mclachland

Dean jerks awake with a high-pitched cry that he'll forever deny he made, because Sam's always lurking around with a camera to capture this kind of shit.

He's in bed. In his bed. He actually doesn't remember much after leaving Gabriel with some food for thought, so he's not quite sure how he got here. He vaguely remembers standing near Becks's and Rose's new angel fanclub, half-listening as Rose described the significance of Harry Potter. He does remember the angel in the hulking, 800-foot tall vessel raise his hand and ask in a voice usually reserved for eight-year olds on Christmas morning, "Does every human receive an owl?"

Staring up blankly at the ceiling, at the familiar cracks and water damage stains, Dean feels something shift and resettle inside him.

He throws the covers back and jumps out of bed, casting around for a shirt. The sheets rustle behind him and he can hear Castiel mutter at his departure, but it's not enough to actually wake the lazy ass.

The Led Zeppelin shirt's going to have to do. The giant Icarus icon emblazoned across his chest has some kind of relevance. He'd share the thought with Castiel, except Castiel doesn't know what Led Zeppelin is, despite all of Dean's attempts at teaching him what proper music is; he still calls it 'the dirigible music'.

He hits the bathroom first, pissing until he can literally feel his bladder constrict in emptiness. There are very few pleasures in life -- good beer, good sex, good friends, not being eaten by a supernatural monster -- but sometimes it's the little things, like taking a good piss.

The floorboards creak beneath his feet, but that doesn't seem to disturb anyone. The angels are still there, lining the stairs and walls, talking quietly or not at all, staring at nothing. A few have their eyes closed, a parody of sleep. Dean can't help but notice the way Becks and Rose are curled up with their angel fan club; Becks is drooling in the lap of an angel wearing the meatsuit of somebody's grandfather, and Rose is snoring against the neck of the giant Harry Potter-loving angel. The other fourteen angels are crowded around them like mother lionesses guarding their cubs. Dean snorts.

At least the kitchen's relatively empty. When he walks in, Mora's pouring herself a cup of coffee, her shoulders drooping with an invisible weight. She looks like she hasn't slept at all.

"Hey," he says quietly so as not to startle her, but she probably heard him wake up. Demons and their crazy superhearing.

She grunts and holds up a finger, gulping down her coffee in two swallows. Dean's own throat aches in sympathy; that shit must be scalding.

"Hey," Mora mutters, pouring another cup and knocking it back just as quickly. She slams the mug down onto the counter like a shot glass and rubs the back of her wrist against her mouth, wiping away any leftover coffee. Her fingers are trembling.

Dean takes a few tentative steps forward until he can rest his hip against the sink. "You okay?"

Mora stares at the back of her hand blankly, looking very small in her rumpled, oversized nightclothes. "Not really. I didn't sleep very well." A weak smile curves her lips. "It's been a long time since I've had to sleep alone."

"How long is 'long'?"

"Seven hundred years, give or take," Mora murmurs, dropping her hand and tipping her chin up. He reads her fear and exhaustion in the bruised skin beneath her eyes. She must have stayed up all night, wired and restless, nerves shot to all hell at the thought of what might be happening to Sariel.

He whistles. "Talk about being shackled together for eternity."

Her eyes roll and then fixate unerringly on his, burning through the layers of bullshit to get to his core. "If you were 'shackled' to your angel for the rest of time would you complain?"

"And Anna?"

Mora stiffens and turns away, going back to the coffeemaker. "Anna believed herself entitled to something that wasn't hers. Don't worry about it. It was a blip."

"Haven't you had enough?" Dean asks, watching with barely-disguised disgust as she moves to load the coffee maker with more grounds. "I mean, how many cups have you had already?"

Mora dumps the grounds into the filter and then tosses the plastic scoop into the sink, grabbing the coffee pot and running it under the tap. She fills it to the brim and then pours the water into the chamber. "It's Heaven. How could they do this?"

He's officially freaked out now. The last thing they need is a demon teetering on the edge between crying a river and fucking insane. Sariel'd better get her ass back ASAP.

