Named {PART THREE, a}

[mclachland]

He sets the alarm clock on his phone for an hour before dawn, but he lies awake most of the night watching the moon trek slowly across the sky until it disappears behind the window frame. His phone lies on its side and every so often he reaches out to press a button, illuminating the screen and keeping track of the time. He holds it in his hand from 2:59 to 4:01, wearing down the battery to keep it lit. Waiting. Just in case.

His dad used to tell him stories about the Devil's Hour, how humans were most vulnerable during the three o'clock hour, probably only for the sake of instilling a sense of self-preservation in him. He's never been able to sleep between three and four, unable to get comfortable with the thin rod of unease that slides down his spine, always watching the shadows on the walls of whatever motel he'd be holed up in, muscles coiled and hand wrapped around a bottle of holy water underneath his pillow. Ready.

It's worse now. So much worse, so completely possible now. Before, in those countless motel rooms, he had Sam to protect, and maybe -- just maybe -- someone watching out for them. There's no one now. The angels are a bunch of pricks who couldn't give a shit if Dean bit the big one, God's M.I.A. and Jesus Christ is dead.

Dean rolls onto his stomach, cheek resting against an old pillow dug up from the floor of a closet, and inhales must and probably a billion dust mites. He doesn't want to get up. For once, he wants to shut the alarm off, roll over, and sleep for a year. Let the only demons he encounters be the ones his mind conjures up.

He reaches for the phone and presses a random key, wincing away from the light of the screen. It's 4:41. In six minutes, the alarm will go off and he'll have to drag himself out of the tepid warmth of Bobby's guest bed to face the dawn.

Fuck. He had been almost, sort of, maybe comfortable, even with the loose spring digging into the small of his back.

Heaving himself out of bed, Dean reaches for the shirt he'd discarded last night and tugs it down over his head, pulling up the jeans he'd slept in, the denim warm and soft against his skin. He smoothes the material of the shirt and absently scratches his stomach as he surveys the room. Still small and claustrophobic as it's always been the many nights he's slept here, but it's a familiar place, and Dean doesn't have too many of those.

The floor boards creak beneath his bare feet as he makes his way downstairs, hoping to get a pot of coffee on before Bobby gets up and tries to do it himself. He loves the man like a father, but he'd rather take another thirty years on the rack before voluntarily subjecting his colon to that shit.

It takes him a few minutes, searching the cabinets for the coffee mugs (Bobby's been rearranging shit again, the bastard), to take note of the other presence in the kitchen with him.

The shock of dark hair is a dead giveaway, but it shouldn't be, because it's attached to a head currently resting against the table top. Dean gets about three feet away before he gives up and just stares. Castiel pays no heed, just continues lying slumped over, eyes closed. Dean can't really see if he's breathing or not, but either way it's fucking creepy. Castiel doesn't sleep. Ever.

But there he is, dead to the world.

"Christo…?" Can't be too careful. But when Castiel just keeps not-breathing peacefully, Dean feels like a tool.

He feels like a dick, too, because he needs to wake Castiel up. As much as he'd like to let the poor bastard catch some shut-eye (and he'd been under the impression that angels didn't do any of that petty human shit, like sleep), he's not going to let Castiel be late for Jesus Christ's funeral. It'd be bad form, or something.

Dean walks silently until his toes brush against the leg of Castiel's chair and places a gentle hand in between Castiel's shoulder blades. He keeps his touch purposely light. Sleeping angels are a new thing -- who knows what one would do if startled awake. Sam flails after being shaken awake; angels probably wipe out entire cities.

"Cas," he whispers, spreading his fingers out, chasing the warmth Castiel radiates. "Hey, Cas. Wake up, chuckles, you've got places to be."

Castiel doesn't so much as twitch.

Dean frowns, slowly sliding his hand up to the vulnerable skin at the nape of Castiel's neck, the place too intimate for such a casual touch, but he can't pull his hand away. He feels the rise of gooseflesh beneath the pads of his fingers, the tiny hairs shivering to life and rising to meet his touch. It's a small miracle that Castiel doesn't wake up to the sound of Dean's heartbeat, so loud in the silence, or maybe it's the blood rushing in his ears that Dean hears.

"Cas. C'mon, dude, wakey wakey."

Finally, there's the twitch he'd been looking for, a quiet thump under his ring finger. He smiles.

Next thing he knows, his chin's smacking hard against the kitchen floor, his arm is wrenched behind his back so tightly he can feel something pop, and there's a knee digging into the back of his neck. 'What the fuck' doesn't even begin to cover it.

"Ow! Sonuvabitch!" He grits out, huffing spittle out of the corner of his mouth onto the floor, which means it ends up smeared all over his cheek. "Fuck! Cas! It's me!"

The hand clenched around his wrist loosens just slightly. "Dean."

"Morning, sunshine," Dean snarls, kicking uselessly. He's released suddenly and winces at the protest his muscles send up as they stretch. The weight pressing him into the floor disappears without warning, and he coughs, reaching back with his good arm to rub his sore neck. He pulls himself to his knees. "God dammit, Cas!"

"I apologize," Castiel says, shoulders tense and arms held tight against his sides. He doesn't even say anything about the blaspheme.

"Dude," Dean mutters, rolling his shoulder. Whatever had popped out pops back in -- he can hear it, and no matter how many times he's popped something back into place it never stops being gross. "Next time I'll just let you sleep through shit."

Castiel fixes him with a wide-eyed stare. "Sleep. I was asleep." The words are in his normal flat tone, but the incredulity is easy to pick out.

"Yeah." Dean rolls his shoulder again. Ow. "Thought you didn't sleep."

"I don't," Castiel says.

"Obviously you do," Dean says against the dull ache that lingers in his jaw. With his luck, he's probably got a hairline fracture. Perfect.

