exactly like a regular sword. “When you say call upon, I don’t suppose you mean to, like, talk to it?”

“Why would you talk to it?” Castiel asks, sounding absolutely baffled.

“Worth a shot,” Dean says with a sigh.

He stops and surveys his surroundings. The sun has slipped below the horizon, but there’s still enough light to see that it’s a good place to make camp and get some sleep. The ground won’t be the most comfortable bed, but after not sleeping the entire time he was in Purgatory, he’s sure he’ll fall asleep the second his head hits dirt.

“Well, I’m beat,” Dean announces. “And this seem as good a place as any to stop, so . . .”

Castiel ceases drifting through the trees. He comes back over to Dean, his glow casting a soft light all around. It’s kind of like having a miniature moon nearby. If the moon had three heads whenever Dean looked at it out of the corner of his eye, anyways.

Also: “Um, not to be rude, but do you think you could stop with the glowing thing?” Dean asks as he settles on the ground. “Only because you’re gonna attract, like, every monster nearby like that.”

“If I had a vessel, certainly. Like I am, no.”

“Great,” Dean says. “So where can we get you a vessel?”

“You can’t.”

“Even better.” Dean lets himself flop down on the ground. “Well, I’m gonna get some shut eye now. So, uh. Good night.”

“Oh!” Castiel says. He sounds exactly like Sam does when the nerd finally figures something out; it’s almost spooky. “You mean to sleep.”

“Yeah. I’m human, remember? That comes with human stuff. You know, like eating. Or in this case, sleeping. I just need, like, four hours.”

“Very well.”

Dean closes his eyes.

Then he opens one when the glowing doesn’t abate. “That means that you can pop in tomorrow morning,” he says pointedly.

“I’ll watch over you.”

Dean laughs. Then when he realizes Castiel is serious and not joking, he sits up. “Absolutely not. There will be no watching over me.”

“You humans are so confusing,” Castiel says. “I thought you said you desired angels to be guardians.”

“Yeah, and I thought you said you weren’t gonna perch on my shoulder. So shoo! Go do angel stuff. Whatever that is. Come back in the morning.”

Castiel’s form obediently starts dimming. The silvery-blue form pales and its tendrils shrink, until Castiel is nothing more than a pinprick of faint silver light. As Dean watches, even that dies away, leaving only blessed silence.

And then: “Very well. I’ll just wait here, then.”

Castiel’s voice is strange. It’s very faint and echoey, as if Castiel is speaking from a great distance. Dean only registers this absently, though, because most of him is recovering from the adrenaline shock of Castiel speaking again when Dean had thought he’d gone off somewhere.

“Damn it, Cas, I need to sleep!” he says. “Go away!”

This time, Castiel does not respond.

Unfortunately, Dean has a pretty good sense for when he’s being watched. And right now, it’s going off. That being said, he’s also gotten a pretty good sense for Castiel, and he doesn’t think he’s going to win this particular argument. Or at least, not in a timely enough fashion for him to get some proper sleep.

Dean groans, buries his face in his arm, and tells himself very firmly to just sleep.

Somehow, between one heartbeat and another, Dean manages to fall asleep. He finds out in the worst possible way, though, because he wakes up to a demon trying to strangle him.

Dean curses, flails, and punches the demon straight in the throat. Thankfully, he does it with the hand that has his consecrated ring, so the demon yelps and falls back. It surges back again immediately, of course, but that precious moment of space gives Dean the time he needs to draw breath.

And also the Michael Sword. It still doesn’t glow, but it’s a reassuring weight in his hands.

Dean grins down at the demon. And its friends, because he can see more unholy eyes gleaming in the darkness.

“Well come on then,” he taunts. “Let’s dance! Unless you’re frightened of a little old human and his sword.”

The demon cackles and charges forward. Dean takes great pleasure in dodging that blow. He takes even more pleasure in swinging the Michael Sword up and across. The sound of the demon’s cackles abruptly stopping when it no longer has a head to cackle with is extremely gratifying.

Less gratifying is the way the other demons screech and charge forward, but a hunter can’t win them all.

Dean grits his teeth and lets himself fall back into the rhythm of fighting. The demons are strong, but Dean is fast, and he’s learned a long time ago never to underestimate demons. He never gives them a second chance and he never turns his back. He tries to make each blow a mortal one; failing that, he makes it a disabling blow. His job is killing monsters and demons, after all, and he’s damn good at his job.

But every time he cuts a demon down, another one rises up to take its place. And Dean only has so much stamina.

“Come on!” he shouts at the Michael Sword, which is still not glowing or doing anything other than being a regular sword. “You’re supposed to do something!”

The Michael Sword continues being a regular sword.

“Fine! Castiel! You mind helping over here?” Dean yells, stabbing another demon and moving onto the next. “Castiel! Castiel! Cas!”

But there is no snarky reply, no arrogant retort, no condescending words. Dean calls for Castiel a few more times, and even spares a moment to look around, but he sees no tell-tale silvery-blue angel glow anywhere. And his moment of distraction comes back to bite him when a demon takes advantage of it to punch him, so hard that Dean goes flying into a tree.

His vision swims. The taste of blood enters his mouth. He slurs, “Ow.”

The demon laughs. It’s not a nice laugh. “Time for food,” it says, a gleeful chant that’s immediately picked up by the other demons. “Nice, fresh human food.”

It steps forward. Dean levels the Michael Sword at it. Or tries to, anyways; his arm wobbles, so that it’s less of a threat and more of a teetering silver distraction.

But it’s all he’s got. “Take another step,” Dean says, drawing on every ounce of bravado he has, “and you’ll regret it.”

“And how exactly will you make us regret it, human?” the demon asks.

That’s when lightning rains down from the heavens.

Dean flinches. The demons screech, an unholy chorus that is somehow both eerily similar to Castiel’s true voice and nothing like it. Mostly because Dean experiences no pain from the demon screeching, so he’s free to watch as the demons are shortly turned into extra crispy, deep fried, definitely dead demons.

Dean looks at the dead demons. Dean looks at the Michael Sword. “What the hell?”

“Guess again,” Castiel says.

This time, Dean definitely does scream like a baby.

“Dean, it’s me.”

“I knew that!” Dean says. He takes deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. “It’s about time. I’ve been screaming myself hoarse out here for hours!”

“It can’t have been more than a few minutes,” Castiel says. “I began to return as soon as I heard your prayer.”

“I did not pray.”

“It does not have to be a formal prayer,” Castiel explains. “Angels can pick up on thoughts, emotions. Longing, even.”

“Thoughts and – have you been reading my mind?” Dean asks suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“ . . . Well, stop that. It’s creepy.” Dean shoves himself to his feet. A quick check reveals that nothing’s broken, but he can definitely feel that he’s going to have some interesting bruises. “Anyways, what the hell were you doing while demons were trying to eat me?”

“I was doing ‘angel stuff.’”

Dean waits. After a long moment, he realizes Castiel doesn’t intend to say anything else. He prompts, “You wanna elaborate?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s just great. My angel guardian can’t guard me, my sword doesn’t work – ”

“You killed demons with it, did you not?”

“Yeah, and?”

“Then this was a victory. You may not have been able to use the Michael Sword to its full potential yet, but it allowed you to wield it. That alone is cause for celebration.”

“Yeah, well, no thanks to you,” Dean mutters.

“My apologies. Next time I will watch over you.”

“How about no.”

“In light of what just happened, I think I shall disregard your wishes this time,” Castiel says. His glowing form settles on the ground next to Dean. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

“Gonna be hard to sleep with you shining in my eyes all night,” Dean grumbles.

He still closes his eyes anyways, because looking at Castiel definitely won’t help him sleep. He also keeps one hand on the Michael Sword, which is reassuringly cool to the touch. He’s midway through thinking about how to practice with it when he nods off.

On the bright side, he gets a good night’s sleep. On the not so bright side, when he wakes up, he nearly has a heart attack because Castiel is leaning over him so closely that he takes up Dean’s entire field of view.

“Gah! Damn it, Cas!”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. “I was beginning to wonder how long you required sleep; it has been more than four hours. I trust your rest was restorative.”

“Well, it was. Until you woke me up.”

“And now that you are awake,” Castiel says, blatantly ignoring his irritated tone, “may I inquire as to your plan?”

Dean scrubs at his eyes. The grittiness makes him long for a bath, but currently his only option is to dive into a cold stream, which he very much does not want to do. And not just because he doesn’t feel like getting naked when he has a glowing stalker around.

“Heading home, probably. After I get some food.”

Castiel’s glowing mist form shifts. It goes from mostly hugging the ground to rising up, giving Dean the eerie impression of a bear standing on its back paws. After a moment, one glowing tendril extends outwards.

“There is a herd of deer in that direction,” Castiel announces. “Or you will find a rabbit warren behind you.”

Dean blinks. “Uh, did you just – know that?”

“I am an angel,” Castiel says. “Come.”