"They kick us out for wanting things to be a little different and then they turn around and pull this bullshit? Where is the justice in any of that?" Mora shoves the empty pot under the drip and presses the button to heat the water. "Where's the justice?"

Dean glances into the living room. "Uh, crammed in the house? We're taking care of it, remember?"

"We shouldn't have to!" She shouts, whirling around and fixing him with red-rimmed, exhaustion-smudged eyes. "We shouldn't have to!"

"Shut the hell up! My brother's trying to sleep!" He hisses back, making a cutting motion with his hand.

She stares, lips parting. "They cast me down! They cast us all down for even daring to think for ourselves, and this -- The Metatron is the corrupt one, not me! Not Lucifer! And yet, who rotted in the bowels of Hell for eons?!"

"I did!" Dean chokes out, heart wrenching in his chest. For a second he thinks he's totally having a heart attack. And wouldn't that just be perfect? Kick the bucket right before the fight. "We all did because of that bastard! Is that what you want to hear? Fine! You're right: we shouldn't have to. But guess what? We have to. So suck it up, drink your coffee, and wait for your girlfriend to come back. Bitching about it's not going to solve a thing."

Hurt and anger are at war on Mora's face, but to Dean's relief she shuts her trap and looks away. He counts it as a win, but it's a pretty hollow victory.

"Please keep the noise level to a minimum," a new voice says, and they both turn to the hulking angel in the doorway. "Rose Stanton and Beckett Lassiter are sleeping."

"Seriously? Her name's Beckett?" Dean can't help but ask.

Mora waves off the angel's answering frown, an apology splashed all over her face. "Yes. I'm sorry. We'll be --"

The coffee mug slips from Mora's hand and slams into the floor tiles, exploding over Dean's bare feet in ceramic, sound, and leftover coffee. He jumps back in surprise.

"Nice going, butterfingers! I'm not cleaning it --" He looks up at Mora and stops. She drags in staccato breaths, beads of sweat dotting her suddenly pale face, her eyes wide and unseeing. If Dean were to pass her looking like that on the street, he'd say she was drunk, or high, or just plain batshit nuts. Maybe even possessed. And then he'd continue on to wherever he'd been going, but he'd keep an eye on the local paper for the duration of his stay. Now, in this context, she just looks desperately terrified.

"What?" Dean asks, worried. Oh crap, if the war's already started they are so screwed. "What is it?!"

The angel in the doorway is gripping the frame tightly, the wood splintering beneath his sausage fingers. "It is quiet."

Voices start rising in the other room, all of the angels murmuring and then talking and then shouting, escalating into a fucking hysteria that Dean really can't deal with without having had some form of caffeine. He glares at Mora for drinking it all. The coffeemaker won't have another pot ready for, like, an hour.

"It is quiet," the angel says again, urgently.

"It was! What the hell is going on?!" Dean shouts, trying to grab Mora's attention by waving his hand in front of her face. She doesn't react; she's not even tracking.

"Dean."

He turns around to see Castiel standing there, sleep-rumpled but wide-eyed and alert. There's something in his gaze that looks too much like fear and Dean can't find the words to demand an explanation. They stick in his throat and block his airway, leaving him choking like a goddamn pussy.

"Heaven has made its move." Castiel grimaces, like the words physically hurt him to say. He opens his mouth to continue, then closes it, and looks down at the floor.

Sam walks into the kitchen -- or doesn't walk so much as Gabriel pushes him past the monster hulking in the doorway -- and turns a devastated, shocked gaze onto Dean. His lips are quivering. "Dean -- they… Hell's gone."

That makes so much sense. "What?"

"Massacred. Slaughtered. Wiped out. Blown away." Gabriel surveys the room, as serious as Dean's ever seen him. His vessel is a total short-ass, but somehow in this moment he's tall, looming, mouth pinched tight in rage and loss. He doesn't look like any of the baby-faced boys in armor that the books all claim is Gabriel; he's terrible and amazing to witness. There's a force around him, all hidden lightning and tempest, that marks him for what he really is.