He drops down into the chair Castiel just lunged out of with a faint groan, gazing up at Castiel and trying to read the blank expression there. He can't. This is the Castiel he knows; the Castiel of the past four days -- the one who wants to go to Hawaii, who stands up to an archangel for Sam, who cries when a friend dies -- has retreated behind his stone-faced mask. Something in Dean relaxes at the familiarity of it, but something else tightens to the point of pain. Nothing new here. There's never been a middle ground with Castiel. The guy deals only in absolutes.

"So," Dean says, disgustingly alert for having just had his ass handed to him at quarter to five in the morning. "Today's the day."

"Yes." A beat, then, "You are awake early."

"Yep."

Castiel cocks his head to the side, standing awkwardly before Dean, strangely supplicant and Dean can't help but wonder where he's seen this before. It takes him a moment to realize that Castiel is standing before him like a peasant before his king. Like an angel before God. Yeah, no, none of that, thanks. Dean hastily gets to his feet and goes back to the cabinets in hopes of finding a mug. He needs coffee, STAT. Five more minutes and he'll start chewing on the grinds.

"You're anxious," Castiel observes, just as Dean slams open a cabinet and finds an empty jam jar. Score.

"Well, you're going to Jesus's funeral. Figured I'd be here for moral support, or whatever." He opens a jug of Folgers, the best part of waking up, then turns on the tap and waits until hot water spits over his fingers. He's too lazy to boil it.

He can feel Castiel watching him as he fills the jar three-quarters of the way and then drops a heaping spoonful of grinds into it, stirring quickly. It's going to taste like shit, but it won't be Bobby's level of shit.

Castiel takes a step. The floor creaks out a warning, and Dean turns, leaning back against the sink. "You wish to go?"

The jar freezes on its way to Dean's mouth. "What?"

"You woke up early." Castiel says it like it explains everything and Dean's a fucking moron. "Did you want to go with me to the Mourning?"

Dean gulps his coffee -- it is shit -- and gazes at Castiel over the rim of the jar. "You want me to go?"

"Do you want to go?"

Oh, they are not playing this game. Not this early. "Do you want me to?"

"Do you want me to want --"

"Cas," he interrupts, because this is too 'Who's on first?' for five in the morning. "Am I going? Yes or no."

If the answer's no, he won't know what the fuck to do. He set his alarm for the ass-crack of dawn on a day where he didn't need to do anything. Where he could have spent the morning asleep, making up for the hour he missed between three and four, not to mention whatever time he's racked up over his life. It's the stupidest, smallest thing, but he set his alarm. For someone other than Sam. If the answer's no, everything's going to change.

This must be what it's like to play Russian Roulette. With a rocket launcher.

Castiel's face remains impassive -- which is nothing new -- but his fingers flex once. "Yes."

Whatever it is he had been worrying about like a twelve-year old girl changes anyway. It shifts, the barest hint of warmth, and settles. He's never been the one with the words -- that's always been Sam's thing -- but right now he wants to be. It doesn't last long, but he wants it.

"Okay," Dean murmurs into his shit coffee."Then let's crank this shit to eleven. Where is it?"

"Resolute Bay," Castiel says reverently, eyes drawn to the window as first light breaks across the sky, a thin line of blood striking the deep blue like a knife slash. "Are you ready?"

"Let me leave a note or something." He sends Sam a text instead. Gone 2 JCs funeral. Im awesome. Be back soon.

When he clicks out of the screen and snaps his phone shut, Castiel holds up two fingers and Dean's asshole puckers. He resigns himself to not shitting for the next week and then gestures to himself.

"Do I need to change?"

Castiel looks at him, uncomprehending. "Change?"

He's in the shirt and jeans from yesterday, creases and sweat galore, and the last thing he needs to do is piss off the angels more by showing up to the Messiah's funeral looking like Schmucky the Clown.

Castiel drags his eyes down Dean's wrinkled AC/DC tee-shirt, gaze as warm and palpable as a touch, and Dean shivers in the lukewarm early morning air. Oh, shit, his nipples just hardened. A hysterical giggle works its way up his throat and he ruthlessly smothers it, swallowing it back down. He's standing in a kitchen at five in the morning with a rebel angel, about to go to Jesus Christ's funeral, and all he can think is, 'Ding! Chicken's done.'

"Your attire is irrelevant, Dean." The hand lifts, two fingers extended, and Dean closes his eyes and braces himself for it. There's the gentle brush of skin against his forehead, surprisingly warm and soft, an almost-but-not-quite caress, and his eyes startle open because soft and warm is not something he's ever associated with an angel. Castiel is standing in his personal space -- nothing new -- but his heart starts pounding anyway when he feels the puff of not-breath against his lips.

"Are you ready?" Castiel asks, and maybe it's just Dean but it sounds quieter than normal. Softer. Warmer.

"Yeah," he says roughly, closing his eyes as the caress becomes a push and then --


"We're here."

Oh, god, he's going to puke. Just, everywhere. He hopes Castiel brought them to the door instead of right in the middle of the festivities, or someone's not going to be happy when he upchucks all over their dress. The ground is solid beneath his feet, with a little give but it holds him up when he puts his head between his knees and breathes in and out.

Dean groans, then opens his eyes and stares at his feet. Which are wet. Clear water laps lazily at his boots, soaking into the material right through to the socks. It's fucking freezing. Awesome.

"Nice landing," he snarls and scuttles onto dry land. In this case sand, which gets all over his wet boots. He liked those boots. "Jesus, it's cold here. Where'd you take us, fucking Antarctica?"

So far, this is shaping up to be the worst funeral ever and he turns to tell Castiel as much, complete with some choice hand gestures, but the first syllable sticks in his throat. Castiel doesn't seem to notice he's standing ankle-deep in water or that it's soaking into his pants and creeping upward.

"Cas, what are you…" Dean follows Castiel's gaze, and wow. Okay, now that's pretty cool. Impressive, even. He laughs, breathless, because damn. "Is that -- is that just for today?"