Before Dean can even so much as twitch his legs, Castiel leans forward. That silvery-blue mist envelops Dean, but unlike the fog from Purgatory, it feels – warm. Like being gently lowered into a warm bath. Dean doesn’t even have a moment to feel alarmed before the mist retreats, revealing the promised rabbit warren. There’s even a few rabbits out and about.

“How did you – ”

“I flew us.”

Dean squints. Castiel’s mist form does change, but mostly he remains in a vaguely human outline – a human outline that contains no wings. “I thought you said you didn’t have wings?”

“No, I said I did not have a harp. I never said anything about my wings.”

“And I can’t see them because . . .?”

“Your eyes would burn in their sockets,” Castiel says promptly.

“ . . . Right. Are all angels as fun as you?”

“No. Although you might have considered Uriel ‘fun.’ He was considered the funniest angel in the garrison.”

“Uriel, huh? Why the past tense? He misplaced his sense of humor?”

“He is dead.”

Dean freezes. Of course he knows that angels died in the Last Battle – hell, he’s holding the sword of a dead angel. But it’s still very differently to know that angels died and to hear from an angel about it.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Cas,” Dean says sincerely.

“I am not.” Castiel’s glowing mist form shifts. “He was a . . . traitor. He had allied himself with the demons. My garrison commander gave her life to strike him down.”

The idea of an angel turning traitor is even more incomprehensible than the thought of them dying. Dean runs the sentence through his head a few times; it still refuses to stick. He says, “I thought angels were supposed to be perfect.”

“So did I,” Castiel says. “Your rabbit is about to escape if you do not strike now.”

It’s the most blatant attempt to change a subject Dean has ever heard, and he raised Sam from when he was a snot-nosed brat. But Dean allows it. Partially because he really is hungry, but mostly because it’s obvious that Uriel is a sore topic. And Dean – Dean understands the sting of betrayal. So he just nods and moves forward and gets his rabbits.

Unlike with the flying, Castiel does not offer assistance as Dean skins and roasts his rabbits. He does watch with great curiosity, though. So much, in fact, that Dean offers him a bite when the rabbit meat is ready.

“You want me to what?”

Dean waves the rabbit stick at him. “Take a bite, if you want it. You did help me catch it. Sharing is caring and all that.”

“Angels do not require sustenance.”

“And humans don’t require angelic guardians. But it does make things a damn sight nicer. Take a bite, Cas.”

Slowly, Castiel reaches out with one glowing tendril and takes the rabbit stick. Even more slowly, he brings the rabbit stick close to him. Slowest of all, the mist envelops part of the rabbit meat, which vanishes.

“Geeze, Cas, I’ve seen faster snails,” Dean comments. “So what’d you think?”

“Hmm. It tastes like molecules.”

“What the hell is a molecule?” Dean asks.

Dean then immediately regrets asking, because Castiel launches into a lecture the likes of which could rival Sammy’s, rambling on and on about something called atoms, or maybe Adams, or whatever. Dean’s lost within ten words.

“Okay, but seriously? All of that mumbo jumbo . . . for the taste of a rabbit?”

“Yes.”

“Rabbit’s wasted on you, Cas,” Dean says. Then he swipes the rabbit stick back and devours it, because he, at least, knows how to appreciate a good roasted rabbit.

“Why do you call me that?”

“What, Cas?” Dean says around a mouthful of rabbit. Disapproval radiates from Castiel; Dean swallows and wipes his mouth. “It’s a nickname. Humans give them to people.”

“Why?”

“Uh, cuz we can? It’s a good thing, I promise.”

“Cas,” Castiel murmurs, almost to himself. “Cas.”

Dean hesitates. On anyone else, he would rely on their facial expression and body language to know if his nickname was annoying or amusing. On Castiel – well, he doesn’t really have much to work with.

“Do you want me to stop? I can, if it bothers you.”

Castiel is silent for a long moment. Then he says, “No. You may continue. It is . . . pleasing.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve found something human that you like,” Dean says, scarfing down the last of the rabbit. He kicks dirt over the fire and then stomps on it for good measure. “Alright, Mr-Wings-And-No-Harp. Shall we continue?”

“Yes. And if you tell me where we are going, I can perhaps fly us – ”

“Nah, no need.”

“But it will be faster.”

Dean spreads his arms wide. The sun is shining; the birds are chirping; he has the Michael Sword. He feels on top of the world.

“Come on, Cas,” he says, “It’ll be the two of us and the open road. No need to ruin that by flying.”

“You humans are very strange,” Castiel mutters, but his glowing mist form obediently drifts alongside Dean on the road.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. So you wanna tell me more about that angel stuff you were doing?”

“No.”

“Oookay, how about any angel stuff?”

“No.”

“Fine, then I’ll talk. Get ready to hear the latest and greatest about the Winchesters. My brother’s name is Sam, and he’s the biggest nerd the world has ever seen, and . . .”

The Return of the Angels

When Dean finally makes it back to camp, there are a lot more people there than there normally are. At first Dean doesn’t think much of it – sometimes everyone gathers for celebrations or harvests or even just for big trading fairs – but the deeper he walks into camp, the more he realizes that everyone seems either harried, worried, or both.

“That’s not a good sign,” Dean mutters, after he passes the third person who’s fully armed and has a deep frown on their face.

“I take it this level of anxiety is not normal in humans?” Castiel asks.

“I mean, we take precautions against demon attacks, but . . . this is something else.”

“Perhaps there has been a development while you were away?”

“Probably. And hah, there’s Sammy’s tent. Time to show off my shiny new sword!”

“The Michael Sword is not shining right now?”

“It’s a joke, Cas.”

“Oh.”

Dean marches up to the tent. He draws up every ounce of drama he has and flings open the tent flaps. “Behold – ” he starts to say.

Only to get promptly tackled to the ground.

Dean rolls his eyes. He blocks the punch aimed at his gut, because Sam never learns to vary his blows, and elbows Sam in the shoulder. Then again, Sam knows him just as well, because he dodges Dean’s elbow in favor of swinging at his face.

“Whoa, easy, tiger,” Dean says, grabbing his fist.

Sam blinks up at him. “Dean? You scared the crap out of me!”

“Me? I’m the guy you jumped the second he walked into the tent,” Dean says. He rolls off of Sam and holds out a hand. “Also, you’re out of practice.”

Sam scowls. But he does take Dean’s hand. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a beer, obviously,” Dean jokes. “No, I, uh. I found the Michael Sword, Sammy.”

Sam’s jaw drops. His eyes go from Dean’s hand to the Michael Sword. Then they get even wider, presumably when Sam notices the Enochian sigils on it. He opens his mouth –

“Is this a typical human greeting ritual?” Castiel interrupts.

Sam jumps like a startled rabbit. It’s kind of funny, mostly because Sam is so tall that when he jumps, he really jumps. What is rather less funny is how he draws his own sword and aims it at Castiel. Dean applauds the instinct, but, well. Steel swords don’t do much against angels, and also Dean really doesn’t need Castiel to do anything in retaliation.

So Dean slides neatly in between them before it can escalate. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, it’s okay! He’s a friend, all right? He’s a friend, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes narrows. “What kind of ‘friend?’” he asks, every kind of suspicious known to man in his voice.

“Uhh, well, see – ”

“Is he a hunter?”

Dean sighs and gives into the inevitable. “He’s an angel,” he says.

Unfortunately, at the same time, Castiel decides he’s tired of the talking in circles and says, “I am an angel of the lord.”

Sam looks at the glowing mist cloud that is Castiel. He looks at Dean. He looks at Castiel again. “Come again?”

“He’s an angel. You know. With a capital A. You know, wings, halo. Harp,” he adds, just for fun.

“No, I do not have a harp,” Castiel says. His voice really doesn’t change – it remains the sound of a thousand bells – but the short way he pronounces the words tells Dean all he needs to know about how absolutely done he is with Dean’s harp jokes.

Too bad Dean has absolutely zero intention to stop.

Sam’s sword wavers. “You’re kidding,” he says. “A – A real angel? Dean, you believe in that?”

“Hard not to when the evidence is glowing in my face,” Dean says. “Anyways. Cas, this is Sammy.”

“Sam.”

“Sam, this is . . . Castiel.”

Castiel’s mist form glows a little brighter. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see his three animal heads turn towards Sam, like the way a dog’s ears shift in the direction of a sound. But Castiel doesn’t get into Sam’s space the way he had gotten into Dean’s, so while the sight is still awe-inspiring, it’s not quite as frightening.

“Samuel Winchester,” Castiel says, his voice full of angelic power. “Your brother.”

“Yep,” Dean says.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel intones seriously.

Slowly, Sam puts away his sword. Although Dean can tell the slowness is less due to wariness about Castiel being an angel and more just pure awe, judging by the absolutely stupid face Sam is pulling.

“Uh, hi,” Sam stutters. “Oh my god – uh – I didn’t mean to draw my – so sorry, it’s – it’s an honor, really, truly, to meet you.”

