Guardian Angel

Not my work but a serious inspiration and I wanted a record of it. Note: Dean and Sam saw Castiel fall form the sky years ago. Cass was surprised that a human with no belief for the lord would help an angel. He left once he was healed and now, years later has properly truly FALLEN in order to become Dean's Guardian Angel.

When the coffee maker whirred to life, Dean checked his phone. He had a text from Sam, a picture of one of his 100% test results and a text saying he got a few messages from Garth the night before. Dean felt himself blushing a little because apparently Sam was proud of Dean for actually taking Castiel out on the town. He also had a message from Bobby, just checking in on him. Dean texted his boss back and let him know that everything was good and they got home safe the night before

“Hrnnngh.” Castiel groaned as he stretched out on the couch. Den set his phone down and looked over. From where Dean stood, he could see arms stretched out over the back of the couch, feet sticking over the armrest and a mess of dark hair. Blue eyes popped up over the back of the couch and honed in on Dean. “Ah, good morning, Dean.” Castiel hummed in his rough voice. It sounded like his already rough voice was now tossed in gravel and heavy with sleep.

“Mornin’, Cas. Did I wake you?” Dean asked, his heart skipping a beat to the sound of that rough tone. No, Dean refused to get a boner just from someone’s morning voice. He refused.

“No, you didn’t.” Castiel answered, he sat up and stretched his arms out again. It had to be a good stretch because he groaned softly. “The magnificent scent of coffee woke me.” Castiel said with a small smile, he rose from the couch.

“Uh, did you sleep good?” Dean asked, he turned and grabbed their coffee cups from the strainer by the sink. “I’ve been thinking about buying a futon or something for you.” Dean said, trying to keep his mind off of the gravel sweet voice that seemed to tickle the very base of his spine.

 

“I slept alright.” Castiel answered, he walked into the kitchen. “What is a futon?” Castiel questioned with a tilt of his head. Gravel voice and cute-as-could-be head tilt? Dean had to bite his tongue.

 

“A futon is a couch that turns into a bed,” Dean answered, he set the mugs on the counter and looked at the disheveled angel. His borrowed clothes were wrinkled from sleep and the sleep pants he also borrowed were low on his hips. Dean was only drooling because he bit his tongue, surely.

 

“I find the couch suitable.” Castiel said, he leaned his crossed arms on the counter. Dean smiled a little at him, “though a bit more space would be nice.”

“I could get one for the living room or have one put in the office.” Dean told him, “that way you could have your own room sort of.”

“My own room?” Castiel questioned, his eyes on the coffee maker humming beside Dean.

“Yeah. Your own room, that gives you some… privacy, y’know? And I won’t accidentally wake you if you’re asleep and I need to go to the bathroom.” Dean explained with as much discrepancy he could manage. Did Castiel even know he had a dream that had him moaning last night? Was the angel aware that Dean had gone into the kitchen for pills and heard the fluttering breaths?

“You haven’t woken me up.” Castiel said, he looked Dean for a moment. “Do you mind if I stretch my wings?” He asked with a hint of awkwardness, like he was expecting a quick ‘no’.

“Cas, I’d love if you stretched your wings.” Dean answered, “I told you before, as long as it’s just you and me you can have your wings visible.” Dean told him with a smile. And Dean meant it, he would give anything to see those glorious limbs any moment he could. Castiel blushed faintly, looking back at the coffee maker. Dean would do anything just to see Castiel comfortable really.

 

“You’re sure?” Castiel asked quietly, uncertain.

 

“Castiel, I think your wings are awesome. They’re beautiful and I don’t mind if you’ve got them out.” Dean told him sincerely. Castiel glanced up at him through his lashes, “you’re not going to make me uncomfortable or anything. When we first met you had wings and a knife to my throat, it’s gonna take a bit more to scare me now.” He said with a smile. Castiel blinked at him and took a deep breath, uncertainty waning.

 

There was a shift in the pressure of the room. Dean felt static rush like a wave of water over his skin. Then, glorious black wings stretched out across the span of the kitchen. Glossy, iridescent black wings with an amount of feathers Dean couldn’t possibly count. They ruffled slightly as the large limbs outstretched and then folded in comfortably against the angel’s back.

 

“Do not worry about your shirt, I can use some of my power to mend it.” Castiel said, he craned his neck to look at his back. Sure enough, the black wings had slotted through a slit in the borrowed shirt. The feathers were puffed out where they came in contact with the fabric, but no damage was done to the downy fluff.

 

“I’m not worried about my shirt.” Dean said softly, his eyes taking in the velvety black wings before him. The coffee maker beeped and he tore his gaze away. He poured the coffee into the mugs, the dark liquid beautiful but it had nothing on the jet black appendages in the room.

 

“Also, I don’t think I ever apologized for that night.” Castiel said thoughtfully as Dean put the coffee mug in front of him. Dean raised a curious brow, unsure of what the gruff voiced angel meant. “For threatening to cut your throat.” Castiel clarified sheepishly.

 

“Oh!” Dean almost laughed. He picked up his mug and blew on the steaming hot liquid. “I don’t blame you, Cas. I probably would’ve done the same!” Dean told him. Castiel looked at him, smiling softly, blue eyes sparkling.

 

“You never cease to amaze me, Dean.” Castiel said as if it were just a simple comment. Dean felt his ears turn red and his tongue burnt on his coffee, but the pain was drowned out by the fire in his heart. “I could have acted without defense back then. You were a teenager, what harm could you have caused me?” Castiel murmured, “well, I suppose you could’ve done some damage if you needed to.”