Blue eyes made lightning by the dawn strike him. "There is a human saying that eternity began with the sea." Castiel looks back out over the bay, lost in memory, nostalgia tugging at the corners of his lips until he's almost smiling. It's not the smile from the porch when he was hysterical with Jesus's death and it's not the one he reserves solely for Dean. This is something that Dean was never meant to see or know. "He used to say it began here, at Resolute Bay."

Dean turns away, unable to stomach that look, and keeps his eyes on the sky. It's getting brighter, louder, Incan gold chasing fire across the expanse. "And, what? This is where it ends?"

"It's fitting."

"No," Dean snorts, tearing his eyes away. "It's a shitty metaphor. He'd probably hate this."

Castiel looks at him as if that answer wasn't the one he'd been expecting, just this side of offensive, but instead of taking Dean's dumb ass back to Bobby's he ducks his head and… smiles. For Dean. "You're right. He probably would."

"So, he didn't leave a will? He didn't tell you guys how he wanted to go out?"

The smile falls away and Dean mentally kicks himself. Nice one, Winchester. Why not jump up and down on the dude's grave while you're at it?

"He would have lived forever," Castiel reminds Dean quietly, turning away from the dawn and gazing over the beach behind Dean, eyes unfocused and clouded with hurt. "We had no need for instructions."

Dean glances over his shoulder, pauses, and then turns completely around. His heart rate quickens as he takes in the thousands of men and women standing silently in the sand, all facing the rising sun. Every race, every color, every age, all lining the beach. Many of them are in suits, and Dean thinks he recognizes a few of the guys standing near him from his many run-ins with Zachariah, but there are so many, too many to count, too many to know. Just standing there. Not moving, not breathing, not even blinking. Just drones, like from that Pink Floyd video.

"Have they been here the whole time?" Dean hisses. "Did they see me almost yak all over the place?"

"They have only just arrived," Castiel says, taking a perfunctory look around.

"You couldn't have warned me?" It would have been the polite thing to do. "Let me know that a million of his nearest and dearest were showing up?"

"He was the Son of God Our Father, Dean." The air behind Castiel shifts, like the kind that rises from the asphalt on a hot day, and Dean feels the buzz. "How many were you expecting to attend?"

He hadn't really thought about it, but he'd thought it would be a small, intimate ceremony. Nothing that would draw attention from the rest of the world; nothing like this.

"If someone starts singing 'We Are the World', I am out of here," Dean warns, just to fill the silence, and Castiel tilts his head.

"I am not familiar with that song. Is it a human hymn?"

Dean snorts. "Not an MJ fan, I take it?"

Annoyance tugs at the corners of Castiel's eyes, a slight tightening of the skin there. It warms Dean to see it. "You are making references that I don't understand again. Why do you do that when you know I won't know them?"

He grins. Okay, this is much better. This is probably the kind of shit Jesus would've liked to see at his funeral, none of this 'we don't need no education' bullshit.

"Because you make it too easy, Castiel."

They both turn, surprised at the sound of another voice, and Dean feels anger curdling in his gut when he sees who it is.

"The fuck are you doing here?"

The Trickster grins. Dean really wishes he'd had the foresight to tuck a knife into his jeans before Castiel'd zapped them away for a day at the beach, because he'd love nothing more than to bury one right into that giant skull. "Oh, sorry, I didn't know there was a moratorium on mourning lost loved ones. I must've missed the memo, but the guys who usually write those out have bailed." He turns to Castiel with a moue of despair. "Y'know, lately the policies department has gone right down the crapper. I'd file a complaint, but the complaints department went on strike. It's really been a mess up there -- I guess this is what happens when you take your cues from Enron. I hear Chapter Eleven's next."

This might be the more surreal conversation Dean's ever had the displeasure of having. Castiel just looks horribly confused.

"Brother," Castiel mutters, almost reluctantly, and Dean takes a fierce pleasure in that. It sounds like Castiel would rather be having a root canal than to be talking to the Trickster, and --

Wait, what? "Wait, what? Brother?!"

"This is Gabriel… whom I have not seen in a long time," Castiel adds pointedly, fixing the Trickster with a glare that is almost epic in its intensity.

The Trickster is all smiles. "Hey there, boyo. Nice to see you're still alive and kicking."

"No thanks to you, dick," Dean sneers, and he really, really wants a knife. Or even a rock. He could do some damage with a rock. The Trickster must be reading his mind, because he laughs as if he's truly amused by Dean's thoughts of homicide.

"Not really homicide when the 'hom' doesn't apply to you," the Trickster says with a rakish grin. "Although it explains a lot, huh, big guy? The wooden stake shtick is a bit old hat, y'know."

This is so far from the plane of comprehension that blood might come shooting out of Dean's nose any second. "You're an angel."

"Yep. I'll do you one even better: I'm an archangel. Surprised?"

"Not really. You fit right in with these douches." Dean turns to Castiel, who stares back without a word. "It's friggin' fascinating that this never came up in a conversation."

"I was not aware you and… Gabriel were acquainted," Castiel says simply, and the Trickster sniggers.

"Nah, he only killed me a hundred times."

It wins him a grin. "Good times, good times."

"So, Gabe," Dean says sweetly, relishing the twitch the nickname brings, "haven't seen you in a while. Where've you been during all this? Armageddon on the verge of starting and you were, what? Playing the slots in Vegas? I'm surprised your douchebag brothers didn't get you in on the whole thing."

"Call it an extended leave of absence."

"How convenient." Dean takes a step forward. "And where were you when JC kicked it? Pretty convenient that no one hears from your sorry ass in a while and all of a sudden you show up for the guy's funeral."

Something dark enters the Trickster's eyes, something very old and something very angry, but it's all swept behind a toothy smile. "Let's not jump the gun, Dean."

"Jump the gun?" He clenches his hands into fists. "I can hurtle my ass over a missile launcher if I get a good run at it."

