Chapter Text
Castiel’s senses returned to him one by one, but they remained indistinguishable, a tangled mess of emptiness and pain. He heard his name being called, saw Dean’s hand on his shoulder, and felt a surge of panic when Lucifer made no attempt to recoil. He was gone. Castiel felt weak and strangely numb, struggling as Dean pulled him upright. His legs wobbled beneath his weight, and Lucifer did not catch him. It was a bizarre thought. Even more curious was God’s current visage, looking small and pale and sick under Sam’s arm.
“Can you get us out of here?” Dean asked.
Castiel shook his head.
“Great. At least the car’s reliable. C’mon.”
Castiel followed behind the rest of the group, keeping his eyes down. The movement of the car made his stomach churn, but he offered no complaint, sitting quietly in the back seat while trying to simultaneously tune out the Winchesters’ bickering and piece together what had happened. They had held something in their hands, and Lucifer had felt triumphant, even happy for that one moment before the pain. Castiel looked at Chuck. His head was lolled back, mouth hanging open to gasp short, uneven breaths. On his other side, out the window, Castiel could see the bright red ring around the sun. He had a million questions but not one fit to ask in front of the Winchesters. Each time he thought to try, Dean would catch him in the rear view mirror with such a disapproving glower that Castiel was rendered instantly silent. His hand moved once, fingers inching towards Chuck’s arm, but he merely brushed some lint from the seat and folded back into himself.
Sam and Dean helped Chuck into the bunker, dropping him on a couch before leaving to converse in the kitchen. The refrigerator door slammed, followed by the ping of metal falling to the table or the floor. Castiel didn’t know which, and he didn’t care. Whatever argument the boys were having in angry, hushed whispers seemed petty now. Castiel shook his head and looked at Chuck again, surprised to meet his eyes and find him awake.
“My apologies,” Castiel murmured.
“For what?”
“It’s rude to stare.”
“Oh. That.” Chuck tried to smile, but it faltered into a grimace.
“Yes. That. Although I suppose I have a great deal more to apologize for, it doesn’t seem an appropriate time.”
“Probably not.”
Castiel nodded.
“I guess they’re working on a plan to kill Amara.”
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“I don’t want to see everything I created die, but killing her doesn’t feel right either.”
“I can’t imagine that it would.”
Castiel lowered his eyes again to avoid Chuck’s gaze. It felt wrong to look at him, seemed like staring even as Chuck’s own eyes bored their way through Castiel’s vessel. He had spent so much of his life longing to meet and searching for his father, and now here he was with nothing to say. Chuck broke the silence.
“Castiel, I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“What happened to Lucifer?”
Castiel’s stomach dropped.
“It’s fine if you don’t know, but—”
“He’s gone. I’m sorry.”
“I figured as much.” Chuck shut his eyes in the same moment Castiel realized they looked wet. His lips were pressed so firmly together that they trembled and faded from view, swallowed by pallor.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel said again. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he would have wanted to see this.”
“No, but he would have tried to stop it. And he probably would have. Lucifer was always like that. Stubborn.” Chuck rubbed his eyes and exhaled a slow, shuddering sigh. “This doesn’t seem real.”
“What would he have done? I can try.”
“No. Archangels are different. They’re the most concentrated forms of energy in the universe. Well, except for me. But they would be able to mend the gaps, smooth the tears.”
“Are you saying Lucifer could save you?”
“Probably, but it doesn’t matter now. None of it matters now.” Chuck’s face crumpled again, and he tossed his arm over his eyes and turned to his side, muttering an apology about being tired.
“You should rest,” Castiel said, rising to his feet. Again he felt the urge to step forward and comfort, but it wasn’t his place. His father was a stranger to him, and that fact had never been more evident.
Castiel lingered outside the kitchen listening to Sam and Dean’s back and forth about Amara. They had no ideas, and he knew that the only one he had would not be well-received. Better than letting God die, he decided.
Castiel had stored his car nearby some time ago and was pleasantly surprised to find it waiting where he left it. The old Lincoln was a poor substitution for wings, but it would get Castiel far enough away from the bunker to cast his spell undisturbed. He tossed his bundle of stolen magical implements onto the seat beside him and turned they key in the ignition. The car clicked and sputtered for three turns before springing to life on the fourth. Castiel drove aimlessly, with no real destination other than far enough away that the Winchesters couldn’t stop him and that Lucifer couldn’t hurt them in the event he returned angry and uncooperative. This time Castiel wasn’t sure if he could blame him.