Dean feels very small and unimportant compared to Gabriel, which he doesn't like at all.

"Wait, but --" Dean's trying and failing to catch up. "How can it be gone? That's ridiculous!"

"It is silent, Dean," Castiel says wearily. "The screaming -- a great hush has descended. I can't hear or feel anything. It's as if… it simply disappeared."

Sam swallows hard, mouth opening at the end to release a noise that sounds like it's punched out of him. "What about all the people down there? The, uh --"

Mora drags in a shuddery breath and rakes her hands through her hair. "Billions of souls just -- winked out of existence. Poof. Like they were never there."

Gabriel pauses, stares at Mora as if seeing her for the first time, and then looks to Dean. "Two seconds."

He blips out.

Dean stares at the space Gabriel had occupied as if it'll give him an answer or two, but it doesn't. It's just scuffed tiled flooring. Distantly, he knows he probably looks a bit spacey, but he takes a second to step away from himself and try to categorize just what it is he's feeling. It's not fear or relief that simmers in his belly, fanning out into his limbs until it's overtaken him.

Hell's gone.

Every time he thinks he might have a handle on whatever his emotions are, they dance away and leave him reaching out for nothing. For all intents and purposes, it'd been his home for forty years. He'd been gainfully employed for a decade. He'd met people, learned about their lives, their sins, and had been forced to share his own. There isn't much to differentiate the experience from a life on the Mortal Plane, except there's a distinct lack of public disembowelment and torture. But it had been his home, and now it's gone.

"Dean."

Castiel tentatively places his hand on Dean's shoulder, fingers just brushing the scar on his bicep, and squeezes lightly, grounding him.

"Yeah," Dean mutters, because there really isn't anything to say. In the living room, the angel brigade is getting antsy, making noise about whatever's going on downstairs.

Sam steps forward, expression twisted somewhere between sympathy and uncertainty, but not pity -- Winchesters don't do pity. He opens his mouth to say something, probably to ask if Dean needs to take a moment to himself away from prying eyes, but Gabriel appears in a rush of mountain air.

"Well," Gabriel says, falsely cheerful, his expression tight with sorrow. "That's the game, kiddies."

"It's gone." Dean feels sick. "Where are all the -- the souls?"

They'd all been in Hell for a reason, but to wipe them out entirely… It's somehow worse than being tortured for eternity. He's not sure why that is, but it is. He'd rather be tormented for all time than not have been at all. Nothingness is a scary concept.

Gabriel turns an unimpressed glare on him. "I don't know where they are. I would've stopped to ask, but -- gosh, the party was already over! I know how to clear a room, I tell you."

"That doesn't explain where all the souls went!" Mora explodes suddenly, rounding on Gabriel like he doesn't have the power to completely atomize her. "Where are the souls?!"

"In Heaven, to be used in the fight against us."

Confused, Dean turns his head.

Oh, of fucking course.

"Nice to see you have a life outside the theme park," Dean says to the carnival operator from his dreams, and Raguel smiles. At Raguel's side, Sariel blinks tiredly at him, her hair oily and face ruddy with dirt and what looks like dried tracks of water.

"I apologize for my tardiness," Raguel says brightly, without a care in the world. "But I had found myself trapped in the stoma of a rhododendron leaf in Uttrakhand, and Sariel was kind enough to find me."

"Raguel," Castiel whispers, immediately bowing his head in reverence. Dean frowns and knocks him with a shoulder.

"Dude, cut it out."

"Dean is right, Castiel. You, of all, have no reason to bow to me. If anything, I should be bowing to you as the one who saved our Lord." Raguel is smiling, but it's not creepy like the Metatron. It's right. It's genuine, and it puts Dean immediately at ease. The dude's good people, probably hilarious after a beer or two. He wouldn't mind kicking back when this is all over, Castiel and Sam at his sides, chilling on Bobby's front porch with Raguel, splitting a forty between them.