“And I, you, Sam Winchester.”

“Great!” Dean says brightly. “Now that we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way – ”

This time, the interruption comes in the shape of holy water. Dean sees it coming, mostly because Bobby chooses efficiency over subtlety, but also because the holy water splashes right through Castiel’s mist form before it lands all over Dean’s face. It’s actually a little unnerving.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean says through a mouthful of holy water. “I’m not a demon, you know.”

Bobby shrugs. “Can’t be too careful. What’s with the glowing mist cloud?”

“Oh that? That’s Castiel. He’s an angel,” Dean says casually, and enjoys the way Bobby’s eyes go wide. “Also, Cas? Seriously? Couldn’t have warned me about the holy water?”

“It would not have harmed you,” Castiel says, sounding entirely unbothered. “And I determined it was the fastest way for your family to believe you.”

“You’re some guardian, you know that,” Dean tells him. “Anyways! Now that everyone can see I am not, in fact, a demon, can I please get on telling my story?”

“Yeah, sure,” Bobby says. “You can explain why you went off for a hunting trip and came back with an angel.”

“Well, you know, it was the funniest thing, I went out hunting and then happened upon Purgatory,” Dean starts. Bobby’s eye twitches; Sam rolls his eyes. Dean ignores them and launches completely into his story, although thankfully there isn’t much to tell beyond the finding of the Michael Sword and him being able to use it kill demons.

At the end, Sam looks at Bobby and says, “Maybe that’s why.”

“That’s why what?”

“Surely you noticed everyone all up in arms, idjit,” Bobby says, nodding to the tent flap. “Scouts noticed demons gathering. A lot of demons. And they’re not fighting each other, either.”

Dean frowns. Demons are almost as likely to fight each other as they are humans or other monsters. Sometimes even more so, given that humans and monsters will die while demons can keep tearing at each other. The fact that they rarely are found in more than groups of five or so is the only reason that hunters have ever been able to successfully kill them.

Also: “The last time demons gathered like that,” Dean says slowly, “it was for the Last Battle. Under a Yellow Eyes’s leadership.”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Azazel. Spotted him yesterday.”

“Azazel,” Castiel says. “Interesting.”

Dean glances at him. Up until now, Castiel had been silent; Dean had almost forgotten he was there. “Something you wanna share with the class?” he prompts.

“Azazel is a Prince of Hell. A high ranking demon. I believe the equivalent rank to your human terms would be general.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Bobby says. “Records from the Last Battle said ol’ Yellow Eyes commanded the demons like their general. It’s not good if they’ve gathered under the banner of a Yellow Eyes again.”

“Correct.”

“But the Michael Sword – it can kill all demons, right? Even a Yellow Eyes?”

Castiel hesitates, which is the scariest thing Dean’s ever seen. After a moment, he says, “Yes. The Michael Sword can kill any demon, even a Prince of Hell.”

“Great, then let’s – ”

“But Azazel will not let you just walk up to him, nor will he make it easy. It will be extremely difficult to deliver the mortal blow, since you cannot match his strength or speed.”

“Way to make a man feel special, Cas,” Dean says. “If you have a better plan, I’m all ears.”

Castiel says nothing. Sam and Bobby stay silent, too, though from the grim looks on their faces, they’ve taken Castiel’s warning to heart. Dean appreciates it, but he’s never been a guy to linger too long on the downsides. Not when there’s fighting to be done.

“Okay, well, I’m beat, and I also need like a weeklong bath,” Dean announces. “So I’m gonna scoot out of here and get some shut eye and maybe practice swinging my new sword a bit. Come and get me when we start putting together battle plans, okay?”

Bobby nods; Sam claps Dean on the shoulder. Dean takes that as the dismissal it is and leaves the tent.

The sun is no longer shining brightly overhead. Clouds have come, so now the air is cool instead of comfortably warm, and everything looks a bit pale and muted. It’s almost like nature itself is reflecting the grim future ahead of them.

Dean does not like it one bit.

“Hey, Cas. You really think it’ll be that difficult to just, you know, shish kebab ol’ Yellow Eyes?”

“I do,” Castiel says immediately. “Azazel is among the strongest of demons; he is a formidable foe. And where other demons might not recognize the Michael Sword, he will, and he will do everything in his power not to be struck down with it.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll try to take down as many demons with me as I can,” Dean says. It’s a sad thought, but he no longer feels it, because it’s the mantra of every hunter.

“You are very accepting of this.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s kinda the family business: killing demons, saving lives. It’ll just be a cherry on top of the demon in question is Yellow Eyes.”

“He has a name, you know.”

“Yellow Eyes is easier.”

“And what will you do if you encounter a different Prince of Hell?”

“Uh, call them Yellow Eyes Two? I don’t know, how many Princes of Hell are there?”

“Four.”

Dean winces. “That’s three more than I really wanted to hear about.” He surveys the bustling camp, which really has a lot of people in it. More people than Dean’s ever seen, honestly. “Damn, there’s a lot of people here.”

In the most serious tone Dean’s ever heard, Castiel says, “Yes. But it will not be enough.”

“Damn it, Cas, I know that. We all know that. You got any better ideas?”

“Yes.”

Dean blinks in surprise. He doesn’t doubt Castiel, because their trek back from Purgatory has proven that Castiel is extraordinarily blunt and also thinks lying is a silly human trait. At the same, though, he really was expecting Castiel to reply in the negative and for them to carry on.

“You do? What is it?”

“You need more soldiers.”

“There are none,” Dean says. He waves a hand at the camp. “We were devastated by the Last Battle, Cas. Not to mention the demons who’ve kept hunting us since. I’m surprised even this many came.”

“The Legions of Heaven.”

The non-sequitur throws Dean. He has to rewind Castiel’s answer in his head before he’s able to reply, “Your brothers and sisters? What about them?”

“You wanted to know what I was doing when I did my ‘angel stuff,’” Castiel says. “I was attempting to locate my brothers and sisters.”

“Didn’t they all just go back to Heaven?”

“No. Heaven’s door was barred by the curse your ancestor laid upon us. We could not return. My brothers and sisters still linger upon this plane.”

“The curse my – wait, wait, not the point.” Dean scowls. “Your brothers and sisters – you would call upon them to fight? They left the Last Battle, Cas. They abandoned us. They obviously didn’t believe in humans, and I doubt the last centuries have changed their mind. And the Archangel Michael’s dead now – they’d answer to no one.”

Castiel glows a little brighter. One gleaming tendril reaches out and touches the Michael Sword. It hums against his touch, like a tuning fork being struck.

“They will answer to the wielder of Michael’s Sword,” Castiel says. “This is more than just steel and leather, Dean. Angel blades are part of us. This is Michael; it is his grace made reality on this plane of existence. You are the wielder of the Michael Sword. With its power, you can command an army deadlier than any – human, demon, or monster – that walks this earth.”

Part of Dean – the part that once wholly and completely trusted his mother when she told him angels are watching over you every night – wants to believe.

The rest of Dean – well, the rest of him grew up real damn fast the night Yellow Eyes burned down their house and ended his childhood. And that Dean learned never to trust anything that sounded too good to be true.

“But you said I wasn’t wielding the Michael Sword at its full potential yet,” Dean points out. “Also, I’m still not an angel.”

“I will speak to my brothers and sisters on your behalf. Besides, as you yourself said: you got any better ideas?”

“ . . . Don’t repeat my words to me, that’s creepy.”

“My apologies.”

Dean sighs. He scrubs at his face. On one hand: an army of angels would be the answer to all of his dreams. On the other hand: Dean’s pretty damn sure that the angels are going to take one look at him and laugh. Or smite him dead.

“I will not allow them to smite you.”

“Mind-reading is also creepy, Cas, we’ve talked about this.”

Dean looks at Castiel. He’s still a formless glowing mist cloud, but strangely, he no longer looks weird to Dean. He just looks like Castiel – Dean’s weird angel guardian who doesn’t understand sarcasm, thinks all food tastes of molecules, and can make it rain lightning on demons.

And just like that, Dean makes up his mind.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go chat with your brothers and sisters. But I reserve the right to say I told you so when they don’t listen. Where are they?”

“The Crypt,” Castiel answers, which is the most ominous answer, if Dean’s being honest. His mist form begins to glow and tendrils reach towards Dean. “Let’s go – ”

“Whoa!” Dean dodges the mist tendrils. “Last time you zapped me someplace I didn’t poop for days. I’m taking Impala.”

“You humans are so very strange.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and let me think up a good lie for Bobby and Sam.”

“You are going to lie to them?”

“Yeah. I think . . . I think I’ll tell them I’m going on a hunting trip. A real one, since I didn’t bring back any meat this time.”

“Why?”

“Seriously?” Dean says. “You want me to walk in and tell them the truth? That I’m going angel hunting?”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re humans, Cas. And when humans want something really, really bad, we lie.”