He drove for forty-five minutes, weaving his way down narrow back roads until he felt sufficiently far from civilization, an open field with a clear view of the sky. Castiel parked the car and walked across the field, finding a large, smooth rock to act as a makeshift altar. He carried with him a vial of holy water and an angel feather likely dropped by a careless sibling. A bundle of herbs curled and blackened in the small silver bowl, emitting enough smoke that Castiel’s throat and lungs burned. He resisted the urge to cough so as not to interrupt his careful Enochian intonation, pricking his finger halfway through to draw the sigil representing Lucifer’s name in his own blood. One angel calling to another, grace seeking grace through one of the oldest magics in the universe. And Castiel received no reply. He waited until the ash was cool and the blood congealed, but by that point, it was obvious that Lucifer was gone, somewhere beyond Castiel’s reach. Beyond God’s too, so it seemed.
“Goodbye, brother,” Castiel said, laying his hand across the sigil. “I hope you find peace.”
***
Castiel stood at the gates of Hell feeling almost foolish. Michael had been his commander for years, a de facto leader and a brother. He was stern but rarely cruel in Castiel’s recollection. His sense of dread was nonsensical, even to him. Michael would be angry at him and have every right to be, but he had always been a practical sort. He would see that there were bigger things at stake.
The last time Castiel had been so far in Hell was when he pulled Sam free of the Cage. He had heard the echoes of Michael and Lucifer’s true voices but had given them little thought. Now, the near-silence was eerie, suggesting the suddenly new possibility that Michael might already be dead. Nothing was ever meant to survive in the Cage, not indefinitely. The air was too thick to breathe, and it crackled sharply with raw, ancient power. Castiel’s ears rang from the pressure, and his vessel trembled from the sudden shifts of hot to cold, cold to hot. Waves of nausea, fear, and repulsion washed over him one after the other, the Cage itself urging him to leave.
Only the edges of the Cage were visible. They protruded from the spinning darkness of the center, a deep, abysmal chasm of twisting corridors. Castiel couldn’t tell how far in it went, nor could he press past the rows of bars holding the Cage in place and giving it its form. Castiel called for Michael, but his voice was swallowed up by the roar of the Cage’s inner chaos. He moved around the outside perimeter, a circle large enough to act as the foundation for the rest of Hell, but everything moved and looked the same so that Castiel soon realized he had no way of marking where he had started or where he should end. He flew around the Cage calling out until his voice failed and his bones began to ache from the agony of the atmosphere. At last he stopped, standing with his eyes stinging and his fists balled like a frustrated child. Castiel stared at his feet, considering trying to force his way past the bars, even at the risk of being swallowed by Hell, just close enough for Michael to hear him. Then, as if as an answer, Michael emerged from the darkness. He still wore his former vessel, Adam Milligan’s gentle features hardened by Michael’s cold expression, and walked slowly, each step a shrewd calculation. His shadowed eyes were narrowed with a mixture of scrutiny and hate, brows angled and lip curled. Michael’s hands pressed against the bars, fingers slipping through the gaps and wrapping around the long-corroded metal in what must have been his millionth attempt to break free. He stared at Castiel silently for some time, and when he did speak, his voice was thin and hoarse.
“You.”
Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat. “Hello, brother.”
“Do not address me as such. We are no longer brothers.”
“I understand.”
“You understand.” Michael scowled, his grip tightening on the bars. “Why are you here, Castiel?”
“I need your help.”
Michael laughed, the noise catching in his throat and mingling with a strangled breath.
“It’s not just me,” Castiel amended quickly. “Our father has returned, and he—”
“Returned?” Michael leaned closer, straining against the Cage. “I heard you correctly? He’s back?”
“Yes.”
“THEN WHY AM I STILL HERE?” Michael shouted, slamming his hands against the bars with another cry of frustration.
“I don’t know.”
Michael’s face crumpled, and tears came to his eyes. He looked, for the first time in all the years Castiel had known him, truly hopeless. “So what then?” he asked, sniffing to keep the tears from his voice. “Are you here to gloat?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t… I’m here about the Darkness.”
“Lucifer said as much before he left me here to rot. Where is he then? I suppose he’s being less than cooperative?”
“He… I…” Castiel’s throat clenched, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“What is it? Castiel, where is Lucifer?”
“Lucifer is dead.”