“Cas, I wasn’t sure if you were an alien or not.” Dean chuckled, “you had wings, man. You still have wings! You fell from the sky in the middle of a field, you can’t blame me for being a little curious and scared.” Dean said, his mind wandering to the crazy storm.

 

“I still should not have drawn a blade on you.” Castiel sighed, he sipped his coffee. “I felt that if I had hurt you a lot of things would be different right now. I would have been punished too.”

“What are those sword things, anyway?” Dean asked, he wanted to pull the solemnity from Castiel. The angel quirked an eyebrow and looked at him. “Raphael had one too.” Dean pointed out.

“They are blades. Not quite a short sword, not quite a dagger. Forged by God for us angels to defend ourselves if the situation arose.” Castiel answered, he lifted a hand with a flick of his wrist he was holding the silver blade. “It is the only weapon in creation that can truly harm another angel, not counting demonic weaponry.” Castiel told him, he balanced the blade on two fingers. The weight was even along the silver, no tilt or wobble.

“A weapon that hurts angels?” Dean asked incredulously. It felt a little ridiculous that God would create a weapon that could hurt His Heavenly host. Castiel flipped the blade in his hand, offering the handle to Dean.

“Yes, hurts and potentially kills.” Castiel answered, he looked at Dean’s expression. Surprise and shock toward the blade. Dean hesitantly took it, the handle was the same material as the blade, only wider in girth. There was a lip for the guard and a small flare at the base for the pommel. The weight was nothing more than a few pounds, almost weightless and balanced to feel light.

“Isn’t that sort of… I dunno, macabre? He made a weapon just for angels to fight one another?” Dean said as he examined the blade. There were no blemishes on the silvery metal. It was as if God had forged it himself, and He did. Pristine and proper, no blemish, score, or stain, ruined the reflective surface.

“Yes,” Castiel said, his eyes watched in wonder as Dean flipped the blade under a scrutinous gaze. “I believe God knew there would arguments and fights between the angels in time. Thus he created a weapon for us to ‘duke it out’. No angel has died because of it though.”

“What happens if you get hurt by it?” Dean asked cautiously. He was holding the only known item that could cause actual harm to Castiel and honestly that scared him. Castiel was trusting him to hold the very item that could potentially kill him. Castiel trusted him. Castiel trusted that Dean wouldn’t lunge forward and pierce the silver blade through his chest.

“Well, you saw me when we first met.” Castiel answered, “the blade can pierce through my skin and instead of blood it is Grace that comes out.” Castiel told him, he sipped his coffee. Dean twisted the blade in his hand, the lights from the ceiling shot off of it in reflective angles. On the far wall of the kitchen was a rainbow of colour spread along the wall.

“Your Grace.” Dean murmured, he looked again at Castiel. “How… well, how is it now that you’ve Fallen?” Dean asked. He set the blade down on the counter, it rolled back and forth slightly before coming to a steady stop.

“Dean,” Castiel started. His brow furrowed and his feathers ruffled as his wings twitched. “Dean, I…” he trailed off, struggling to find words. Seeing him troubled and uncertain pulled at Dean’s heartstrings, it was almost as if he could feel it himself.

“You’re not dying or anything, right?” Dean asked worriedly. Castiel cracked a mile for a second and shook his head.

“No, I am not dying.” Castiel answered, he took a deep breath. He set the coffee mug down and his expression hardened. “I have lied to you.” Castiel told him with an expression that should be unreadable. But Dean could read it, regret and shame, care and hurt.

“A-about what?” Dean asked quietly. Was Castiel not his guardian angel after all? Did Castiel not really Fall? What could the angel be lying about? It was making Dean nervous.

“Balthazar did not call upon me. I sent word to him.” Castiel answered, his eyes bore holes through the centre of Dean. The mechanics’ heart beat in a rhythm he didn’t know possible. “He did want to see how I was adjusting, but I wanted to ask him some questions.” Castiel said slowly.

“You could’ve told me that.” Dean said softly. Castiel wet his lips, his wings twitching as he took a nervous drink from his mug. “Oh, there’s more to it.” Dean murmured, taking a deep breath.

“My Grace will never fully replenish, Dean. When I Fell… I left a mark on you. I left a mark with my Grace and with that, I imprinted a portion of it upon you.” Castiel explained, his eyes drifting down to the blade on the counter. Dean stared at the angel so hard that if he had lasers for eyes, Castiel would be cut in half.

 

Dean was suddenly aware of the hand print on his left shoulder. He thought about the hospital and the rest of his burns that stung like sandpaper rubbed him raw, but the mark on his shoulder was soothed as if it were covered in balm. His ribs had mended at an impossible rate as well, including his wrist. Was that because of what Castiel left inside of him? An imprint of Grace. A fragment of angelic power.

“I…” Dean trailed off, he didn’t really know what he wanted to say. The only thing he could compare the situation to was a soap opera where one character confessed to giving their love interest an STD. Though this was nothing compared to that, this was an angelic power, Castiel’s Grace, not a sexually transmitted disease; at least he was pretty sure it wasn’t similar.

“I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Dean.” Castiel said quietly. Dean looked at the angel’s face, he could see the shame and pain on his face.

“No, I’m not uncomfortable.” Dean told him and it was mostly true. He wasn’t uncomfortable, at least he didn’t think he was.

“Because of this… imprint… you and I share a profound bond.” Castiel said, he worried his lower lip with his teeth.

“You’re my guardian angel now, so that makes sense.” Dean murmured, he carefully picked his coffee mug back up. Castiel looked conflicted, as if the information he was trying to share was hard for him to bear.

“Your first night home,” Castiel started with a frown, “you had a bad dream. I… I could sense it, Dean.” Castiel told him, his eyes not quite meeting Dean’s.