Castiel’s light pulses rapidly, like he’s struggling to keep up with Dean’s logic. “Why?” he asks.

Dean shrugs. “Because that’s how you become a grown up.”

“That is not how a human becomes an adult,” Castiel says. “Puberty is.”

“What the hell is puberty?” Dean asks. Then he remembers Castiel’s long rambling lecture on molecules and decides, “No, wait, never mind, I don’t want to know. Just follow my lead, okay?”

“As you wish, Dean.”

Luckily for Dean, Bobby and Sam accept his excuse of a hunting trip without too much fuss. Bobby grumbles and reminds him to watch his back; Sam gives him a look but lets it go when Dean points out that so many more people at camp means so many more mouths to feed. And Castiel just floats alongside Dean, for once not making any comments, so Dean gets in and out in record time.

Impala is happy to see Dean, and even happier once Dean saddles her up. She’s a little less happy about the glowing mist form trailing behind Dean.

The third time Impala shies from Castiel, Dean comments, “I thought angels would be better with animals than this.”

“Animals can sense my true nature.”

“What, are you saying that Impala has more faith than I do?”

“Yes.”

“Well, too bad for your kind that horses can’t wield swords,” Dean says, swinging himself up into the saddle. He urges Impala forward. She’s all too happy to get going, and it doesn’t take long before they’re trotting out of camp. “So where’s this Crypt of yours, Cas?”

“Head north. I will show you the way.” Castiel pauses. “It would be much faster if I flew you.”

“And leave Impala stranded? No way.”

“I could fly her too.”

“I said no, Cas.”

“The Crypt will take longer to reach, then,” Castiel says, sounding distinctly grumpier.

“Good, because you have a lot to fill me in on,” Dean says. “Like, for example, what the Crypt is, what I should say, and who will want to smite me the most.”

“Raphael.”

“ . . . I don’t like how quickly you answered that question, Cas,” Dean says, trying to ignore the anxiety rising up in his stomach.

Unfortunately for Dean, the more Castiel tells him about the Crypt and the Legions of Heaven, the worse his anxiety gets. If they were regular soldiers, or mercenaries even, he could handle that – he could prove his skill with the blade, or drink them under the table, or do any other contest to earn their respect. But angels? Dean’s not sure how he’s meant to win over celestial beings of incomprehensible power.

By the time they arrive at the Crypt – sooner than Dean thought they would, thanks to some shortcuts Castiel shows him, but longer than Castiel wished for, by his grumbling – the anxiety is a writhing monster in his chest.

“You do not want to do this,” Castiel observes, when Dean hesitates outside the door.

“No prizes for stating the obvious, Cas.”

“But you will not abandon the endeavor and walk away?”

“What kind of human do you take me for? No, Cas, I’m not going to walk away. I’m going to march in there and I’m going to talk to your brothers and sisters and I’m going to make them uphold their oath. Even if I hate every single second of it.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Dean says, “someone has to. Or a lot of people are gonna die.”

And then he forces himself to step through the extremely creepy Crypt door. He immediately regrets that decision, mostly because the Crypt is freezing, but also because if the foreboding air had been bad outside the Crypt, it’s ten times worse inside. Dean feels like an intruder desecrating a temple – a feeling that is not at all helped by the altar he spots inside.

“Other humans,” Castiel says, drifting in behind Dean, seemingly unbothered, “would have walked away anyways.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m stubborn,” Dean mutters. “Okay, what now?”

“WHO DARES ENTER OUR DOMAIN?!” a voice booms, loud enough that the entire Crypt shakes.

“I’m going to guess that was my cue,” Dean says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Castiel’s three heads nodding. He lifts chin and walks forward. “Hey, mind turning the volume down? Humans like me kind of need our ears not-exploded to hear.”

“A HUMAN,” the voice scoffs. “THE LEGIONS OF HEAVEN DO NOT SUFFER HUMANS TO PASS.”

“Too bad for you,” Dean tells them. “You and I got stuff to talk about.”

A bright misty form flares into existence by the altar. It has the same unnatural silver-blue color as Castiel’s form, but much brighter, plus – when Dean squints at it – the shadow of a lot more heads than Castiel’s.

“THERE WILL BE NO TALKING,” the angel booms, as more misty forms pop into existence. “THE CRYPT WAS NOT MADE FOR MORTAL BEINGS. NOW YOU WILL DIE.”

Thunder sounds, even though it had been a clear sky when Dean had entered. He flinches as lightning crackles around the angel –

But Castiel surges forward. His mist form brightens to the same intensity as the others, and he says, “Raphael, wait!”

“CASTIEL,” Raphael says. Unlike Castiel, he apparently can put emotions in his voice. Unfortunately, the emotion Dean is getting is mostly anger. “WHY HAVE YOU ABANDONED YOUR POST?”

“I have not,” Castiel retorts. “This is Henry Winchester’s heir. He bears the Michael Sword.”

The Crypt immediately gets a lot colder, as though every single angel is expressing their disbelief by messing with the temperature. Somehow, that’s even worse than hearing any whispers of doubt or denials of anger. Dean shivers and tries his best not to look like he wants to get a blanket, or seven.

Raphael’s glowing form swells in size, like a bird making itself larger. “YOU LIE,” he says.

“I do not,” Castiel says. “Dean. Show them.”

“Huh? Oh, right!”

Dean fumbles for the Michael Sword. Its hilt remains cool to the touch, but for once, that is reassuring to Dean, because it is actually warmer than the Crypt. He draws it forth and holds it in front of him.

“Now, I can’t read all of these fancy Enochian sigils,” Dean says loudly. “But I bet you angels can. And so I bet you recognize this old thing, right?”

The sight of the Michael Sword does what Castiel’s declaration had not; suddenly the air is filled with the whispers of angels.

“Impossible.”

“The Michael Sword was lost.”

“No human could wield the Michael Sword.”

And, of course, Raphael makes sure his voice is heard. “THAT BLOODLINE WAS BROKEN. HENRY WINCHESTER DIED UPON THE BATTLEFIELD.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean says. “But he had a son, you know. And that son had a son, who had a son, who had a son – you following me? – until eventually, my dad had me. So here I am. A Winchester in the flesh. A descendant of the one you made a pact with – a pact you failed to honor. So I’m thinking that maybe you should fulfill your oath.”

“YOU DARE TO COMMAND US? YOU, A MERE MUD MONKEY, DARES TO COMMAND THE WARRIORS OF GOD?”

Dean pretends to peer around. It’s kind of hard, since there are now so many angels in the Crypt that everywhere shines with painfully bright light, but he’s sure they won’t miss the gesture. “I dunno,” he says casually, “not seeing many warriors here. When’s the last time you actually, you know, fought? Oh, right. The Last Battle. Which you ran away from.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “you are being deliberately antagonizing. We talked about this.”

Dean sighs. “Fine, fine. I am Henry Winchester’s heir. I walked into Purgatory of my own free will and drew forth the Michael Sword. It chose me. And good timing too, because right now? Right now there’s an army of demons massing under a Yellow – I mean, Prince of Hell, and we could really use some celestial back up. And you can regain your honor, you know? Finally stop being the guys who ran away the second Michael died.”

“HONOR IS A HUMAN CONCEPT. WE ARE NOT BOUND BY IT.”

“Well, how about this?” Dean says. “How about you fight for us, and in return I hold your oath fulfilled so that you guys can stop being cursed and get your vessels back? Huh? How about that?”

The Crypt plunges into icy chilliness again. The angels begin flickering and shimmering; the whispers start up again. This time, Dean cannot understand what they speak about. But the whispering and murmuring must be in Enochian, for it does kind of make Dean’s ears ache if he tries to listen too hard.

“NOT GONNA LIE, HAVING A VESSEL AGAIN WOULD BE NICE,” a new voice says suddenly.

A bright light detaches from the mass of pulsing misty forms. It’s brighter than Castiel, like Raphael was. Dean assumes it must be another archangel, something that is confirmed when Castiel murmurs, “Gabriel.”

“HEY, BRO,” Gabriel says, sounding bizarrely cheerful for an archangel that’s nothing but glowing mist. “HOW WAS PURGATORY?”

“Quiet. Until Dean showed up. Then it became very eventful.”

“SOUNDS LIKE A MUD MONKEY’S DOING TO ME,” Gabriel says. “ANYWAYS, DEANO. TRUST IS A TWO-WAY STREET. HOW CAN WE KNOW THAT YOU’LL RELEASE US?”

“You have my word,” Dean says, as serious as he can be.

“UH HUH. SURE. AND HOW CAN WE TRUST THE WORD OF A CAMPBELL?”

Dean blinks. “What’s my mother got to do with it?”

“NOT YOUR MOM, DUMMY. I’M TALKING WAAAAAAAAAY BACK. TO THE LAST BATTLE. DON’T YOU KNOW HOW MICHAEL FELL?”