Except, wait.

He turns to Castiel, surprised. "You saved the Lord? Who the hell else have you been rescuing in your off-time?"

Something brushes against his shoulder, and Sam's lips twitch as he stares down Raguel and Sariel. Sariel looks like she's two seconds from falling over. Discreetly, Mora walks over and takes her by the arm, leading her into the living room to sit down. They follow Mora and Sariel out of the kitchen, and Dean watches as an angel vacates a place on Bobby's couch for her. Sariel collapses into the seat, head falling back and eyes closing. Gabriel forces another angel out of its seat, sitting next to her and watching the proceedings in uncharacteristic silence, absently placing a hand on her leg, a gesture of familial comfort. Mora perches on the arm of the couch next to her, her hand resting on Sariel's head.

There's a creak from the floorboards in the doorway as Bobby steps into the living room, wary and armed with a well-concealed gun. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam give a quick shake of his head and Bobby relaxes.

When Dean brings his attention back to Raguel, he jerks a thumb at Castiel. "Who'd he save and why hasn't he been rewarded yet?"

Raguel smiles disarmingly, and something about it makes Dean's stomach bottom out. This is what he's been waiting for since day one: the other shoe is about to drop. It's about to come crashing, any minute now.

"Do you know how Heaven was created?"

Dean's not sure if the question is directed at him or to the room at large, but either way, he has no fucking clue. "Dude, can we talk about Hell for a second? If everyone's in Heaven --"

"Indulge me," Raguel interrupts. "Do you know how Heaven was created?"

"God just flipped a light switch, right?"

Raguel grins, amused. "An apt metaphor, if crude. There was nothing, and then there was everything. But creation is only as good as its maker. And that maker is gone."

The room inhales, ready to scream, but Raguel holds up a hand and everyone falls silent again.

"I said that maker. The one who set things in motion has been gone longer than time has existed. But I was there, when the Maker breathed life into me, into Metatron, and called us angel. I was there when the Maker set the stars and the planets, when the Maker spun blue and green and made this world. And I was there when the Maker left.

"But before the Maker left, thought was made into Law, and the Sovereignty of the realm called Βασιλεία τῶν Ουρανῶν was decided, for a new creation was to be born and they would inherit the Throne."

Oh, for the love of fuck, what is with angels and their need for vague, cryptic speeches? He had enough of it when he first met Castiel, and then with the rest of the angels and demons he'd come across, all spouting off about prophecies and Righteous Men and Lucifer and whatever random bullshit they could confuse him with.

"Buddy!" Dean shouts, echoing in the living room, and Castiel stiffens against him in warning. "Just get to the point! I feel like I've been listening to you talk since I was eleven years old."

Raguel doesn't strike him down for insolence, like he probably should. Instead, he grins and laughs a little, the corners of his vessel's eyes crinkling.

"I've been waiting for you, Dean. No beating around the bush with you, no pleasantries, just tell it like it is."

Raguel holds out his hand, and the white piece of paper that Dean had rescued from the Ferris wheel appears. He holds it up for the entire room to see.

"When the Maker forged Heaven, it was in preparation for those who would someday rule it. Seven names, all predestined for greatness, were put on a List. From the moment Humanity was created, I knew all that would assume the Throne once the Maker departed."

Sam jumps on it immediately. "Wait a second! You're saying -- You're saying that God isn't a being, but a position!"

Raguel turns his head and smiles at Sam. "Smart boy. You are the brother, yes? You are very tall."

"Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?!" This is getting ridiculous. No one is saying what needs to be said, because he's trying to wrap his mind around what Raguel's implying, but it's too big. He can feel his mind shattering under the strain of it. "Okay, so God is a position -- what does that have to do with killing Jesus?!"

Raguel hands him the List, and Dean glances over it once more. Like in his dream, his and Jesus's names are the last two on the paper. Jesus's, like all the ones before that Dean can't read, is crossed out.

"Jesus was not the Messiah," Raguel says softly, and out of the corner of his eye Dean sees Gabriel sit up straight. "Jesus was God."