“Sense it?” Dean asked quietly. He felt uneasy, but he couldn’t quite understand why.

“Yes, sense it. I could feel your… discomfort.” Castiel answered, he took a drawn out drink of his coffee. “You and I are connected in a very literal sense.” Dean stared at the angel, gobsmacked, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, and absolutely mind boggled. Castiel turned white as a ghost, to red, to a soft shade of pink. His blue eyes burned into what might have been Dean’s chest as he refused to make actual eye contact.

“What do you…” Dean trailed off, it made sense to him. The empty feeling in his chest, the hollow pain like part of him was missing. It was because of his ‘profound bond’ with Castiel. The two of them were connected on a spiritual, Heavenly, mental level. There was some sort of Heavenly binding wrapped around Dean’s very soul, cemented in angelic Grace and pulling him toward Castiel. It explained the sudden feelings that Dean would get, the ones that didn’t feel quite like his own. He too was sensing Castiel.

 

“Dean, I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Castiel told him, his face drooped with sadness. “I wasn’t even entirely sure until I spoke with Balthazar.” Dean looked at the Fallen angel, his guardian angel. He wasn’t mad, he didn’t have a reason to be mad. He felt a pain in his chest like grief and regret, a feeling that he now understood wasn’t his own.

“Cas, slow down.” Dean said with a forcefully light laugh. Castiel closed his mouth, his wings folding in tight, feathers lying flat, blue eyes locking onto Dean’s green.

“If you are angry with me, I understand.” Castiel said quietly and Dean could feel the apology in his words. All these feelings, all of it made more sense now. His imaginary need to be near Castiel made so much sense. It made sense but Dean knew in the very depths of his being that he would’ve felt the need even without their ‘profound bond’.

“No, I’m not angry.” Dean said, he took a big-probably too big-gulp of his coffee. He set his mug down and cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’m angry, at least.” He mumbled, he ran a hand across his face. “Cas, how much of me do you… feel?” Dean asked and boy was he impressed at himself for asking, but also more than ashamed.

Castiel stared at Dean silently for enough time that Dean thought he was going to go bald. Castiel finished his cup of coffee and stretched his wings nonchalantly, if one could call a stretch that made wings shake nonchalant. Dean felt a bubble of anger, not quite anger but flustered frustration forming in his chest.

 

“Castiel!” Dean said and his voice was a bit louder than he intended. The Fallen angel snapped his eyes back on Dean and turned a shade of pink Dean would consider rose gold.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Castiel said bashfully. He shifted awkwardly on his feet, “I realize I should have told you sooner.”

“Cas, I’m not mad.” Dean told him again and he bravely reached out his right hand to touch Castiel’s arm. Damn, his forearm was muscular. Muscles and lithe, it looked lean and thin but it was definitely hiding a layer of muscle that could probably lift a freight train with ease. Castiel took a deep breath, a glance at Dean’s hand on his arm, and then at his face.

“I did not mean for this.” Castiel murmured, “I only meant to protect you.” the expression on his face just hurt Dean to his very core. The angel Fell for him and accidentally connected their souls or whatever, how could he possibly be mad? Dean set his empty mug down and took a deep breath.

Dean’s green eyes grazed over Castiel’s face. His sharp cheekbones, angular nose, square jaw, the stubble that never seemed to need tending to. Blue eyes, so blue they made the oceans look dirty. So blue the sky was put to shame. So expressive it made Sam’s puppy dog eyes whimper. Wings, blacker than night and trembling with uncertainty. Endearing uncertainty.

“If you think I’m mad or upset, you’re wrong.” Dean finally managed to say. “Cas, I like having you here. Profound bond or not.” Dean told him sternly because he sure as Hell meant it.

“I’m not trying to manipulate you… I’m not trying to be like Raphael.” Castiel started rambling. Dean could see the spiral before it even began twisting.

“Cas.” Dean said, he pushed himself away from the counter and walked around. His right hand gripped Castiel’s left shoulder. He didn’t even realize he was mimicking the mark on his own shoulder.

“Dean?” Castiel replied quietly. His voice was so quiet, so diluted, that Dean realized it didn’t have a single beat of the power he knew Castiel commanded within him.

“I’m not mad. I’m not upset.” Dean repeated with as much intensity as he could. Blue eyes burned into green, worriedly hitting a titanium wall. “Castiel, the moment I met you… It’s like… it was magical.” Dean said awkwardly, but finally saying it aloud. He shifted back on his heels and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably with his brace. Was he really about to do this? Confess his most likely irrational feelings?

Castiel looked at Dean, his expression guilty and also curious. Innocent and willing to learn. Dean could tell then and there that Castiel didn’t mean to leave the mark on him, he didn’t mean to leave a piece of his Grace within him. Castiel was just as innocent as Dean was.

“Since you’ve been back… every time I go somewhere that you’re not, it’s like a piece of me is missing.” Dean told him after a moment more of consideration. Castiel tilted his head a little. “It’s obviously not my imagination either.” He added with a faint smile and shrug.

“I’ve felt it too.” Castiel said quietly, eyes lowered. Dean gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, Castiel took a sharp breath inward. “I fear I am the reason that Heaven is in disarray.” He murmured, eyes hesitantly looking to Dean.

“Because of this?” Dean questioned.

“Yes, because of this. There has never been a human with angelic Grace before.”

 

“Is it going to kill me?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Is it why my ribs are practically healed?”

“I believe so. You are indeed healing at an extraordinary rate.”

“Is it going to hurt you?” Dean asked and Castiel looked at him hard. Dean pressed his lips together, his hand falling from Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas,” he said quietly, worriedly.

“Not that I’m aware of.” Castiel answered after a moment, “I cannot know for sure.”