"I would greatly appreciate it if you would both shut up," Castiel growls, gravelly voice a nice mediator. Dean gawks.

The Trickster immediately looks contrite and Dean wants to smack the look off his face. With a two-by-four. "Sorry, bro. How're you holding up? You and the boss man were close, I hear."

He must be wearing some kind of incredulous expression, because the Trickster catches sight of it and shrugs self-consciously. "What's your problem, peewee?"

"You expect me to believe you even give a shit about him? Do you even know Cas? Isn't he kind of below your grand and almighty ass in the ranks?"

"How do you know 'Cas'?" The Trickster smirks.

"I didn't until he pulled me out of Hell." Dean smirks right back. Take that, douche.

The Trickster throws his head back and laughs, a full-belly laugh that makes even Dean's sides ache. "He what?"

"Pulled me out of Hell."

The Trickster looks to Castiel, who stares solemnly back. Dean watches in confusion as the grin slowly slips from the Trickster's face, as his lips part in obvious shock and disbelief. He looks at Dean.

"He… He really did."

Dean glances as Castiel, but gets no help there. Wow, there's a change of pace. "Yeah, he did. Tell him, Cas."

Castiel glances to the left, then finally looks at the Trickster, chin almost imperceptibly twitching an answer. The Trickster's head tilts to the side, as if he's trying to see Castiel from a different angle.

"I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of it," Dean says with a shrug. "The angels needed me to do their dirty work."

"This… You were ordered to take him from the Pit." It's not a question. "It was an order."

What the fuck is the big deal? "Apparently God commanded it."

The Trickster stares at him. "God did."

"That's what Cas said."

Except Cas is saying nothing now, and Dean feels like he missed something big.

"Hey, Clarence, tell him."

Castiel opens his mouth, probably to cut Dean to the quick with something along the lines of 'I pulled you out of Hell and you should show some respect by keeping your dumb human references to yourself', when he stops and straightens, shoulders back and spine so straight that Dean probably could have drawn a plumb line with it. His gaze travels from Dean and the Trickster to somewhere behind them, and Dean looks over his shoulder to where a guy wearing a sweater vest and a big smile is making his way down the beach to the shoreline.

"Well, well," the Trickster utters, useless as ever.

"Who the hell is this loser?" Dean whispers, nudging Castiel with his elbow, and Castiel sucks in a shocked breath. "I know. Look at the fucking thing he's got on. This is what Sam's gonna dress like in thirty years."

The Trickster covers a laugh as a badly-disguised cough. There is no way that Dean's only back-up in this place comes in the form of such a prick.

Castiel doesn't say anything in response, even to tell Dean to shut the fuck up. He just lowers his head until his chin brushes against Jimmy Novak's cheap tie and stands still. Just like everyone else on the beach.

"Cas?" He whispers, nudging Castiel again. "Dude, what?"

"Dean," comes the reply, and Dean strains to hear it. "If you ever thought to have an inclination to show respect to anyone in your life, I ask it to be now."

Dean lifts his gaze to Sweater Vest, who's positively beaming at his people statues lining the sand, and nods. "Okay, Cas. So, who is he?" Because he has a very punchable face, he adds silently.

"He is the Voice."

The Voice of God looks like Mr. Rogers's creepy, younger brother.

"He's the Metatron?" Dean asks, incredulous, watching as the guy in question stops at the place where the bay meets the land and turns to face his robot audience, the sunrise behind him lighting him up and casting his face half into shadow. Yeah, creepy.

He turns to tell Castiel exactly the kind of first impression the Metatron's making on him, but he stops at the tight look on his face. "Cas?"

"It's nothing," Castiel says, which is clearly not true.

"Shitty liar," Dean reminds him quietly, leaning in a bit closer so he's not being overly loud in the sudden silence. "Can he see you? Does he know you're here?"

Castiel glances at Dean quickly, almost absently, like he's dismissed Dean from the beach altogether, and Dean frowns. The hell? Castiel was the one who'd asked him to come.

"He may very well be able to see me," Castiel finally says, mouth barely moving. "But I have… He does not know you are here."

Is it his shirt? He'd offered to change before showing up, but a little AC/DC never hurt anyone. Who knows? Maybe Christ'd been a metal fan. "What's wrong with me? They still pissed we screwed up their Apocalypse?"

"Humans are not allowed in the presence of the Voice," Castiel murmurs, eyes resolutely on the Metatron. "You are not supposed to be here at all. I am… shielding you."

He glances at the Trickster to see if Castiel's bullshitting him, but the Trickster is as blank and solemn as the rest of the drones. Dean looks quickly away, because that's even creepier. He actually looks like an angel.

"So, why did you risk bringing me here? I could've stayed at Bobby's."

Before Castiel can even answer his question, the Metatron opens his mouth and it feels like the whole earth is inhaling to scream. Dean has the insane urge to cover his ears, because if Castiel's true voice was enough to make the windows shatter then the Voice of God is going to break the fucking sky.

But the Metatron only smiles and says, "Hello, brothers, sisters, and those once lost. It brings me great joy to see you before me."

Dean stares. Mr. Roger's creepy, younger brother who sounds like Kermit the Frog.

"I wish," continues the Metatron, "that we had been brought together under different circumstances, under happier tidings. However, in the absence of rapture in this hour, I ask you to recall a time when there were no fissures in the Kingdom, no doubts in He Whom created us and all; when war was a concept and not a practice. A kinder setting, if you will. This would be, of course, before Humanity."

Dean tries not to take offense to that, and fails.

"Now, we are past the great Departure of our brothers and sisters, past Lucifer's campaign, past the unification of the human tribes. Remember, now, when the Son of He Who is called I Am declared to the whole of the Kingdom that Humanity was worth saving. That He would save it."

Castiel draws in a shuddery breath and Dean steps closer to him, enough that their hands brush every time Dean inhales. Enough that Castiel knows he isn't alone.