Castiel lets out a low noise, the moan of a wounded animal that still has some fight left in it, and Dean moves a little closer. He doesn't touch, though. He knows that feeling, the one of shock and horror and confusion and helplessness, how it feels like you're being stretched to the breaking point, a rubber band pulled until it starts coming apart somewhere in the middle. When he gets like that, he doesn't want anyone to lay a hand on him, too hypersensitive and too skittish to not accidentally hurt someone, and that's just him. An angel in that position would be devastating.

"How could he be killed, then?" Gabriel pipes up from the couch, eyes hard, obviously struggling to accept this new reality and move on. "If he was -- He was God. How?"

Raguel presses his lips together, smile fading. He looks at his shoes, a pair of worn-in sandals, his tanned toes wiggling absently. His vessel was probably one of those new-age hippies. "He was at the end of His reign, and thus the power He had been imbued with was fading. He was becoming mortal again, and His soul was vulnerable. Jesus was days from Naming his successor. A successor that the Metatron tried to keep from taking the Throne, so he himself could assume power."

There's a gasp behind him. It's Becks. He can't turn around to ask what her problem is, because Raguel's captured his gaze and refuses to let it go.

"The successor was already ingrained in prophecy; a man touched by constant tragedy, shaped by it, and yet still retaining a pure soul to rival almost all on Earth."

No.

"A man fighting against the creatures of Hell, alongside his brother and kin, for whom he spared death by descending into the Pit. A Righteous Man."

The way Sam's staring at him is starting to scare him, because he can't read the expression on Sam's face, and he knows every expression that Sam has ever used. He doesn't know this one.

Raguel nods. "In order to keep the man from taking his rightful place as God, the Metatron dispatched an angel into the Pit to eliminate the problem, never taking into consideration that the angel might disobey orders and instead lift the man up."

"So he killed Jesus before the… successor could be Named," Sariel says quietly from the couch, head now resting against Mora's side. Her eyes slide open and fixate on Dean with unerring accuracy.

"Before he could Name Dean as God," Sam fills in the blank for them, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. "Dean is… Dean is…"

Raguel smiles, but it's Bobby, hoarse and heavy, that finishes the sentence. "God."

There's a high-pitched static noise that fills his head, building up into a TV blizzard that damn near whites out everything. It's too big. It's just too big and he can't fucking deal. Someone's hyperventilating, far away, and distantly he realizes that it's him. His vision is too blurry to distinguish features on anyone, but he recognizes Sam's hulking frame as he tries to reach out to Dean.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!!" He bends over, hands gripping his head, and tries to focus. But he can't, because he's God. He's God.

God.

That is such bullshit. This whole thing is just one more way to fuck with his life, to see how many times he can crack until he shatters completely. Up until a few months ago, he hadn't even believed in God, any god, and now he is -- "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this isn't real. This is just --"

He can't finish the sentence. He's crying. In front of other people. Any other time, he'd kill himself out of embarrassment, but he can't even care about it now, because he's suddenly The Guy. In charge of everything. Of the human race, the planet, every single star in space, and everything in between.

The guy that made the List must have been cracked out of his mind, thinking Dean Winchester, some fucked-up human manwhore with fraudulent credit cards and an unholy love for his car, would be a good candidate for the job. The Job.

"I couldn't keep a goldfish alive," he gasps, face wet and cold. "How can you even expect me --"

It's just too big. It's too big to handle.

But.

But he lifts his head and finds the gaze of the whole room -- an entire garrison of angels, of Sariel and Mora, of Becks and Rose, of Gabriel, of Raguel, of Bobby, of Sam, of Castiel -- on him, reverent and solemn, waiting. Waiting on him to suck it up and deal. Waiting for him to tell them what to do.

Te nombro, Dean Winchester.

I name you, Dean Winchester.