“Can you just… take it back?” Dean asked, he looked down at his chest. He could feel a small roiling bit of anger forming in his chest and it certainly wasn’t coming from him. Castiel frowned at him, shaking his head. “You don’t want to, either.” Dean whispered, understanding the anger from Castiel.

Heart with Loving Heart United #420

 In the old blue hymnal #420 was Heart with Loving heart United. I loved it because it was more about how we should treat each-other, in obedience to God's will than how we should be as human beings, children and the creation fo God.

But there was one verse, "may we all so love each-other and all selfish claims deny. So that each one for the other will not hesitate to die." And I sung it every time putting more space between the all and the so because it wasn't "also" and I thought that was important.

"May we all SO (thusly, to that extent) love each-other.  the same way the verse described the way Christ loved us. 

Whenever I can I write examples of that. But leaving Christ completely out of it. Here are a couple of the better ones.

“May we all SO love each-other. And all selfish claims deny.”

'Will this be our life now? it's better than it was, especially for her. And that's what matters.'. The alien would come, feed us, ask us a few simple questions and then leave. He never did anything more TO me than shove me against a wall or punch me in the chest when I was 'being implacable'. But he actually, well, took care of us. And I was having trouble making heads or tails of him.

“This is...I don't even know how to finish that sentence.”

“Nikita calm down, you'll only exhaust yourself.”

“You're right. It's just our host, for lack of another word confuses me.”

“How do you read him? I mean I know you can, a lot better than most.”

“I'm not a telepath. I can sense someones' motivations and intentions, and any strong feelings. That's about it.”

His motivation is what I'm trying to figure out. For holding us prisoner the past month, he doesn't seem particularly interested in us.”

“He's trying to make sense of us. More specifically, of me.”

“Does he know who you are?”

“That I'm an alien. The rest? He has a nearly accurate picture of things. I'm starting to suspect I'm 15 degrees off of everything I know about him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Either he's extremely a-typical for his race or I got the two confused to begin with. But he would've had longer than I did to learn otherwise.”

Jeremiah looked sad. “I take it by 'to learn otherwise' you mean 'to learn what living on Earth would have taught him'.” Nikita nodded solemnly, her straight auburn hair shaking slightly with the motion. “How long have you had to learn the ways of Earth?”

“I first landed on Earth not too long before you landed on the moon.”

“You do not look that old. Two, how much older do you think he is?”

“My people live about 120 years. He's been here for at least 300 years.”

“Okay how do you know THAT?”

“He's Martian. No matter what else he is, he's a Martian. Which...I hate being so clinical but Mars has been...inhospitable for the last 300 years.”

“Wait, are you saying that depending on which race of Martian he is...”

“Jeremiah, if that man wanted us dead we'd BE dead.”

“Then why the hesitation?”

“I'd rather believe the way he's been talking is a result of living on Earth for the last 300 years and not because I got wrong which race of Martian was which.”

“Okay, you really do need to sit down and vague out.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” Nikita's head dropped as she pulled her feet close to her hips as she entered what he knew to be a meditative state. Her knees were almost as high as her head. She could've been asleep except her eyes were moving. It was a pose she maintained into the next morning.

Jeremiah could sense something was wrong. The man's eyes never left Nikita's face. “Come with me, now.” He said to Nikita. “I'll not ask again.”

Jeremiah stood beside his friend, his attitude protective. “Leave her alone.” J'onn raised his hand as if to backhand Jeremiah. But seemed to think better of it in the last second. “Whatever you have planned for her, take me.”

“If I plan to take her and execute her. Do you still volunteer?”

“I would not. But I know you're going to. Nikita was right, if you wanted either one of us dead we'd BE dead by now. If you wanted us hurt we'd be beaten black and blue. What you want from either of us is answers.”

“And it's about time I get them.” He grabbed Nikita's wrist and began dragging her to the door. Jeremiah put his hand on the man's shoulder and forcefully pulled him away. “Your actions are heroic, if exceedingly unwise.”

'What do you want with her?' Why the sudden interest in her?' 'Leave her alone you animal!' These expressions stretched themselves across Jeremiahs face in about 2 seconds. But he said none of these things. Instead he held out his hands in an emphatically non-threatening posture. “Sir, and I call you that because I have nothing else to call you. I swear on my life if you hurt her, my restraint will go right out the window. I will probably die trying to put you on the floor. But if you let her go, you can do whatever you want to me__in payment of that debt.” This speech did not have quite the effect he'd intended. The green-skinned Martian backed away from his human charge and cast down his eyes. “This surprises you?”

“Yes. What IS she to you? I mean...who is she to you?”

“Someone who has been tortured for years by a man far more blind than I have words to express. A man I served under for years and at one time looked up to. And I would die before I let her come to harm again. If there is one truth of which I need no convincing it is that she is innocent. And that she is precious to me. I can't understand it. But PLEASE, she has been through enough, let her alone.”

“You've learned I'm not Enkaren. And not the threat you feared. You must have thought HE was. Why? More relevant question...Phobos or Deimos?”

“You know the difference?” The Martian was astonished beyond measure.

“I know who they are. I don't know which is which. That was the problem. 'In the early days of Mars there were two brothers, Phobos and Deimos. Their rivalry and bloodshed was the reason for the split of the Green and White Martians.' I learned that from an Enkaren woman I once knew here on Earth. From which I understood that Phobos and Deimos were like Ishmael and Issac from the Bible. Except they split along such divergent paths they became two separate races rather than founding two separate religions. I never learned who was whose progenitor.”

“You never knew if my kind were...Ishmael or Issac?”