The Metatron smiles at the thousands of vessels before him, all crow's feet and laugh lines which don't belong to him. "I do not wish to dwell on the afterwards, on the period of His absence, on His return, on His many, many trips back to walk among that which He loved so dearly. I wish you to stay in the moment in which He pledged His allegiance to Our Father's most beloved creation. I wish you to remember the unwavering faith, the undying devotion, the endless love, because that was Jesus Christ."

The angels all bow their heads and murmur something that Dean doesn't catch -- it's probably in angel-speak and he's lucky his head doesn't explode. The Metatron is still smiling.

"This guy smiles so much that I don't think he has a central nervous system," Dean mutters. Castiel says nothing but the Trickster snorts.

Dean leans forward so he can see around Castiel to the stretch of beach and the vessels to their right. He's seen quite a few angels during this whole thing, more than he ever really cared to, and he can see a mess of them now, but there are quite a few of them that don't really fit the angel profile he's crafted in his head. Some are too relaxed in their borrowed bodies, shoulders down and skin loose, almost as if they were who they looked like.

"They are not angels," Castiel says quietly, following Dean's stare. "They are demons."

He starts in surprise, because what? "What the hell are they doing here?"

The Trickster claps him on the shoulder, like a friend would. Ass. "Not everyone has your narrow views, tiger. Jesus loved all creatures -- no matter their status, faults, or species. Demons, too. They were allowed to mourn Him today; He would have wanted to see us as one big happy family, just like old times."

Dean shrugs out from beneath the Trickster's hand, who steps back with a grin that falls as the Metatron opens his mouth to speak again.

"It is fitting that this happens here, on Earth, as for a long time it has been neutral territory. Rare is it for a human to meddle in the affairs of Heaven or Hell in the way Heaven and Hell meddle in the affairs of a human."

Something goes cold inside of Dean at those words.

"The last time I spoke with the Christ child," the Metatron goes on, "He said this, and I cannot agree more."

Castiel looks up, frowning.

The smile falls from the Metatron's face as quickly as a winter sunset, and the Trickster gives a low whistle.

"Yeah, this doesn't look good."

Dean swivels around to look at the bastard, because you don't say shit like that when you're standing in a crowd of both angels and demons. "What?"

"I don't know," the Trickster says, squinting. "Shut up for a sec."

"Fuck you," Dean grumbles, eyes back on Kermit the Priest.

The Metatron has a face that pretty much tells Dean that his vessel was probably a republican senator from West Viriginia: perfect for smiling at constituents and middle-aged, Bible-hugging women. When he's not smiling, however, he's got a face that only God could love… and even that'd probably be up for negotiation. Right now, he's not smiling. As much as Dean hates to agree with anything that comes out of the Trickster's stupid mouth, it really isn't looking good. Even the sweater vest looks menacing.

"There will never be another day like today," the Metatron says quietly, but it rings so loud that Dean lifts his hands in an aborted move to cover his ears. "One unprecedented event begets another, for the first time, for the last time."

Dean makes a face. Would it kill these guys to talk normally? "What's he talking about?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't know."

"A band of rebels attempted to usher in what the humans call 'The End of Days' by breaking the sixty-six seals and releasing Lucifer." An inhale, and the world trembles. "And they succeeded."

Fuck.

All heads, belonging to both angel and demon, lift. The salt in the air disappears under the weight of the shock, horror, and thin threads of excitement that the words elicit. Dean feels like he's going to puke again.

"But nothing happened!" He appeals to Castiel, grabbing his thin wrist in his own hand and squeezing. Castiel looks back at him, emotions that Dean can't even name chasing each other across his face. "Cas, that is such bullshit! Lilith died and the exploding light happened, but that was it! Lucifer never showed!"

"Dean," Castiel says evenly, holding Dean's gaze like it's his only purpose in life. "This isn't your fault."

"Way to go, kiddo. You started the Apocalypse. And here I thought you'd never amount to anything," the Trickster says, at once disappointed and amused. "Let me guess: widdle Sammy fucked up."

He punches that smug face as hard as he can, just rears back and lets his fist fly straight and true. Something -- or some things, rather -- snap audibly as soon as his knuckles meet the Trickster's jaw, the bones shattering to dust, the tendons and muscles unraveling. He stumbles back with a pained shout, clutching his hand to his chest. Fuck! It's the hand he does everything with, too. Gonna be fucking awkward wielding his knife or jerking off with a cast, but so worth it.

"That was dumb," the Trickster says blithely.

"Gabriel, that is enough," Castiel snarls, moving to place a comforting hand on Dean's back, all up in Dean's personal bubble. "That was foolish, Dean. Let me see your hand."

"It's fine," he grits out. He's not letting him near his hand, but he leans into Castiel's touch anyway. "Fuck!"

"You've shattered several bones," Castiel says, unnecessarily.

"Yeah, I remember. I was there." Taut, red-spattered silk threads shoot out and fix to the insides of his head, clouding everything up, until the world narrows down to the smell of salt, the pain in his hand, and the cacophony of the angels and demons all clamoring for answers, for validation, for some kind of truth. He opens his mouth to stage a protest, but he can't force the words out past his throat.

A strong arm winds its way around his shoulders and coaxes him to rest the bridge of his nose against the junction where shoulder meets throat. He inhales deeply, the smell of displaced winter air so strong it practically punches him back into clarity.

The words "you're fine" vibrate against his eyes and Dean exhales slowly.

"Oh, come here, you little whine bag," the Trickster gripes, eyes rolling, and he grabs Dean's hand in his own, pulling him away from Castiel's sheltering hold, which was pretty fucking nice, thanks. Dean makes a sound of protest that sounds like a gurgle in the back of his throat, but stops when he realizes that the pain is gone and he can curl his hand into a fist.

"Don't say I never did anything for you."