The color drained from Michael’s face. The anger evaporated and left in its wake a horrified, wide-eyed disbelief. His hands slid down the bars and hung uselessly at his side for a brief moment before he seized the bars again.
“You lie.”
“He was in my body,” Castiel explained, “and Amara hit him with everything she had. He’s gone.”
“But you… He…” Michael’s lips trembled. His jaw clenched. His hands clenched the bars of the Cage so hard his fingers turned white. The core of his body seemed to lose all strength, and he began to buckle, folding at the waist and sinking slowly to the ground. For a moment, he struggled to breathe, sucking in one uneven gulp of air after another, the sound scraping against his throat. There was a brief instant of silence before the scream tore its way out of Michael’s throat. His true voice echoed through Hell in one long, awful wail of loss.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered, kneeling down. He reached to touch Michael’s hand, but Michael jerked away.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t you touch me.”
Castiel pulled his hand back through the bars. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
Michael ignored him. He was hunched forward now with his face against his knees and his hands tangled in his hair, tugging harshly as he rocked himself back and forth. He was mostly quiet, though his lips moved constantly in a silent whisper. Occasionally, he would mouth Lucifer’s name and fall into another fit of grief, sobbing and thrashing against the Cage bars until Castiel grabbed him and forced him to stop.
“Broth—Michael, please. Perhaps after you heal God, he can—”
“Heal him?” Michael looked up. “Then God is…”
“Amara attacked him too. Lucifer was trying to stop her, I think, I… If you can heal him, then he can fix this.”
“Nothing can fix this,” Michael said, but he was calm now, thoughtful. He wiped his eyes. “Has Paradise not occurred?”
“Paradise? No.”
“Then Lucifer isn’t dead.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Darkness doesn’t have the power to kill Lucifer outright. She never did. Our father wouldn’t have allowed it. And if Lucifer were dead, Paradise would have come to Earth in his absence. I would have felt it.”
“I tried to summon him, but…” Castiel frowned, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Michael rose in one fluid motion, all poise and composure once more. “He may be injured, but he is alive. You need to find him and bring him here.”
“Bring him here? Why?”
“To open the Cage. The sixty-six seals have already been spent, Castiel, and even if the remaining ones could be used, they only function in freeing Lucifer. This place is connected to him. You’ll need him to release me.”
Castiel stood as well, forcing himself to meet Michael’s eyes. “And then you’ll help us?”
“Don’t question my loyalty to our father. I’ve done everything he ever asked of me, something you can’t begin to understand.” Michael took a deep breath and sighed. “God is dying while you waste time arguing with me here. I suggest you go find Lucifer and quickly. He’ll know the spell.”
Castiel nodded, eager to depart Hell at once. Even as he moved through the levels of Hell, he could feel Michael’s eyes following him from below. Castiel didn’t look back until he was sure he was out of sight, sure that Michael was out of his sight. The Cage, and what it seemed capable of doing to an archangel, was something Castiel never wanted to see again.
***
Castiel drove back to the bunker with all the windows down, trying to get rid of the stench of smoke and sulfur clinging to his nostrils. He felt gritty, dirty in a way that an angelic finger-snap alone didn’t relieve. He washed what he could of Hell off in the bathroom sink before seeking out the others. Chuck was where Castiel had left him, curled miserably on a small couch in the center room. His eyes were closed, lips parted with soft, slow breaths, and someone had covered him with a blanket and made a cup of tea, which now sat almost untouched on the side table. Castiel sat down and ran his hand down his face.
“Bad news, I take it?” Chuck murmured, and Castiel jumped, sitting upright and straightening his shoulders.
“I couldn’t find Lucifer. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I expected as much.” There was no scream, no uncontrolled outpouring of grief. Chuck merely squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and clenched his jaw to still it. “He’s really gone.”
“Michael doesn’t think so.”
Chuck opened his eyes. “Come again?”
“I went to Hell, to the Cage, and I spoke with Michael.”
“Oh. I bet that was… interesting.”
“He’s very upset, yes.” Castiel sighed. “But I think he might be right. Amara was weakened. She shouldn’t have had enough power to kill Lucifer and attack you.”
Chuck sat up and leaned forward intently. “That… That makes sense. She must have sent him away and saved up most of her power to attack me.”
“The question is where she might have sent him. Do you have any ideas?”
“My first guess would have been Hell, but I guess you’ve already looked there.”