“I've never met your kind before in my life. And the White Martian I met was Hank's favorite example of how dangerous aliens could truly be. She'd been in that cell for over a decade when I met her. No one could hold completely to their morals after that.” She spoke with unrestrained bitterness. “Henshaw was a Creech-ta. If not a Chrish-naka Sareth. Until now you seemed equally blinded.”

“And f you had known I belonged to Deimos... you would have...”

“ 'Deimos Pah, Tar-ek Ni-cha.' would have been the first thing out of my mouth when you entered the room.”

Jeremiah raised his hand. “Could someone provide me with a translation, please?”

“What she said was that I've failed or disgraced the name of my progenitor.”

“Deimos?” Jeremiah guessed.

Nikita nodded. “Phobos and Deimos are the two progenitors of the Martian race. White Martians are monsters. I was reasonably certain of that because of my other alien friends. I just never knew who came from whom.”

“How in the name of rational thought are you speaking the Enkaren language so naturally if you are not, yourself Enkaren?!” J'onn exploded with feeling.

“Because it's my native language!” Nikita replied, openly laughing at him.

“But you...you're not...” He rubbed his left forefinger against her temple, as if tracing something that shouldn't be there. “Are you Xavallen?”

“Why should that be of particular interest to you?”

The alien bowed at the waist and backed away from Nikita. “I...my name is... J'onn Jo'nzz. I must humbly beg your pardon.” He walked away without another word.

A couple of hours later, Jeremiah walked up the stairs and into the dining room. Where he saw J'onn sitting thoughtfully. “I'm hoping you can tell me. I don't know any of these people. These races.”

J'onn didn't mind. In fact he seemed rather pleased with the request. “Enkarens and Xavallens are sibling races to each-other. Enkarens are – genetically speaking in trouble – but also far superior to humans in most respects. Apparently, along with the Atraxi, they speak the same native language.”

Realization blanketed Jeremiah's face. “She doesn't make sense for an Enkaren.”

J'onn nodded. “Xavallens are a protected species. Their home world was destoyed 200 years ago. Most of them are nomadic. But some have assimilated, to varying degrees, into other cultures. Jeremiah. Well for one thing may I call you that?”

“Of course.”

“For 16 of the 23 major powers in these galaxies, if I had known what she was, my interrogation of her without cause against her, most especially without defiance sent would have been a crime.”

“Is that why this whole thing came screeching to a halt?”

J'onn looked at him rather oddly. When he spoke, his voice was soft and deliberate. “It came to a halt because I thought she was an Enkaren who you were keeping silent. Because in that moment,” He moved his hands out and apart like Jeremiah had done. “You proved yourself to be a GOOD man. And I realized I never should have laid a finger on you in the first place.”

“J'onn, you talk as if you've been a monster to us. You were nothing of the kind. You've been good, decent, kind, even hospitable to us since we woke up in your house. The rest of it was as much my fault as it was yours. And it's not like I didn't agree to this.”

“Minister, high minister, hear us for justice.” A woman said urgently.

“Show me.” Answered a man with short-cropped hair and a golden chain. He followed the woman. Samuel followed at a distance.

“If the Kaylar are not driven they will not work.” A soldier insisted.

A man restrained by ropes pushed in. “If their work lags it is because they are not fed.”

“You seem strong enough.” The minister countered.

“My work takes strength so they treat me better. Which isn't saying much.”

“You insolent little..” The solider said lifting what might have been a club.

“HOLD!” The Minster called out. He grabbed the weapon from the guards hand and held it loosely, pointing it at the floor to indicate punishment was not intended. “You know it is death to strike one of the Valar?”

“I know it.” The man confirmed.

“Yet you struck him, why?”

“To save the old woman.”

“How does one achieve the other?”

“They wouldn't stop for her. I knew they'd stop to save his so I put him in the way.” He looked the minister in the eyes. “I wanted to save her life.”

“At the cost of your own.” The minister observed. “What is she to you?”

“An old woman.” The man answered simply.

The Master Builder walked up to stand beside the Minister. “Lord Prince, give this man the death he deserves.” He said coolly.

'The minister is also a prince. That explains their reverence for him'. Samuel thought to himself.

“Why? The man has courage. You do not speak like a field Kaylar?”

“He who created us created all of us. We needed no help with the rest.” The man said, as if repeating a mantra. “In other words, God made men, MEN made this world what it is.”

“Of which God do you speak?” The Prince asked earnestly.

“He who made the stars and the planets, the soft winds and the thundering rains. He who created both brilliant and foolish four-legged creatures and the birds of the air. And who created both of us.” He said looking at the prince with intention.

“An all powerful God?”

“Very much so. My people wait for the day when God's messenger will pull the scales off of your eyes and straighten our backs.”

“Lord Prince this man speaks Treason.” the Master Builder said entreatingly.

“I speak of what I honestly believe will be a better day for both your people and mine. How is that treason?” The man insisted, pushing against the ropes that still held him back.

“I could not have answered better myself.” The Prince agreed. He tossed the birch-rod looking-thing to one of the nearby soldiers. Turning to the chief solider, the one who had first objected, ordered simply 'release him'. The soldiers at once began undoing the ropes amid gasps of surprise, some coming from the soldiers. The instant he was free, the man fell to his knees. He reached for the Prince's hand but stopped himself before making contact. “May God in his heaven bless you, Noble Prince. May I be permitted to one day repay you for this kindness.”

“What is your name?”

“Nathaniel.”

“Well, Nathaniel, go home, quickly. And from now on you will be__” Nathaniel visibly tensed, uncomfortable at the thought of being called away from his people, even as a reward. “__under my protections and in my debt.”

“Thank you Exalted one. God protect and defend you against all harm.” Nathaniel exuded. Both the prince and the woman knew he thoroughly meant it.