It takes a few minutes, but he manages to wrangle his breathing into something a little more manageable, and a few more minutes and he can see clearly again. He's hot, jittery, but he shoves it down until he can't feel it anymore. Until he can look his brother in the eye and not feel like he's going to explode at the tears on Sam's cheeks.

Okay.

"I need five minutes."

Raguel says nothing, simply nods, and Dean knows why he got the name 'Friend of God', because only a real friend wouldn't ask if he were okay. Because he's not, but he has to be. This isn't about him anymore. This is about everything else.

"Five minutes," he says loudly, voice cracking. He clears his throat and looks around the room, making sure to meet everyone's eyes. "Five minutes, and then we gear up for the biggest fucking coup d'état that Heaven's ever seen. Just… give me five minutes."

Dean takes a step back, then practically bolts out of the room. He takes the stairs two at a time and reaches the bathroom in the nick of time, dropping to his knees and puking up everything he's ever eaten. He thinks he sees some pop rocks in there from when he was nine. Once everything's out of his system, he dry-heaves for a little while, tears rolling down his cheeks while his stomach rebels without any kind of weaponry.

He falls back onto his ass, coughing weakly, and sits back with a wheeze. And then he just drifts. Just floats away, filled with helium and cut from his strings.

A strong, gentle hand presses him back by his forehead, and he's lowered to lay in a warm lap. The hand slips down to cover his eyes, shielding him from the after image of the bathroom, and he exhales. Safe. Tired. But mostly safe. Small, and safe, for the time being.

"The first time I saw you, there was a girl on the Rack, and you were cutting into her. I had never heard such screams before, not in my forty year search, or on Earth, or in Heaven. She was so small, so fragile, and I did nothing. She pleaded for me to save her, to take her back to her mother so she could tell her she was sorry and she would never pick up matches again. And I did nothing.

"You removed her limbs, leaving behind a torso only, and then removed her insides, taking such care not to damage them. She was no longer screaming, but still. And once it was over, you took the shell of her body and placed her on… something soft. And when you gazed upon me, you released a sigh and said 'finally'; you knew the reason for my visit, for the weapon in my hand.

"After what you had done to that child's soul, I should not have hesitated the way I did. I should have done my duty and returned promptly to Heaven where I would await new orders, or be sent to the front lines to aid my brothers and sisters. But… I looked. I looked at you, into you, and found the brightest soul I had ever been privy to, and I wept of it. Never before had I been so close to that which I was. Never before had I felt so blessed, so sacred and precious. Even in the deepest reaches of Hell, I had found something Holy. I had found you, and I could not lift my blade."

Castiel stops speaking for a long moment, saying nothing about the steady stream of tears beneath his palm and fingers, and Dean just continues to float. Until Castiel grabs hold of one of his strings and gently brings him back.

"And when I could not lift my blade, I decided to simply lift you. I cut the chains that bound you, took you into my grasp, and flew until I could no longer hear their cries. Only yours, begging me to save them instead. Fighting me every moment, thrashing so I could not fly straight. Even when I remade your body from the earth and sky, you cursed and hit and bit at me.

"I pushed you into slumber so that you could continue to heal, back down into the ground so your sleep would be uninterrupted, and I had to look. One last time, I had to know if what I had seen in the Pit had not been… folly. But, no. Your soul was blinding, brighter than even Heaven itself, and I knew that I would love you until I was no more."

Castiel's thumb strokes a slow, hypnotic path across his temple, the rest of his hand still hiding Dean's eyes.

"You are coarse, and rude. You care too much and respect far too little. You never think before you act or make a judgment, and your instincts are not as sharp as you think they are. You treat me like I am a child, like a man, and refuse to acknowledge that I am neither. I am disgusted by the foods you put into your mouth, but charmed by that same portal. You are imperfect, and the most beautiful creature ever made. I do not know why you were chosen at the dawn of creation, and yet I know exactly why. You, Dean Winchester. There could be no other candidate."

He shivers, and Castiel withdraws his hand. Dean dazedly opens his eyes and sheds one more tear at the wobbly, awed, lovestruck smile on Castiel's face.

"Your five minutes are up."