“Most of the humans were brutally slaughtered when the angels fled the battlefield,” Dean tells him flatly. “So, shockingly, no, I actually don’t.”

“WELL, THEN HERE’S A LITTLE HISTORY LESSON FOR YOU. MICHAEL MADE THE PACT WITH HENRY WINCHESTER. BUT THEN, HIS TRUSTED FRIEND SAMUEL CAMPBELL DECIDED TO BE A TRAITOR AND HE MADE A BARGAIN WITH LUCIFER. YOU FOLLOWING ME?”

“Sure, but what’s that got to do with – ”

“SAMUEL CAMPBELL HELPED LILITH, THE FIRST OF DEMONS, KILL MICHAEL. AND THEN A FEW MORE ANGELS, JUST CUZ HE FELT LIKE IT. SO. HOW DO WE KNOW YOU WON’T ONE DAY JUST ‘FEEL LIKE IT’ AND TURN ON US AGAIN?”

Dean laughs. He can’t help it. He laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, sounding worried.

“I’m fine, Cas,” Dean says, waving him off. He turns back to Gabriel and Raphael. “You worried about my Campbell blood? Well, here’s an update you missed in the, oh, several centuries since the Last Battle. My mother, Mary Campbell? Descendant of Samuel? Yeah, she’s dead. Wanna know how? A Yellow-Eyed demon snuck into my home when I was a kid and slaughtered her. And it damn near killed me and the rest of my family when it burnt everything down afterwards.”

Dean takes a deep breath. He grounds himself in the feel of the Michael Sword in his hands, the cool air in his lungs, the reassuring light of Castiel around him.

He says, “I’ve trained my whole life to kill demons. I will never make a bargain with them. You have my word on that.”

“HUH,” Gabriel says. “YOU ACTUALLY KIND OF MEAN THAT.”

And just as abruptly as the angels appeared, they begin disappearing. Those bright misty lights wink out of existence, first slowly and then swiftly.

“Hey! Hey!” Dean shouts. “You have my word! I’ll release you from the curse! Where are you – ”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts. He swirls around Dean, returning to his normal level of misty glowing. “They have heard you. Now we must wait for them to decide.”

“Wait, which them? Raphael or Gabriel or – or everyone?”

“Just the archangels,” Castiel answers. “They led the Legions of Heaven. What they decide, the angels will follow.”

Dean sighs. “I was worried you’d say that,” he says. Because Gabriel seemed to have been listening – Dean might have even said he was slightly impressed – but Raphael seemed like he wanted nothing more than to smite Dean and then return to brooding in the Crypt forever. “Hey, Cas. How come they didn’t take your word for it? Since angels don’t lie and all that.”

For the first time, Castiel does not immediately respond. It’s kind of disconcerting, after days of Castiel not hesitating to bluntly and instantly giving his opinion.

“Cas?” Dean prompts.

“They . . . question my sympathies,” Castiel says finally. It’s the most unhelpful answer he’s ever given Dean, which is saying something.

“Your sympathies?”

“Yes. They feel I’ve begun to express emotion.”

“Gabriel over there didn’t seem to have a problem being expressive.”

“Gabriel is an archangel. They are . . . different. For us, emotions are the doorways to doubt, the impairments of judgement.”

“And all of that means?”

Castiel’s mist form shifts. For the first time since Dean first beheld him, those three animal heads look directly at Dean as one. Castiel explains, “My brothers and sisters feel that I have overstepped my orders. That I am getting too close to the human in my charge. You, specifically.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean demands.

But he never gets an answer, because then the angels return. The Crypt fills again with celestial light, silvers and blues, shimmering and shining until Dean almost feels suffocated by the amount of mist.

“WE WILL NOT INTERFERE,” Raphael booms. “THE STORY WILL END THE WAY IT WAS WRITTEN.”

The words mean absolutely nothing to Dean.

Castiel, on the other hand, immediately starts flickering, as if he’s distressed. “That cannot be,” he says. “You would let Azazel bring death and destruction to Earth? You would let Lucifer win?”

“THE APOCALYPSE WILL COME AS FORETOLD.”

“The what?” Dean says in alarm. “Why are you talking about the end of the world?!”

The angels ignore him. So does Castiel, except Castiel says, “I expected more from my brethren.”

Raphael’s mist form crackles with lightning again. His mist form expands until it encompasses the entire altar, like a peacock trying to prove its dominance. If the peacock was also celestial being capable of reducing Dean and Castiel to ash in seconds, anyways.

“YOU DARE TO QUESTION ME, CASTIEL?” Raphael says, sounding like he’d very much like to smite Dean and Castiel.

But Castiel does not back down. His mist form grows too, until it’s large enough to dwarf Dean. Castiel swirls around him, shimmering and glowing. Dean feels a little bit like he’s being surrounded by a ring of protection, or perhaps a holy moat.

“Our mission,” Castiel says, in a voice of a thousand bells, his angelic voice, his true voice, “was to protect what God created. How long did it take you to forget that?”

Silence falls over the Crypt. The angels cease flickering, cease murmuring, cease everything. The only sound that remains is Dean’s breathing and his heart pounding in his chest.

Well, that, and the angry crackling of Raphael’s divine lightning.

Because Castiel is right. Angels might be warriors of God, but they are guardians too – they were created to protect. And to have the spine to tell that truth straight to the faces of Raphael and Gabriel and the Legions of Heaven is – well, Dean has to admire it. Even if he’s half sure that they’re going to be struck down for it.

Raphael leans forward. So does Gabriel. So do all of the other angels, thousands of brilliant shimmering mist forms crowding in around them, until Dean can’t even see the walls or door anymore. Until he’s almost drowning in angels.

Dean grips the Michael Sword very tightly, and prays that it will work on angels as well as demons so that he can try and save Castiel and himself from being smote.

And then: “WE WILL FIGHT,” Raphael and Gabriel say, their voices echoing throughout the Crypt, so loud Dean can feel it in his bones.

“Uh . . . really?” Dean says.

“As the archangels command,” Castiel says, “the Legions of Heaven will obey. We will fight for you, Dean. We will fight to stop Azazel, and the demon army, and the Apocalypse.”

“Great, that’s great,” Dean says. “Um. How exactly are we getting to the fight?”

“WE CAN SENSE WHERE THE DEMONS HAVE GATHERED,” Raphael says. “WE WILL FLY.”

“Well, that’s all well and good for you, feathers. I, on the other hand, don’t have wings or a harp.”

“WHAT DOES MY HARP HAVE TO DO WITH FLYING?”

Dean opens his mouth, but Castiel interjects first. Probably because he has guessed that Dean is about to say something either rude or incomprehensible to an angel, which, to be fair, is exactly what Dean was going to do.

“Dean, the archangels can fly you. We will all fly together.”

“Ohhh no,” Dean says immediately. “No, no, and no. I ain’t trusting Raphael. If we have to fly, you’re going fly me, Cas. It’s you or no one.”

“Dean, the archangels are perfectly capable of – ”

“It’s you or no one,” Dean repeats. “I don’t trust them. I trust you.”

Castiel makes a sound like a gust of wind. After a moment, Dean realizes it must be the angelic equivalent to a deep sigh. “Very well,” Castiel says. “Shut your eyes.”

Dean does, mostly because the angels are all beginning to painfully bright again, but also because he still vividly remembers Castiel’s warnings about burning eyeballs. He can still feel Castiel though – he feels the way Castiel’s mist swirls around him in the gentlest of embraces, covering him from head to toe.

And yet Dean is not afraid. Castiel, he knows, would not hurt him.

The sound of wings fills Dean’s ear. It reminds him of the time he stumbled across an entire flock of birds that were migrating for winter resting on a river, and how they’d all taken flight in a rush when he’d accidentally kicked a rock. Except of course that these aren’t birds, these are celestial beings, and Dean hasn’t so much kicked a rock as started a war.

Then Castiel says, “You may open your eyes, Dean. It is done.”

Dean hesitantly cracks one eye open. Relief rushes through him when he realizes he hasn’t been blinded and that he’s no longer in the Crypt, and he opens the other eye to find –

A battlefield.

He can see demons pouring across the field, with their black eyes and jeering smiles. He can see his fellow humans struggling to fight alongside their fallen comrades. And he can see the Yellow-Eyed Demon, standing tall in the center, laughing as he slaughters any human who gets too close.

“Yes. That is Azazel,” Castiel says. “He will not be easy to kill.”

As they watch, Azazel lunges forward and breaks a man’s neck. Dean winces. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“You do not want to do this,” Castiel observes again.

“Nope,” Dean says, because what’s the point in lying?

To his surprise, though, Castiel does not ask him why. Instead, Castiel says, “But you will anyways.”

“Yeah. I will.”

Castiel’s mist curls around his waist. Like an arm, if he had one. “For what it’s worth, Dean,” Castiel says, “I would give anything not to have you do this.”