Sasha is a Living Witness

"Castiel is not an enemy. Neither yours nor mine Sam."
"Are you sure, because from everything we hear about him..."
"From everything you hear about him he rebelled against and screwed over Heaven and is perfectly capable of kicking ass without hesitation, or breaking a sweat." Dean and Sam nodded thier affirmation. “Yeah he rebelled against heaven and the angels don't like him much. But Dean angels are dicks. You KNOW this, angels are dicks. I mean I can remember you saying they were even bigger dicks than you thought.” A look of shock crosses her face as she realizes Dean is putting Castiel in this category. “You don't remember?” Sam and Dean stand in rather awkward silence. “Well, this is...unanticipated. I'm going to take a wild guess and say Sam is clinging onto the idea that there is at least one good angel out there in the mess of Uriel's and Zachariah's?”

“I...wouldn't have put it quite that way. But, yeah.” Sam says slowly.

“Well there is. And you've met him. Castiel is one of two angels who get how important humans are. And unfortunately you hate the other one's guts. When Castiel rebelled against heaven it was to Join. Us.” She put fist to her mouth. “I can take a guess who told you all this crap. Unfortunately the days are gone when I could kick his ass.”

Dean cocked his head to the side in an incredibly Castiel like maneuver. “Wait, are you...”

He had been about to say 'someone who fights with us' but the words got lost on the way to his throat. He quickly recovered, deciding it wasn't a good idea to admit to a woman who was essentially a stranger that they had such gigantic holes in their memory. He shot his brother a look as if to say 'we need to talk...later.' Sam nodded.

The woman, rubbed two fingers against her forehead. “Look Castiel is a B.A.M.F. But he's a B.A.M.F. that's on our side. I mean you are around when all this weird crap happens. And you are involved in that crap. That doesn't mean you're responsible for it. It doesn't mean you're the bad guys, does it?” Sam and Dean exchanged glances with each-other.
"How do you know we're the good guys?" Sam inquired. “I don't mean that as any sort of challenge, promise. But...what makes you so sure we're the good guys?”
Instead of her usual mysterious 'I know you are worthy of my help' or 'what ever power has guided me these last 6 years I've learned to trust it', she looked Sam almost in the eyes and says. "You saved a friend of mine once. Puts you in the 'good guy' column as far as I care."

Her eyes got distant. Dean couldn't help feeling there was something the woman really wanted to say. Something ...dangerous. Almost forbidden. Then watched as she mentally pulled herself back to the conversation. "Look you want me to cut to the chase?" She paused but did not wait for them to nod. "Well the chase IS cut. The chase is bleeding the chase is," her voice took on a dreamy note " 'dying in your arms' ...And Castiel is trying to close the wound."

“Sasha, what is going on here?”

Dean and Sam looked behind 'Sasha' to see a man in his late 20's dressed in a red-leather archer costume. With a compact bow and fletchetts around his gloved wrists. 'brave little man' Dean thought absently. He checked himself a moment later. This man WAS brave. And probably not incompetent either.

“Ah...a couple of sincere, and quite capable do-gooders chasing the wrong prey.”

“Sounds familiar.” The male voice behind her stated.

“Arsenal, you meet up with Cap. I'll see you at Kate's.”

“You got it.”

“Our kind of situation?” Sam inquired. “I'm guessing you kind of know what that is.”

“Fighting bad guys and saving people, yes. But these are people, not monsters. Not even the powered up ones are actually you're kind of crazy. The weirdest thing you'll see around here is a green-skinned alien. DO NOT shoot something just because it looks scary.” Sasha replied quickly. “That was a 'yes' by the way. To your second question.”

Oliver hands Sarah an oblong shaped stone, the color of the shiny side of an oyster shell. "When you get back to the Waverider, place this on literally any flat surface you can find. It'll play a message."

"Ollie you know we don't exactly have the best track record with these."

Oliver held  Sarah's wrist gently but firmly. "It'll play a message from Sasha."

"...I'll go get Ray."

"I'm still not entirely sure what I'm doing here." Ray Palmer rambled quickly.

"We're the only Legends who have a clue who she was. And from what Oliver said, my father almost came to tears rewatching it."

"So...no popcorn."

"Gideon, play message." Sarah said in her calmest voice.

The woman on the screen was unquestionably Sasha, but that's about all they could make out at first. Except for the fact that she was sitting in her bathtub, and wasn't looking ahead. "You know it's been years since I cared about this right?" The damp, blonde-haired woman said to absolutely no-one. Her eyes looked worn, tired. Her hair a slicked back mess. Far from the sharp-eyed thirty-something Sarah had last seen.

"Well okay then. If anyone IS on the other side of this..." She paused, as if collecting her thoughts. "Don't try to stop me when I leave. And don't expect me to come back. I won't." She takes a deep, almost shuddering breath. "And if the person hearing this... knows the significance of Bombay Sapphire and Sprite....I cared about everyone I met in Star City, because of a conversation with you that I don't even remember. I just remember thinking 'it wouldn't be fair to call myself Sarah." Sarah Lance takes her breath in. "So for the first time in 19 years I called myself by my actual name: Sasha Jordan Scott."

After playing the same message for Dinah Drake, Curtis Holt, Rene Ramirez, and Felicity Smoak. Oliver faces them, eyes and voice clear and calm.

"That person, was Quentin Lance. And that woman, was a woman *I* knew as Sasha Jordan Scott. And while not part of this team, she was a part of this fight since before I knew most of your faces." Oliver runs his hand in front of his eyes. “I didn't realize it until Havenrock was happening and she wasn't there to help us with the storm. I'd known since Quentin and I buried the hatchet that she wasn't going to be around for long. We all knew her time was short. that's why I saw more of her once I became the Green Arrow than I had in the three years prior." He stares particularly hard at Curtis. "She made a special effort to meet you before she left. When that...bee lady took over Palmer Tech. I've never forgotten that about her, or you. Don't you forget it either."