Dean allows Castiel to help him to his feet, and he stands on shaky legs, feeling wrung-out and empty. New. Cleansed. Ready to be filled with something bigger, something more than he ever thought possible. The arm Castiel wraps around the small of his back is unyielding, completely certain in the way that Castiel always is, and he's absurdly grateful for it. So much that he stops them from leaving the bathroom, just for a moment, and presses his face into the warmth of Castiel's neck. Just to breathe in the sharp, clear mountain air and to revel in the fact that Castiel is all his. That Castiel will love him until he's no more.

"Dean?"

They can do this. He can do this.

Dean pulls away and smiles at Castiel, big and painful and beautiful. "I'm good, Cas. It's big, and it's stupid, but if anyone's going to have the chance to kick the Metatron's ass it's going to be me."

The corners of Castiel's lips twitch, then broaden until Castiel's full-out grinning like it's going to split his face in two.

They're beaming like idiots at each other, unable to stop and look away, or even make it down the stairs until Gabriel shouts up, "So, if you're done fucking in the bathroom like a couple of heroin junkies, you want to come downstairs so we can straighten this mess out? Hey, thanks!"

Castiel helps him to his feet and is about to pull away when Dean's hand closes around Castiel's wrist, pulling him close. He captures Castiel's lips in a rough kiss, the skin of Castiel's cheeks forever clean-shaven and frozen in time, is soft against his own when he angles their heads and deepens it. It needs to be savored, memorized, because the minute they leave the room everything is going to change. And he needs this, just in case.

Castiel is the one that breaks it, hand cupping Dean's cheek and bringing their foreheads together, just for a moment, just a little reprieve before he opens the door.

I love you. Here, at the end of everything, I love you.

"Are you reading my mind, Cas?" He nuzzles Castiel's cheek, dragging the tip of his nose across the smooth swell of skin.

"Yes," Castiel breathes and tilts his head to brush his mouth against Dean's. "I am."

Good.

With a breath, Dean steps back, away, and opens the door, holding Castiel's gaze all the while. Castiel stands there, flushed and rumpled, his dress shirt off and clad in only the undershirt and his slacks, confused and exhausted and the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen.

"I love you." Dean stops, licks his lips, and swallows. "I just… wanted you to hear it."

Castiel smiles wanly, but genuinely. "I knew already, but thank you. For saying it."

Heart pounding, suddenly bashful, Dean drops his gaze but not his grin. "Cas, shut up."

They leave the room and take the stairs together, Dean first and Castiel a step behind. They're going to have to change that; Castiel shouldn't be trailing him like a dog after its master. This isn't Heaven anymore; he gets to walk with the grown-ups now.

"Gabriel, get yourself some fucking tact," Dean snarls, but it's all in good humor. He can't even keep the smile off his face. He must look fucking deranged. "And you have to do what I say, because I'm God."

Sam is there to meet him and Castiel at the bottom of the stairs, smiling widely with relief, and Dean doesn't even fight the hug that he's pulled into, just wraps his arms around Sam as tightly as he can and holds on. When they break apart, Sam grins at him. "Don't think this means that I'm going to call you 'My Lord' or anything."

"Bitch, that's disrespect. You're disrespecting God. How do you even sleep at night? Say five Hail Marys and fifty Our Dean Who Art So Awesomes."

Bobby hugs him, too, then slaps him upside the head. "I ain't bowing to you, idgit. And I certainly ain't goin' to church, either."

Dean snorts. "Not even if I make all the churches into bars? That's my first royal decree: worship starts at 5 o'clock, wherever you are. Drink this beer, for it is my blood, and eat this delicious cherry pie, for it is my body and I fucking say so. I think I might have some fun with this."

Sam rolls his eyes and punches him in the shoulder. "What the hell was the Maker thinking? We're all doomed."

Raguel is waiting for them in the living room still, Gabriel's garrison flanking him. He's smiling, too. Fuck, everyone's smiling. All that's missing is some weed and Three Dog Night singing 'Joy to the World'.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Raguel says, and Dean refrains from saying 'but you did so well before, why stop now?' He has willpower. "But you are not God yet."