Dean has nothing nice to say, so he says nothing, even when Castiel's pointed stare fixes on him and the side of his head starts to smoke. It doesn't matter how deep of a hole Castiel's laser vision burns into him -- he's not saying thank you.

The collective murmurings of the angels and demons grow louder until it's all that fills the air, and Dean can't help but wonder when someone's going to jog by and call the police when they see the giant cult in the middle of some weird ritual on the beach.

"ENOUGH!" Bellows the Metatron, and the earth shakes beneath them, the water in the bay coughing up waves that crash into the sand. Everyone falls silent, rapt, frightened. All the air leaves Dean's lungs and he ruthlessly suppresses the need to choke.

"Dude should be a soccer announcer," he coughs, wiggling his fingers to make sure the Trickster didn't screw anything up.

"I think now would be the time to not talk for a while," the Trickster says, the words deceptively light to hide the unease plainly visible in his eyes. Dean wants to know how long it took for him to feel and show emotion, how long Castiel has to go before he gets to that point.

The Trickster's right. The Metatron lifts his chin, a move Dean's seen Castiel do a few times, and regards the precession with an oddly benevolent smile. And Dean really doesn't like that smile.

"I have been at a loss for words ever since the discovery was made," the Metatron says, still smiling. "For those who know me, that is a novelty. Never before has the Voice been without words. However, in this instance, before my brothers, sisters, and fallen friends, I cannot let my voice fail everything our Father and His Son loved so dearly."

The world, again, inhales, waiting.

"The Serpent, the Accuser, the Great Dragon…" The Metatron closes his eyes, smiling falling away, and then opens them, gathering the very bay behind him as he lets loose his Voice. "Here, before the witnesses of Heaven, Hell and the In-Between, I charge Lucifer, the fallen Light Bearer, with the murder of Logos Incarnate, God The Son, Jesus Christ."

There are no words for just how fucked up this whole thing is, and Dean once again wishes he were the one with the words. The multitude of angels and demons seem to have no problem finding their voices, because they immediately erupt into pandemonium the minute the Metatron drops the bomb. Dean's waiting for a fight to break out.

Somehow over the din, Dean hears Castiel take a deep breath and let it out in a long whoosh. He places his hand on the small of Castiel's back and presses in slightly, just enough that Castiel will be able to feel it. "Dude, you okay?"

The Trickster just gives a low whistle. "Shit just got real."

"There is, and never will be, a greater offense than when the light of Logos was snuffed out in his own home. For this, I call my brothers and sisters of all ranks and assignments back to their Kingdom!" Light explodes from the Metatron's back and knifes through the air, a great bolt of what looks like fuzzy lightning that splits into nine.

Dean can't stifle the gasp that makes him sound like some chick in a Spielberg movie. That is some epic shit, right there.

There's movement out of the corner of his eye, just a subtle shift of someone to his far left, and he knows that the fight he'd been waiting for is on its way. It's a demon, made obvious by the blackening of the guy's eyes. Dean can't help but notice the guy's John Mayor shirt. What a tool.

True to form, the demon starts forward, bug eyes narrowed with intent on the Metatron. Bad move, fruit cup.

"For this, Lucifer, and by default the Nine Circles of his domain, has issued a declaration of war!"

A great shout goes up in the crowd, and everyone starts moving.

The Metatron turns his head just so, just enough that -- Can he see Dean? He can totally see Dean. He smiles at Dean and says, "And Heaven rises to meet it!"

A smell like burning rubber thickens the air, so much that it pushes tears from Dean's eyes and forces him to cup his hands over his nose and mouth. Either the Metatron totally let one, or something bad's about to go down. It's definitely the latter, because Dean's luck is never that good.

"Dean!" Castiel pulls at him like he did in the Green Room, all unchecked desperation, and presses Dean to hide his face in Jimmy Novak's lapel. Castiel holds him there, which is all kinds of awkward. Dean pushes against Castiel's vice-like grip, because, hello, boundaries, but he's got as much power here as a kitten does against a skyscraper.

There's a distant buzz, like television snow, that grows louder and louder until it's rattling Dean's brain around in his head. He shouts for whatever it is to stop, because it hurts, but it grows even louder. What the fuck is Cas doing out there?

Something smooth, like liquid, slips around his back and vibrates against his side. He'd love to open his eyes and see what it is, but his face is mashed into Castiel's neck and he can't move.

He can hear the screams, though.

He can hear the screaming and smell the burning and feel the earth shaking beneath him. Castiel's fingers press firmer into the back of his neck and he chokes under the pressure. Being hugged to death so wasn't on his docket for the day.

"Cas!" He gasps into threadbare tan, pushing against Castiel's chest. It's like fighting a steel wall. "Personal bubble, Cas! I can't breathe!"

Be still, Dean. It rises above everything and sinks into all that he is. He stills -- how can he even deny that anything? He stills, endures Castiel's impossible grip, and waits. But, god, he really wants to see.

One of the fingers practically molded to his spinal column gentles and strokes the skin at the nape of his neck, and Dean starts in surprise. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize that Castiel is trying to comfort him. He'd laugh if it weren't so ridiculous.

It's been a week of firsts: Jesus's funeral, Cas sleeping, Cas crying and facing down an archangel so Dean might have some extra time, and now hugging and stroking. It almost makes him wonder just what next week's going to bring, whether or not he'll be adding eating, laughing, or telling dirty jokes to the list. Castiel doesn't fit the rigid labels Dean has for people. Sam is 'brother', Bobby is 'almost-dad', Ellen is 'awesome', Jo is 'adorable', Zachariah is 'dick', the Trickster is 'asshat', and up until four days ago Castiel had been 'annoying'. Now, Dean doesn't know how to categorize him and he really doesn't like it.

After what seems like an eternity, Castiel squeezes his neck once before his fingers slip away. Dean lifts his head from Castiel's collar bone and scrunches his nose. Ow.