"I won't, I promise. I obviously didn't know her as well as you all did but from what I saw, she was her own special kind of badass."

Oliver and John both chuckled. "A quiet kind of power." Oliver said reminiscently.

1 of 2 defining qualities of the Enkaren race, Elana's race, from my stories.

"When they get, I guess you can call it 'righteously angry' it actually IS righteous anger. On the rare occasion you end up ticking them off, you usually end up saying your prayers. but they get ticked off about the right things."

Strange Bedfellows

 I'm not usually a fan of vampire stories of any fandom. But the original work was mesmerizing. And stayed so completely true to the character of Castiel that I was hooked. 

I wrote a second chapter and waited for my Archives of Our Own  account for almost 10 days so I could post this. As much credit as can be given to the brilliant mind who started this!

 "Well Castiel do you need a place to stay?”

The man – for in That moment Dean thought of him as a man – stared at him, uncomprehending. "We both need to get out of here, preferably without being seen. Come on, I'll take you to my place."

Despite being the one with the bleeding gash in his neck, Dean found himself carrying Castiel into his motel room. Castiel fell into the metal dining chair, dazed. Dean let him sit there quietly while he went into the bathroom for the first aid kit. His first instinct of course, was not to let his bizarre guest out of his sight for a second longer than he had to. Somehow he got the impression the only thing he was in danger of from Castiel was that the man would run away into the night. So he patched himself up in front of the bathroom mirror, cleaning and patching his wound as efficiently and effectively as if it had been his whole profession. He returned to the living room to find Castiel staring at him, his eyes hollow and sad.
"If you're going to kill me, just give me a quick death."
Dean was floored. Not at the request as much as the realization that he wasn't even considering what should have been a common sense course of action. The man's eyes were icy blue, his voice pleasant and pained. “I know you're a hunter. I know your kind. I won't stop you. But please, just kill me and be done with it.”

Dean knocked him out with one blow. When Castiel woke up, he was tied to the chair he'd fallen asleep in. Dean was standing a few feet away from him, holding a silver knife in one hand and what he could only assume was a flask of holy water in the other. His face set with determination, permitting no emotion. “Here's how it is Castiel. I'm going to ask you some question, about you, vampires in general I need to know my enemy. You tell me what I want to know, you get a quick death like you asked. You screw with me...or lie to me, and things will get very unpleasant for you.” he traces the point of the knife down Castiel's jawline Capiche?”
Castiel nodded faintly. “I capiche.”
“Okay to start with the obvious, were you targeting me?”
“As a hunter?” Dean nods. “No.”
“Then why me?”
Your strength. I sensed your strength vibrating off of you. You are powerfully alive.”
Whatever Dean had been expecting to hear, this clearly wasn't it.
“You figured I could survive you feeding off me.”
Castiel could not tell for certain if this was an assertion or a question. Deciding it didn't matter, he shook his head gently. “Take from it what you will.”
“When were you turned?”
“1508.”

It was a good thing Dean was trained by the absolute best hunters or he would have choked on air. “Are you serious?”
Castiel cocked his head to one side, as if surprised. “I wouldn't lie. Threat against my life or no, I wouldn't lie.” He swallowed hard, the defeated tone in his voice returning. “And anyway, why would I risk it?”
“I'll accept that.” Dean stepped back, his eyebrows crinkled in thought. “What happened last night?” It was clear by the way his head jerked back, that he had surprised himself with the question.
“Blood loss wasn't the only thing making you weak in the knees, was it?”
Dean clutched harder at the handle of the blade. How the hell could this vampire understand him so completely? “How do you know that?”
“Blood is life-force,” Castiel responded, as if stating a well known fact. “The very essence of who you are is in your blood. I learned a lot about you from the feeding.” He cast his eyes immediately to the ground. Worried he'd angered the man, terrified the borderline admission had sounded like a taunt. “Forgive me.” He looked up again, at least as high as Dean's chest. “For us feeding is an extremely sensual experience, intimate and intoxicating. The__victim isn't always immune to it.” His calm eyes suddenly became over bright. “I do not know how to beg your forgiveness. But I AM sorry. Please believe that.”

Finally they had gotten to the heart of the matter. One of them anyway. “Is that why you're so eager to die? Because you believe you deserve to be punished?”
“It's not that I'm eager to die.” Castiel answered fiercely. “I am not eager to die. Merely expecting it. And I learned to live without fear of death long ago.”
“Well that I can understand.” Dean remarked. He turned around so Castiel couldn't see him smile. “A man who fears death has already died many times.”
“Yes, exactly.”
Finally Dean decided he'd had enough. Facing the vampire again, he held the knife at Castiel's torso, the left side of his ribs. Castiel's face went slack. And although he had enough self control not to plead aloud, his eyes began pleading wildly. 'No! No you said that if I answered your questions.' ...and he cut the ropes.
“Get out of here.” Dean commanded, his voice calm and controlled.
Castiel pulled the ropes off of himself, got to his feet, but made no move to leave. “I don't understand.” He admitted.
“I needed to know what the deal was with you. And I didn't think you'd tell me in casual conversation. Well now I know. You're a vampire, but you're not a monster. Anyway it seems pretty stupid to kill you after you spared my life.”

"I can't."
"Castiel. Cass you don't under..."
"No I mean I CAN'T!" He gestured wildly to the window. The sun was shining brightly in a nearly cloudless sky.
"Yeah. That...that is a problem."