A lump forms in Dean’s throat. For an angel like Castiel, capable of feats beyond Dean’s wildest imaginations and bound to obey all orders, to confess such a thing – he cannot deny that he is touched. If the fate of the world wasn’t at stake, he might even be tempted to take Castiel up on the offer, even if it meant flying again.

But the fate of the world is at stake. And more importantly, Dean’s family is down there, and he knows damn well that Sam’s going to try and do something stupid like charge Azazel.

So Dean takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Puts away all thoughts except for fighting.

“Yeah, me too, Cas.” He looks at Castiel. “You ready to do this thing?”

Castiel’s mist form expands rapidly. Instead of a gently glowing cloud that drifts alongside Dean, now he changes to a form more humanoid-shaped, as he had when Dean and him had first met. His mist crackles with lightning; his tendrils spark with power. He looks very much like a celestial being that no one should mess with.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Let’s fight.”

So Dean thrusts the Michael Sword high into air and charges, followed by an entire army of mist that flows down to the battlefield after him. The angels go straight for the demons, passing over or right through humans, which causes a lot of alarmed shouts. Some call down lightning to fry the demons; some make the demons burst into fire; and some just straight up make the demons explode. It’s very messy.

Handily, it also gets Azazel’s attention. The Yellow-Eyed Demon turns around just in time for Dean to grin and stab him with the Michael Sword.

Or almost stab him, anyways. Somehow, Azazel manages to realize what’s happening and move just enough for Dean’s blade to meet thin air instead of demon flesh.

Azazel grins. “Dean Winchester,” he says, in the creepiest singsong voice Dean’s ever heard. “I was wondering when you’d join the fray. And you’ve even got a shiny toy! I haven’t seen that ol’ thing in, hmm, centuries.”

Lightning flashes beside Dean; he flinches, but then realizes it’s just Castiel expressing his extreme displeasure.

“Azazel,” Castiel says. “You know who we are. You know what we have. You know what we will do. Return to Hell . . . or we lay you to waste.”

Azazel actually pantomimes thinking it over: he crosses his arms and taps his chin, humming. Then he shrugs. “Think I’ll take my chances.”

He’s barely finished speaking before Castiel surges forward. For the first time, Dean gets to see Castiel’s mist form in action, and it is terrifying. Castiel moves faster than light or sound or thought; Dean barely blinks, and Castiel is already upon Azazel. He wraps his tendrils around Azazel’s neck and face, glowing like the sun, as if he means to lay waste to Azazel all on his own.

But Azazel doesn’t explode. Doesn’t catch fire. Doesn’t even singe.

“Oh, kiddo,” Azazel says, sounding almost sorry. He bats Castiel away, casually, as one bats away a spider web in their path. “Sorry. It was a good attempt, I’ll give you that, but. Well. It’s not that easy to kill a Prince of Hell. Why don’t you go run to dear Daddy?”

Castiel makes an inhuman noise – a screech that makes Dean cringe – and races towards Azazel again. Unfortunately, that’s when Azazel starts chanting.

Dean has no idea what Azazel is saying, but Castiel starts writhing like he’s being tortured, so that’s really all the information Dean needs. He charges forward, grateful that Castiel and Azazel are separated, and swings the Michael Sword again at Azazel.

It makes a very satisfying clanging noise when it collides with Azazel’s head.

On the bright side, this makes Azazel stop chanting, which means Castiel stops writhing. On the not so bright side, this makes Azazel turn his attention back to Dean.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Azazel says. “I am so disappointed. You had such promise, such potential . . . and here you are, wasting it with a blade you can’t even properly wield. Such a pity.”

Azazel makes a motion with his hand. It’s a small thing; Dean hardly notices it. What he does notice is when the gesture means he gets flung back and slammed into the ground with enough force that his vision starts swimming and like seven different parts of his body light up in pain.

“Dean!”

Between one blink and next, Castiel is hovering over him. Dean tries to reassure him, but all that happens is that he ends up wheezing. Oh, and coughing up blood.

“Well, that’s not good,” he slurs.

The sky blurs overhead; Dean can’t tell if Castiel has flown him away or he’s just hallucinating. When Azazel doesn’t immediately come and stomp on them, he realizes it must be the former. Although they can’t have gone far, for Dean can still hear the sounds of the battle.

“Dean,” Castiel says anxiously. “I must heal you, you are bleeding out.”

Dean coughs. “O-Okay.”

“You do not understand. It will hurt. It will hurt immensely.”

“Pretty – Pretty sure Azazel killing me – me will hurt worse.”

“Dean – ”

“Just do – do it, Cas.”

Castiel’s mist form leans over him, until it’s all Dean can see. Just silvery-blue celestial mist, shimmering and glowing. One tendril reaches out. It touches Dean’s torn sleeve, and then slithers inside. For the first time, Castiel’s power touches Dean’s bare skin.

Dean screams. He can’t help it. It’s worse than the time he fell off a horse, worse than the time he broke a rib, worse than the time a demon threw him through a table. It’s agony unyielding and unending –

And then it ends, and suddenly Dean can breathe against without tasting blood.

“Dean, I am so sorry – ”

“No. No apologies.” Dean shoves himself to his feet and grips the Michael Sword harder. “Let’s go kill ourselves a Prince of Hell.”

But no matter how hard Dean tries, he just can’t manage it. He can kill the other demons just fine; the Michael Sword cuts through them like butter. With Azazel, though, it’s like trying to cut down a tree with the dullest axe ever made, and every time he fails, Azazel tries his best to squish Dean like a bug. Only Castiel’s intervention saves Dean from being squashed.

Finally, after the third time Dean almost dies and Castiel has to heal him, Castiel says, “Dean – Dean, this is not working.”

“I know that!” Dean snaps. “But I don’t have any better ideas!”

“I do.”

“Which is what?”

Castiel hesitates. Then he says, all in a rush, “Let me possess you.”

Azazel then comes and tries to stomp Dean out of existence. So Dean spends a few minutes slicing at Azazel and causing exactly no damage while trying his best not to get stomped. It isn’t until another angel tries to smother Azazel that Dean and Castiel can talk again.

“Dean, let me possess you,” Castiel says again.

“Absolutely not,” Dean says immediately. “I know what happens when people get possessed, Cas, they turn into mindless husks.”

“When a demon does, yes. They suppress their host’s will and mind, as they take over without consent. An angel does not have to.”

Dean blinks. “What does consent have to do with anything?” he demands, because he’s seen demons possess people. All they do is smoke into people’s bodies and bam, new enemy. He’s never seen a demon have to be polite.

“You have to say yes, Dean. I cannot do anything until you say yes.”

“Absolutely not, are you crazy? If I let you in me and Azazel manages to actually squash me, we’ll both die.”

“Yes.”

“No, Cas! That should not be a yes!”

Castiel snarls. He swirls forward and flies Dean out of yet another close call. Azazel’s fist misses Dean by mere inches; his taunting laughter rings out.

“Dean,” Castiel says, and for the first time there is true emotion in his voice. Unfortunately, that emotion is desperation. “Let me possess you. Say yes – ”

“I said no, Cas!”

“ – and do not let me suffer the sight of you dying!”

Dean stares at Castiel in shock. He knows angels can die. He holds the sword of a fallen one; Castiel had told him of Uriel and Anna. But the idea of Castiel dying is somehow impossible – Dean cannot comprehend it. Castiel is an angel. He should outlive Dean. He should outlive every human – he’s an angel.

“Cas,” he says numbly, “you can’t mean that. You’ve – You’ve just got your brothers and sisters back. You’ve got orders to guard the Michael Sword, even if I die – ”

“Say yes, Dean,” Castiel says, pleads, begs.

And Dean – Dean closes his eyes and gives in. He says, “Yes.”

This time, when Castiel’s mist touches Dean’s bare skin, it does not stop there. It sinks inside him, filling him like water fills a vase, flowing into him in a great rush. His senses expand: suddenly he can hear each and every sound; suddenly he can see each and every being on the battlefield; suddenly he can taste the death and blood in the air.

Also, everything is glowing.

Castiel opens Dean’s eyes. In his vision, Azazel is a writhing mass of darkness and corruption. Azazel’s eyes blaze with what Dean suddenly, instinctively knows is hellfire. Everything in Castiel – and now Dean – itches to smother it.

Azazel pauses as he beholds them. He tilts his head. “Well, well. Isn’t that interesting. But you’ve got a lot to learn, boys, if you think that is enough to stop me.”

Castiel screeches, and Dean screeches with him. Castiel moves Dean’s legs, except he can move faster than Dean can think. He can also land a blow stronger than Dean can, enough that Azazel actually staggers a little when the Michael Sword connects.

But Azazel does not die.

“You angels,” Azazel remarks, shaking out his fist. “You’re like cockroaches. But even roaches die eventually.”

They clash and separate and clash again. With Castiel possessing Dean, they can move as swiftly as Azazel, and Castiel has the strength to actually meet Azazel’s blows. And if Dean is injured, almost before he can realize it, Castiel is already healing him and charging back into the fight.