As he straightens, the liquid thing from before unfurls from around him. He glances down. It's like lightning, like what came shooting out of the Metatron, humming and pulsing faintly. He huffs a disbelieving laugh. Wings. Castiel totally had him wrapped up in his wings. That will never not be weird, or funny.

"The hell'd you do that… for…" Dean trails off, looking around.

The beach is a lot emptier than it'd been five minutes ago, white sand stained almost black with blood and what looks like bits of hair, fingers, and shards of bone. All that's left is the angels. "Jesus."

"Would be weeping if he knew," Castiel snaps, wiping away a glob of -- Dean doesn't even want to know.

The Trickster pulls a string of bloody something from his hair and grimaces. "In the pantheon of unnecessary acts, that one's right up there." He shakes his hand until the string of whatever lets go of his fingers. "Talk about overkill."

"An effective message, if nothing else," spits Castiel.

Dean looks over his shoulder to where the Metatron is still standing, unruffled and stormy-faced, with his nine wings stretched out behind him. He looks like a fucking peacock. The rest of the angels snap to attention.

"My Seven!" The Metatron cries, and the Trickster stiffens then groans. Six others perk up, Barachiel among them. "Prepare your troops for battle! Seven days hence, in the name of Jesus Christ The Son, the hordes of Hell shall know the wrath of Heaven!"

Oh, wonderful.

A collective cry goes up, the angels apparently all stoked at the prospect of war, and Dean thinks he catches a glimpse of Barachiel in the crowd, throwing her tiny wrists into the sky.

"So, I stopped one war just to have another start?" He demands angrily, meeting Castiel's eyes and trying not to shiver at the intensity he finds there. It's never been easy to read that stare, but he thinks he can find an apology in it, like Castiel's saying 'I'm sorry for everything you've suffered, but it's about to get a lot worse.'

"Looks like I'm coming out of retirement," the Trickster grumbles. Dean whirls on him, because really? The Trickster gives him a look. "Oh, don't get your panties in a twist. It's not like I'm proud to be… There's a reason I left and became a friggin' pagan."

"Castiel!"

Castiel stiffens. Dean blinks and adds 'reacting with surprise' to 'crying, sleeping, stroking, and hugging'.

"Speak of the devil."

"Gabriel," Castiel hisses under his breath, but the Trickster doesn't look like he gives two shits about being respectful. Dean hates himself for it, but he's with the Trickster on this one.

The Metatron walks over the sand easily toward them. There's no overt reaction on Castiel's part, but he does shift surreptitiously so he's standing closer to Dean like a prince defending a damsel, and Dean's not taking any offense to that, of course.

"You're the prettiest princess of them all," the Trickster says, laughter in his voice, and Dean is still not above bludgeoning him to shit with a rock.

"It brings a smile to my face to see you standing before me." The dude isn't kidding -- he's got a huge smile on his face. "You always were… resilient."

Dick. But Castiel doesn't fire back some snappy insult the way Dean wants to, just bows his head and murmurs, "Metatron."

The sweater vest is like its own entity. The patterns are damn near frightening, all mustard and ketchup-colored zigzags, and Dean swears the thing is breathing on its own. It's exactly what Sam'll end up wearing in thirty years and Dean makes a mental note to put his brother down when it gets to that point.

Smiling, the Metatron reaches out and clasps Castiel on the shoulder. It's a friendly gesture, even brotherly, but there's something off about it. Or maybe Dean's just spent too much time around angels to trust even a small thing like this.

"I mean that, Castiel," the Metatron assures him, and he sounds pretty sincere, all wide eyes and guileless smile. "If one could value a life solely on its merits, yours would be priceless. I have never known such loyalty, not even in my Seven."

The Trickster rolls his eyes and looks away.

Castiel lifts his head, but not his eyes. "Thank you, Metatron."

The smile softens and the Metatron cups Castiel's cheek, his large, wrinkly hand gentle against the swell of Castiel's jaw. "I know that… the death of Logos has touched you deeper than most, and I express my deepest condolences for your loss."

Dean never met his grandfather, and John Winchester had been an only child. As far as Dean knows. It's entirely possible that there are six other Winchesters running around, all wondering what happened to their brother and his adorable sons. But Dean'd put good money down that one of his uncles would be just like the Metatron: middle-aged and way too happy. There would be cards at Christmas and family Thanksgiving get-togethers, and the odd fishing trip. All cookie cutter perfect.

Which is why he doesn't trust any of this shit.

"Forgive my insolence, Metatron." Castiel doesn't look or sound sorry about his insolence, and Dean feels a swell of pride. Three months ago? Castiel would have gotten down on his knees and whipped himself until his penance was complete.

"Oh, we have passed that," the Metatron interrupts with a smile.

Castiel swallows and Dean watches his Adam's apple bob and pull against the edge of the Metatron's palm. This is getting awkward. He shifts with second-hand embarrassment.

"Metatron," Castiel tries again. "I don't think the right way… I don't think the Son would be honored by having a war carried out in his name."

"Do you not want to bring the Serpent to justice?"

"Of course I do," Castiel says, and Dean can't help but think that was a dumb question. How else would someone answer that question? 'No, I don't?'

The Metatron beams at the answer. Anytime now he'll plop Castiel on his knee, give him a hard candy and tell him a long story.

"Do you think it is right that your brothers and sisters are not safe in their own home? Is it right that the walls of Heaven can be penetrated, the glory within polluted? Is it right that the Son can meet such an end by the hands of a mongrel, who does it simply to challenge Heaven's power?" The words are powerful and meant to inspire righteous fury. Angelic righteous fury.

All it means is that Heaven's not as awesome as the magazine ad claims. If the money back guarantee is bogus, Dean's going to be pissed.

"Is it, Castiel?"

Castiel ducks his head, contrite, humbled. "No," he says gravely. "Of course not."

The Metatron pats Castiel's cheek, fingers bouncing off a visibly tightened jaw, before dropping his hand with a smile. "In light of your repentance, I permit you to come back home and fight."