“Thoroughly. I even tried a summoning I found in one of the Men of Letters’ books, but it wasn’t effective. The only other spell I know requires a consenting vessel, and Sam wouldn’t let Lucifer back in under any circumstances. …I don’t seem to count.”
“You were never intended to be a vessel,” Chuck said, “but even if you were, I don’t think Lucifer would have ignored the first summoning.”
“You think he might be unable to answer?” Castiel asked.
Chuck nodded. “She hurt him. Whatever she did to him, I heard him cry out, and—” His voice caught in his throat.
“There was nothing you could do,” Castiel said softly.
“Yes. There was. I mean, I-I’m God.” He folded his hands in front of his mouth as if he were praying and closed his eyes. “I tried,” he said, voice breaking again.
“What do you mean?”
“When I saw Amara going after Lucifer, I just… I didn’t want to hurt her, but… All I could think was, I have to protect him this time. And I couldn’t.”
Castiel stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the opposite wall so as not to make a spectacle of God’s suffering. Chuck sniffled miserably beside him, wiping his eyes with the balled up sleeves of his jacket and mumbling an apology. Castiel turned to him.
“You still love him.”
Chuck didn’t respond, just wiped his face again.
“Maybe you can still protect him,” Castiel said. “You know him better than anyone. Where would he go in such a situation?”
“I don’t know.” Chuck ran his hand through his hair. “The mark changed him, and then I haven’t seen him in so long. If he were hurt or upset or anything before, he’d have gone straight to Michael if not to me, but now… Where do you think he would go?”
“Me? I don’t know. Why would I know?”
“You were his vessel. You’ve been with him constantly for several months now, and it’s not like the two of you were strangers when you were kids or anything.”
Castiel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Those are distant memories, and Lucifer was not very talkative during our, um, cohabitation.”
“But you were with him. You know where he used to go.”
“I could try, but—Are you all right?”
“What? Oh, yeah, yeah.” Chuck nodded and leaned back against the couch, clutching a cushion with one hand to hold his balance. “Everything’s just starting to get kind of fuzzy and spinny.”
“You should try to rest,” Castiel said, hesitating again. “…I could make you another cup of tea if it helps.”
“Nothing really helps, but it’s nice anyway.”
Castiel took a pillow from the chair and tucked it behind Chuck, moving a second in place to support his head. He poured the cold leftover tea down the kitchen sink and set fresh water on the stove to boil, looking through the Winchesters’ assortment of tea while trying to think of where Lucifer might have gone. The most obvious place for a wounded angel would have been Heaven, but Lucifer wasn’t foolish enough to return there while he was weakened. Hell was also out of the question. Not only had Castiel done a thorough sweep in his descent to the Cage, but Crowley had redeclared himself king, and while Lucifer never considered him a legitimate rival, he was too smart to walk into enemy territory while compromised. The first thing Castiel could remember Lucifer doing once they had joined was to go sit in public parks, but there were tens of thousands of parks in the United States alone, not counting the rest of the world. Lucifer still had his wings.
Castiel rubbed his forehead as he dunked the bag of chamomile into the hot water. His own inability to fly would make searching difficult if not impossible, but if Lucifer was as hurt as Chuck seemed to think he was, there was a good chance that he’d avoid exerting himself by traveling. He would stay in one place and lay low until he was recovered, or he would come immediately back to the bunker in search of Chuck. The fact that he wasn’t there already was evidence enough that he probably couldn’t simply fly back. Searching on foot would be Castiel’s only option. He added a generous spoonful of honey and a splash of milk to the tea before carrying it back to where Chuck was resting. He was already asleep, eyes already twitching behind their lids as if in a dream. Castiel set the mug on the table and covered Chuck with another blanket. He’d wanted Lucifer to be safe, he’d said, but where would Lucifer of all people feel safe? Castiel sat down and cradled his head in his hands. The answer was simple: nowhere. There was nowhere in the world that would be safe for Lucifer.
Castiel took a pen and paper from the side table and began to make a list. He wrote down every place he could remember Lucifer going, suddenly wishing he had spent less time staring at the television and more time paying attention to Lucifer’s battle preparations. Castiel sat for a while longer, watching Chuck sleep, but he didn’t stay long. A part of him wasn’t ready to talk to the Winchesters, wasn’t ready to admit that he still thought Lucifer was their best chance of success. If nothing else, Castiel wanted to bring Lucifer home to their father, let them see each other one last time before it was all over.