But Azazel still does not die.

In fact, he actually lands a terrible blow to Dean’s throat, one strong enough that even Castiel staggers. Silvery mist leaks from the injury; Dean suddenly, instinctively knows is angelic grace. Proof, for all to see, that Castiel has been injured enough that he can no longer recover instantly.

Proof, for all to see, that Castiel might die.

And Dean – Dean cannot accept that. He can’t really help in this fight, for his human mind and reflexes are too slow to keep pace with Azazel. But what he can do is try to make the Michael Sword work for them.

He thinks of the vow he had sworn, back when he had first gained the sword, back when he had barely known Castiel, much less trusted him. He’d said the words, but he’d known then, as he knows now, that he hadn’t meant them. Which is probably why the Michael Sword still isn’t working for him.

Dean is pretty sure he still won’t mean them. God means nothing to him – God is just a faceless deity, one who never helped Dean or his family when they needed him.

But Castiel? Castiel had helped Dean. He’d helped him learn how to use the Michael Sword; he’d helped Dean find the angels; even now, he helps Dean not immediately die when Azazel fights them.

I give myself, Dean thinks, wholly to the service of Castiel.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the Michael Sword erupts.

Light – celestial light – blazes from blade, from tip to hilt. It glows silver and blue, like angelic mist, like heavenly fire. It grows warm, and then hot, and then scorching, so much so that Dean is almost surprised that Castiel doesn’t need to heal his hands from burns. It had already fit well in Dean’s hands; now it fits perfectly.

Azazel’s hellfire eyes widen. “You – ” he starts to say.

Castiel-and-Dean do not give him the chance. As one, Castiel-and-Dean fly forward; as one, Castiel-and-Dean strike.

This time, the Michael Sword does not glance off Azazel’s body, or get stuck, or miss. It sinks deep into Azazel’s body, and they keep pushing, Castiel with angelic strength, Dean with human stubbornness, until the Michael Sword pierces Azazel’s corrupted heart.

Azazel lights up like a bonfire. Then he explodes.

Also, so do the dozen demons around Azazel. It’s incredibly messy, but also incredibly satisfying.

After that, the battle ends rather swiftly. Mostly because the Legions of Heaven have been busy while Dean and Castiel were fighting Azazel, but also because now when Castiel-and-Dean wield the Michael Sword, demons fall by the dozens in a single blow. Dean definitely takes great pleasure in watching the demons die, and Castiel takes equal pleasure. By the end, Castiel-and-Dean just start slamming the blade deep into the earth, letting its power flow through the ground to swallow up any demons that have fled the fight.

They are in the middle of doing just that when a human soul walks up to them and says, “Uh, Dean?”

“Sam Winchester,” Castiel-as-Dean says. And then, when a second soul walks up, “Bobby Singer.”

“That’s . . . really creepy, actually. Um, can I talk to Dean?” Sam asks.

“Dean is here,” Castiel-as-Dean says. “He is with me.”

“Yeah, trust me, we all got that. But uh. The battle is kind of? Over?”

Castiel-and-Dean look up. To human eyes, the battlefield is awash with corpses and the imprint of wings. To angelic eyes, the battlefield is soaked in human blood and scarred with angelic death. Castiel mourns, and Dean mourns with him.

“So that means I kind of . . . would like my brother back? Please?” Sam says.

Castiel hesitates. Strangely, Dean finds himself hesitating too. To be alone – again – after finally finding someone is a fate they both find saddening.

But Castiel must acquiesce with Sam’s request, for he begins to withdraw. Dean can feel the warmth of his grace leaving.

Instinctively, he clings to it. Don’t leave me, he thinks wildly.

Be not afraid, Dean, is all Castiel says.

Castiel-as-Dean opens his mouth and breathes out – and then keeps breathing out, an exhale far longer than it has any right to be, as silvery mist pours out of him. Slowly, it coalesces back into Castiel’s shimmering mist form.

And then Dean is suddenly on his own again. He staggers and falls to his knees. His lungs seize in his chest; his heart thuds madly. The battlefield flickers wildly between his human sight and what Castiel could see. For a moment, he worries that he’s forgotten how to breathe and move and live.

But then his body remembers that it knows how to survive on its own, and Dean sucks a grateful breath of fresh air.

“Dean? Dean, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sheesh, give a man a moment,” Dean grumbles. He also can’t stop himself from glancing to the side. But he needn’t have worried; Castiel is there, in all his mist form glory, although he’s reverted back to his cloud shape.

The Michael Sword dims, fading back to regular steel and leather. Its warmth begins to fade. But Dean is not worried; he knows that the Michael Sword will be there when he needs it, now that it understands him and he understands it. He sheathes it with a weary grunt and pushes himself to his feet.

Raphael is there when he stands, and Gabriel too. Dean can recognize their forms now. And he recognize the uneasiness flickering in their misty depths.

“Raphael,” he greets. “Gabriel.”

“DEAN WINCHESTER,” Raphael says. “THE BATTLE IS OVER. RELEASE US.”

Bobby coughs. “I don’t know, Dean,” he says. “These angels of yours sure came in handy. Even if they don’t have bodies.”

“YOU GAVE US YOUR WORD,” Raphael tells Dean, pulsing intensely.

And Dean did, and he is not an oath breaker. But that is not the only reason why he makes his choice. He has memories now, faint and strange though they might be, of the Legions of Heaven when they were young. When Raphael and Gabriel and Lucifer raised their voices together in song and worked miracles instead of starting fights. When Heaven was at peace.

The Michael Sword hums in Dean’s hand, and Dean says, “I hold your oath fulfilled. Be at peace.”

A great sigh falls across the battlefield. It feels to Dean, fittingly, like a gentle wind that blows after a storm has passed. The sigh passes through each and every angel, one by one, a heavenly chorus of true voices that – to Dean’s surprise – does not make him feel pain or harm any of the humans.

He later understands this when he turns around and finds not a glowing mist cloud by his side, but a human man.

“What the – ”

The man, who had been examining his hands, looks up. He has tousled black hair and skin so pale it looks like it hasn’t seen the sun in decades. The most striking feature, though, is his blue eyes.

“Hello, Dean,” comes a deep voice, somehow both foreign and familiar.

Dean’s jaw drops. “Cas??”

“Yes,” Castiel says. He returns his gaze to his hands, idly lifting and turning them, as if he’s never seen hands before. “Who else did you think it could be?”

“But you – you’re – ”

“Yes, my physical appearance is different. I have a vessel once more, now that you have declared the oath fulfilled and the curse has been lifted.”

Dean stares at him for a long moment. Finally, he manages to ask, “Hang on, all this time, all you needed was just a body?”

“This vessel is no more just a body than the Michael Sword is just a blade,” Castiel says. “Each angel has a vessel suited for them and them alone. Only in that vessel may I channel the power of Heaven without causing irreparable damage.”

“Yeah, I’m still not interested in having burnt out eyes or bleeding ears,” Dean says warily. “Wait, does this mean that all of the angels have bodies again?”

“Vessels,” Castiel corrects. “And yes.”

“Whatever,” Dean says. He turns around, but Raphael and Gabriel are gone. In fact, all of the angels are gone. Not a single one is left on the battlefield, except the scorched wings of those who died. “Aaand they’re all gone.”

Dean hadn’t exactly expected them to stay. The angels had already made it pretty clear what they thought of humans, after all, and they definitely did not want to serve him. But Dean’s also got a much better sense of how powerful they are, and the idea of all the Legions of Heaven roaming the land with brand new vessels that allow them to use their power without restraint . . . well, that’s a little scary.

“We all have duties,” is all Castiel says when Dean brings it up. “Duties that have not been attended to whilst they languished in the Crypt. It is only natural that now that they have their vessels again, they shall disperse to take up their posts once more.”

“Their posts?”

“Be not afraid,” Castiel says. “We shall not kill humans. Only demons and monsters will meet our blades.” He shifts. “You have many wounded. I shall attend to them as I can.”

“Wait, wait!” Sam says. “When you healed Dean, you left him with a massive scar. How are you going to heal people like that?”

“A what?” Dean asks.

Sam gestures impatiently at his left shoulder. “Right there, Dean, how could you miss it? Didn’t it hurt?”

Dean glances down at his shoulder. His clothing had been tore in the battle with Azazel, so he has no problem seeing his skin. And sure enough, there is a massive scar that encompasses almost his upper arm near his shoulder, shiny and glossy like a healed burn.

It is in the shape of a hand.

Slowly, Dean looks up at Castiel – Castiel, who pointedly does not meet his eyes. When Castiel does not respond to Sam, Dean prompts, “Yeah, Cas. Wanna explain this?”

Castiel’s jaw works. “You . . . were marked because I had to heal you without a vessel,” he says slowly. “When a living soul comes into contact with raw grace, it leaves a mark. A brand.”