Sam looks surprised. "But he's on the List."

Gabriel walks into the room, the List in hand. He looks at it like it's a fucking laundry list, but the reverent way his fingers press into it tells a different story. "Except Homeboy didn't actually Name Dean."

"And in order to be instated, Dean must actually sit on the Throne," Raguel adds solemnly.

Dean throws up his hands and stalks away, because this is just the story of his life. As soon as something starts going right, something has to come along and fuck it up. He spins around and shrugs dramatically. "And the Throne's in Heaven."

"Duh." Gabriel rolls his eyes. "So, either we fight our way through Heaven's armies and get you to the Throne, or we sit around with our thumbs up our asses and wait for the Metatron's attack dogs to come after us."

No. "No. No, we're not just gonna lie down. I could care less about being on the Throne, but there's no way I'm letting that smiling fuck get away with this. He tried to have me destroyed in Hell! He killed Jesus! He started a fucking war! I'm not letting him win this. So we bring the fight to them. I want to storm Heaven and let everyone know that their fearless leader is a murderer and a -- the guy who kills a king so he can take control?"

"An usurper?" Castiel suggests, and Dean points at him gratefully.

"Yeah! That." He surveys the room and puts it to them. "So? Who's mad as hell and doesn't want to take it anymore?"

When he doesn't get an immediate response, he doesn't panic. When he doesn't get a response at all, then he starts to panic. He's that kid in school who doesn't say anything the whole year, then blurts out something he thinks is totally genius and spends the last few weeks of school getting jeered at by the other kids. Fuck, this is awkward.

He turns to Castiel, hoping for some kind of back-up. "Cas? What about you? You with me?"

Castiel stares at him for a long moment, blue eyes turned gray stone, not giving anything away. He's not the lover he'd brought to orgasm, and he's not the bathroom confessor who proclaimed his love for Dean. He's not the angel that pulled him out, and he's not the man named Jimmy Novak. Dean doesn't recognize this thing in front of him.

Finally, Castiel steps away from Dean and faces the room at large.

"I am not nearly as old as many of you, and I have not experienced many of the things you have. I know I have little right to speak in the face of your accomplishments and rank, but I have seen what Humanity is capable of. I know you are hesitant to rebel for them, to make them your cause, but I know our faith is not misplaced. There is no one more suited to hold absolute dominion than Dean Winchester, who I Name."

Dean's mouth goes dry as Castiel turns to face him, stopped cold at the tears running down Castiel's cheeks, dripping over the smiling mouth that Dean had kissed not hours ago.

"I Name you, Dean Winchester."

"I Name you, Dean Winchester," Bobby announces, about as dainty as a sack of bricks to the back of the head. He comes to stand to Dean's right.

Sam tosses an arm across his shoulders and pulls him in tightly. "I Name you, Dean Winchester."

Sariel stands and smiles. "I Name you, Dean Winchester."

"I Name you, Dean Winchester." Mora nods at him, sliding her arm through Sariel's and twining their fingers together.

There's a loud displacement of air and Dean turns, startled, as Raguel's wings snap open, two lines of electricity that branch into ten more. Raguel, with his stupid sandals and soft, disarming smile, bows his head in deference. "I Name you, Dean Winchester."

Gabriel makes a face, like he was just forced to smell his own fart. "Really? Do I have to? Fine, but I can't even tell you how much I know I'll regret this." But he's grinning. "I Name you, Dean Winchester. I guess."

Becks and Rose rise together, flanked by their fan club, and beam at him. Rose even waves.

"I Name you, Dean Winchester."

"I Name you, Dean Winchester."

One by one, the angels of Gabriel's garrison step forward and pledge their loyalty to him, some bowing before him, some kneeling, some comfortable enough not to show any other outward sign of respect, but it's enough. It's more than enough. It's overwhelming.

It's everything.

They're going to win.

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