Every molecule in Dean protests. Castiel go back home? Back where they'll hold him down, scrub him of every bit of feeling, of humanity, until he's back to square one as the little wind-up toy Dean'd first met in that barn? Hell no.

Castiel's eyes dart to where he's standing invisible, gaze flashing wild with something unnamable, and Dean wants to smack Castiel right across the face. Dean is supposed to be invisible and Castiel needs to learn how to be sneaky. He can't be blamed for not having the kind of experience Dean has in being covert, but a creature two-thousand years old should have picked up a trick or two. It's a good thing he never asked Castiel to work a case that required him to pose as an officer or something; he'd probably hold his badge upside-down, the idiot.

Just when Dean thinks the jig is up and that he's going the way of the demon, the Trickster steps in front of him, subtle and far too cocky. "Metatron."

It works. The Metatron turns his attention from Castiel to the Trickster, who stares back, bored. "Gabriel. The Host has missed your song these past centuries."

"Well, that's what happens when you've got this much talent," the Trickster says brightly.

Dean stifles a snort. Yeah, it takes a lot of talent to reach that level of douchebaggery.

"Your garrisons will be pleased to have their general with them once more," the Metatron says.

"I'm back. Just like that." The muscles in the Trickster's back shift as he crosses his arms, but it's the faint hum of electricity that Dean focuses on. He squints to see if he can catch a glimpse of the Trickster's wings, see how many there are.

The Metatron is smiling -- what a surprise. "Oh, Gabriel. As far as I am concerned, you never left."

"Huh. So, I'm still one of the Seven."

"Yes."

"Then as a… general of Heaven, I'm gonna need a… uh, what do you call them? The guy who stays in enemy territory and feeds information to the people in charge?" The Trickster snaps his fingers, frustrated, "It's right on my tongue."

"An informant?" Castiel suggests, eyes wide.

The Trickster points at him in triumph. "Yes, that! An informant. I need one of those and I think our boy Castiel is just the man for the job."

The Metatron stares at the Trickster with an unreadable expression and Dean can't help but sympathize. Yeah, totally feeling you on that one, buddy.

"An informant."

"Yeah," the Trickster says, like it's obvious. "The guy who gets intel for the Brass. I saw it in a TV show once, maybe Zachariah can explain it better. I need one. They're important, informants. Being informative and everything. But I think Castiel is better suited for the job than any other angel; having been on Earth longer than most of our brothers and sisters, he knows the terrain well."

Wow. That is some Grade-A prime cut bullshit. Dean's almost impressed.

It takes a moment for Castiel to catch on, but once he does he plays the part well. "I feel that I am well-suited for this… task."

The Trickster nods emphatically. "Castiel's good like that."

Dean releases the breath he's been holding as slowly and as quietly as he can. No need to blow their cover by shouting in triumph now that they've almost gotten away with it. Castiel is going to stay, which is the best thing he's heard in, like, a month. He's happy that Cas got the green light to go back to Heaven, he really is, but he knows that too much has happened on Earth for Heaven to be enough.

He tries to keep the smug level to a minimum, but he's not succeeding. At all.

The Metatron cocks his head. "What kind of information would Castiel gather for you?"

Shit. The Trickster better have a good excuse, because with two seconds left in the game it's not looking good for the home team.

"The important kind?" And that's the game, folks. But Castiel is either really unwilling to leave or he really wants to be the Trickster's informant, because he doesn't let the Trickster -- Dean really needs to start calling him Gabriel, because he's not really the Trickster anymore -- flounder for long.

"Lucifer's armies will most likely recruit earth-bound demons to their cause. I could alert Gabriel of Hell's numbers, perhaps track down some of these recruits and… become privy to Hell's strategies." Castiel has never looked more serious, which is saying something, and it occurs to Dean that Castiel might actually be serious. "It would aid Heaven greatly to be abreast of Hell's battle plans; it would give the Host an enormous advantage."

Maybe Cas wouldn't be a crapshoot on cases after all.

The Metatron regards his two angels, both from different ends of the spectrum, and the ever-present smile falls away, leaving in its place a thin line of stone that probably wouldn't bend under any kind of pressure.

Dean sucks in a breath. Oh, god, the Metatron's not going to go for it. Any second the guy's going to laugh and say, 'Oh, and you might want to uncloak your human, Castiel. I'd like to see him before I kill his inferior ass.'

If the Metatron says no, Dean's going to give himself away by punching him. The broken hand will be worth it.

As he contemplates hitting the Voice of God, something niggles at the place behind his ear, a tingle that grows until it's as sharp as the tip of a blade twisting into the soft skin there. His Spidey sense is tingling, or as he likes to call it, his 'Hey-someone-doesn't-belong-here-and-they'll-probably-become-a-pain-in-the-ass-later-on' sense. They're being watched. Dean twists around and scans the beach, but he doesn't see anyone looking out of place or even looking their way. He subsides with a silent grumble; if Castiel, Gabriel and the Metatron haven't sensed anything, it's probably nothing. It's just him, being paranoid, because that's exactly what he needs a week before Armageddon starts.

And then it's all unfounded, because the Metatron smiles and nods at Castiel. "You have your task, Castiel."

Castiel nods. "Thank you."

"I will see you seven days hence on the field of battle." Turning to Gabriel, who's still projecting that practiced air of indifference and severe boredom, the Metatron says, "Would you like to return with me now? There is much to discuss with the other Six. Or would you prefer to confer with your informant?"

Gabriel shrugs. "Let me leave him some instructions, then I'll be along."

The air behind the Metatron explodes outward in a splash of liquid electricity and he -- for a change of pace -- smiles. "I will be waiting for you, then, Gabriel. Oh, and Castiel?"

Castiel looks up expectantly.

"You should have uncloaked your human for our conversation. I would have liked to meet him."

Fuck.

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