“A brand? Whoa, whoa, I am not some cow to be branded.”

“I would think you’d be grateful to still be alive,” Castiel snaps. “As if I had not laid my grace upon you, you would have died.”

“So the tradeoff is that I have to live with this scar?”

“I cannot heal it.”

“ . . . Right,” Dean says, and tugs his ruined sleeve down a little further. It won’t do much, since the handprint is massive, but it’s better than nothing. “I guess then I just live with it.”

“Yes. Is your curiosity satisfied now? May I attend to your wounded?”

Dean shrugs. “Be my guest.”

He doesn’t see Castiel again for a while. Mostly because the clean up after the battle is almost worse than the battle itself. The battlefield is strewn with dead, both humans and demons, and no hunters want to see more monsters arise from those corpses. Everyone who can still move is pressed into piling the bodies into giant pyres, or gathering firewood, or blessing salt. In the end, the sun is well on its way to setting by the time everyone has been salted and burned.

And then after that arduous affair, Dean has to deal with all the people who want to come and talk his ear off or shake his hand or marvel at the Michael Sword. Dean no sooner manages to shake off one before another comes up. Eventually he resorts to pleading that he needs to see the healers, which finally makes everyone leave him alone.

“The healers, huh?” Bobby says. “Never thought I’d see the day that Dean Winchester would willingly to go the healers.”

“Like you’d do differently,” Dean hisses. “I’m getting mobbed here!”

Bobby raises his hands. “Okay, okay. And you definitely, absolutely have no other motives for going to the healers.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean demands, but Bobby just shrugs and walks away whistling.

Walking through the field where they’ve placed the wounded is a sobering sight. Each person who will live feels like a victory; each person who is clearly not going to make it through the night feels like a failure. On top of that, each person Dean finds neither among the wounded nor among those who helped make the pyres feels like a catastrophe.

It is, after all, Dean’s duty to kill monsters and save lives. He killed a lot of monsters today. But he sees too just how many he failed to save, and that loss is a bitter pill indeed.

He’s in the middle of contemplating that when Castiel shows up.

“Hello, Dean.”

In any other scenario, so soon after battle, Dean would’ve jumped into the air for someone to show up suddenly out of the dark next to him. For Castiel, Dean just says, “Hey, Cas.”

“You are mourning the dead,” Castiel says quietly.

“Hard not to.”

“You had a great victory today. Azazel has been slain. His armies have been obliterated.”

Dean sighs. “Hard to focus on that when all you can see is everyone who isn’t standing with us.”

“Then focus on everyone who will continue to stand because Azazel has been slain,” Castiel says simply. “The future is all we can look forward to.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. He shoots Castiel a sideways glance. Castiel is standing entirely at ease; he doesn’t look like he has a care in the world or, more importantly, like he has anywhere to be. “Speaking of the future – what does it hold for you, Cas?”

“My orders remain unchanged.”

“Yeah, guard the Michael Sword and all that, but surely you want to be with your brothers and sisters, right? Don’t you miss, I don’t know, the clouds of Heaven? Or whatever else is up there?”

“Heaven is a paradise for human souls. For angels . . . it is merely a place.”

“But isn’t it still home?” Dean persists.

“In a way.”

“Listen, Cas, I don’t want to be the thing that keeps any man from his home,” Dean says. “I appreciate you guiding me this far, I really do. But Heaven’s your home. You should – You should go back there. Be with your family.”

Castiel is silent for a moment, as if he is digesting this. As if he means to accept.

Dean both wants him to accept and to refuse. On one hand, Dean is looking forward to returning to his own home; whether he likes Castiel’s company or not, he has no right to deny Castiel the same pleasure. On the other hand, Castiel has been his constant companion for so many days – has literally risked death to protect him from Azazel. To realize that he will miss Castiel is a surprise, but he cannot deny it, either.

Then Castiel turns and looks at him. Even in the dark of night, his blue eyes gleam with heavenly power. He says, “You do not want me to do that.”

“I – ”

“You want me to stay,” Castiel says.

Dean swallows hard. “Cas, we’ve talked about the mind reading before,” he says weakly.

Castiel, as always, ignores him. “You want me to stay forever.”

“But your home – ”

“You are the wielder of the Michael Sword, and I am its guardian. My home is with you now, until the day you return to Heaven.”

Castiel’s deep voice is steady and sure. It is not human, to be sure; too flat, too controlled, too toneless. Yet Dean finds he is captivated by it. By the steadiness with which Castiel accepts his mission, by the surety with which Castiel commits to his mission. The idea of someone choosing to stay with Dean all the way until he dies is beyond belief.

Especially a celestial being of immeasurable power, like an angel.

Dean forces a smile. “I thought angels didn’t, ah, perch on shoulders.”

“They do not.”

“Then – ”

“And now, fortunately, I have a vessel, so there will be no need for perching. I can merely stand.”

A snort of laughter bursts out of Dean. “Don’t ever change, Cas.”

“You have already changed me, Dean.”

“Wait, what?”

Castiel looks at him with those luminous blue eyes. Dean can no longer make out his true form, even out of the corner of his eye, but he can see the grace that glows in Castiel’s eyes. All of that sheer power, everything that Castiel can choose to see – and he chooses to look at Dean.

“Until today, I had never touched a human soul as I touched yours,” Castiel says. “But now, I am . . . changed by it. I see the truth of you, and in turn, the truth of humans.”

“ . . . Do I want to know what you saw when you touched my soul?”

Castiel nods. “Yes, you do want to know. But mostly because you are afraid. Be not afraid, Dean. You have the soul of a righteous man. It is beautiful.”

Of all the things Dean had expected to hear, righteous shocks him to his core. “But I – I’ve lied before, cheated, stolen – ”

“You are a righteous man, Dean,” Castiel repeats. “And you have a beautiful soul.”

A suspicion blooms in Dean’s mind. He lifts his left arm. “This handprint, this brand. It’s more than just because you touched me with your raw celestially-angelly power, right?”

“It is. But. It is also . . . something else.”

“Which is?”

Castiel looks away. Devoid of his bright blue gaze, Dean feels like he can breathe again. But only a little bit, because he has no idea what Castiel will say. For all he knows, the mark could be a sign that Castiel had needed to burn away the darkness in his soul when he healed Dean’s physical wounds.

“You have a wild imagination,” Castiel says, glancing back up.

“Cas! Quit it with the mind reading!”

“You do not want me to quit it,” Castiel says. And then, before Dean can squawk in protest, Castiel forges ahead with, “When a claim is laid on a living soul, it leaves a mark. A brand, where the angelic grace and human soul came into contact. That is why you bear the mark.” He pauses. “My mark.”

“You . . . claimed my soul?”

“Yes. Are you angry with me, Dean?”

A rush of emotions fills Dean. There are so many he cannot sort through them. It is anger (how dare he mark me), but also surprise (why me) and grim satisfaction (my suspicions were right). And at the end is a tiny burst of happiness – he chose me he chose me he chose me.

Dean settles for the familiar warmth of anger. “I ought to punch you for that,” he says lowly.

Castiel tilts his head, seemingly unfazed. “You do not want to do that,” he says. “You want to kiss me.”

The words shock Dean out of his anger. Mostly because he is startled to realize that they are true. He has been gazing at Castiel’s face, ever since Castiel gained it – studying his face, memorizing his blue eyes, admiring him.

Wanting him.

Dean looks away. Too late and too slow, he knows, but he does it anyways. He takes a deep breath and releases it, the way he learned when he started hunting. Yet that does not slow the beating of his heart.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “It is all right. It is nothing to be feared.”

“Pretty sure it’s a sin to want an angel. Even if you just want to – to kiss them,” he says, stuttering over the truth he can barely accept.

“It is not. Nor it is a sin for an angel to want a human.”

Dean’s head jerks back to Castiel in shock. His heart, which had finally begun to slow down, speeds up again, pounding wildly. “You – ”

Castiel meets his gaze with inhuman steadiness. “Yes,” is all he says.

Dean is not sure who moves first. Perhaps it is Castiel, who can move faster than a human can blink. Or perhaps it is Dean, who has human determination on his side. Either way, it doesn’t really matter: they meet in the middle.

Dean is the one who draws back first, though. Mostly because he actually needs to breathe. “How was it?” he pants.

Castiel hums. “You taste,” he starts to say.

“If you say anything about whatever the hell molecules are – ”

“Even if I say they are good molecules?”

Dean blinks. “Did you – Did you just make a joke?”

“Did it work?”

Dean looks at Castiel and takes him in: his glowing eyes, his deep voice, his unwavering commitment. Even his attempt at human humor. And he knows, with the same certainty as he known the Michael Sword would be his, that he never wants Castiel to leave him.

Castiel’s eyes soften. “I do not want to leave you either, Dean.” He pauses. “Even if you do taste like – ”

“Oh, shut up and kiss me again.”

FINIS