This is the original work

There's a feeling in the air when danger is near, a buzzing. The atmosphere is thicker and the littlest sounds stand out. That's the feeling Dean gets now, stupidly walking down a dingy alley late at night, with no weapons. It's the start of a shitty horror movie honestly. Being a hunter, being raised with and by hunters, Dean should know better. He had parked Baby by the shitty bar he'd planned to spend the entire night in. But something had drawn him away. He wasn't always thinking smart, but this choice had no thought in it. Only human instincts and morbid curiosity. Like slowing down while passing by a car crash. That's not to say there were any tells something had happened or was even here to begin with. There were no sounds, no knocked-over trash cans, no movement out of the corner of his eye. It was more of a feeling that called Dean into the dark space. Kicking a can, Dean scans the area. The space was dully lit by a yellow lamp creating a hued, painted atmosphere. There were multiple turns to take that led through various alleys and doorways that led into abandoned houses no doubt inhabited by people with nowhere else to go. “Hello?” Dean called out. Yup, definitely a horror movie waiting to happen. And Dean's the dumb protagonist everyone wants to yell, ‘Get the hell out of there you idiot!’

There was a crunch behind him and Dean whipped around just in time to block a grab at him. Before Dean could get a proper look at his attacker, he was gripped tightly and thrown against the wall of the alleyway with superhuman strength.

“Mother fucker-” is all Dean was able to gasp out before swiftly taking a knee to the stomach only to be grabbed again and forcibly lifted back to his height. Now with the new angle, Dean is able to get a somewhat better look at his attacker, a pale man with dark disheveled hair. He appeared to be around Dean's age, wearing a tan trench coat over a white dress shirt enveloped by a loosened tie, and what looked like black dress pants but it was too hard to see in the dark. A hand grabbed the hair on his nape and pulled backwards with alarming strength, exposing his neck. Despite Dean's attempts to throw the man -or vampire Dean assumes- off of him, the other man's arm pushed forcibly against him, keeping him pinned. The pull against his hair caused Dean's eyes to water, obscuring his vision. The man is mumbling something; his voice sounds wet and gravelly. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.” He mumbles against Dean's neck, which was wet from where the vampire had his lips against it.

“Fucking stop-” Is all Dean is able to huff, his airways constricted, before he feels a blinding pain. The rest of his sentence is turned into a panicked cry. The body pressed against his smushes itself closer as if he's trying to climb inside of Dean. Hot, thick liquid drips down his neck; blood. Even in that moment Dean couldn't help feeling confused. Usually, vampires are cruel and unapologetic about their feeding off those they attack. With this one however, there's something off. Dean's vision is starting to get spotty; he finds his knees going weak. The arm forcing him into the wall relents and instead wraps around his waist, holding him up less forcibly and more gently. Remorseful even.

Dean hears a whimper at his throat, he feels the vibration against his neck, and he realizes the man is shaking. There's a slick sound and the teeth in his neck retract. His lips remain, now kissing at the ravaged spot as if the wound is something to worship.

Dean groans, finding himself disoriented and too weak to shove back. He hears the man mumbling again, slightly louder, but his voice is even more destroyed and raspier than before. “I'm so sorry.” He whispers-almost groaning, his face squished against Dean's neck. “I'm so sorry.” His words are coming out as inaudible whimpers now, and despite every bone in Dean's body telling him not to, Dean pities the man and the sheer grief in the man's voice. He chooses to ignore the arousal in his gut and what about this fucked up situation inspires it? The man's grip on Dean's hair is much looser now. Dean's head sags against the man's. Judging by the man's now crumbling form. Dean feels he can safely assume the vampire doesn't plan on hurting him any further, let alone killing him. If Dean wants to get away, now is the time. Dean peers down at the vampire on his knees, his head slumped against Dean's pelvis. His shaking is only worse. Without the man's strength to hold him up, Dean slides down the wall against his back. Now they're at the same height, but Dean can't get a good look at his ducked face. For a minute Dean just sits there and watches. He can't bring himself to get up and run, he's too weak. If the vampire decides he doesn't want any witnesses, Dean would be fucked. Judging by the way all Dean wants to do right now is run his fingers through the man's hair and ask him ‘what's wrong?’ He must already be. What the hell is wrong with him? This is not the time!

Instead, Dean lifts his hands to the man's obscured face and cradles it. The man flinches at the contact. “Shh, Shh.” He shushes as he lifts his head and moves his hair so he can get a better look at the man. His eyes are vividly blue, wet and pleading. His face is covered in blood, smeared all around the bottom half of his face. They stay like that, looking into each other's eyes for several moments. Dean drags his thumb over the man's bloody lips and he quivers. “Are you okay?” He questions gently. The man jerkily nods, still looking into Dean's eyes. “What's your name?”

The man licks his lips nervously several times before answering. “Castiel.”

“My name's Dean. Do you know what you are, Castiel?” Dean figures he must be freshly turned. He might not even know what's going on or why.

“A vampire.”

Scratch that, apparently, he does know. Castiel's awareness only makes the situation that much more odd. Dean tries a smile. "Well Castiel do you need a place to stay?”

Castiel Being an Angel

Castiel is a vampire. In dire need of strength he attacks the healthiest, most vibrantly alive human he sees. Only to realize he was a hunter: Dean Winchester. Most of this is NOT my work. The original work ends at Dean's question 'Do you need a place to stay?'

                                    Tear You Apart (WiP)

There's a feeling in the air when danger is near, a buzzing. The atmosphere is thicker and the littlest sounds stand out. That's the feeling Dean gets now, walking down a dingy alley late at night, with no weapons. It's the start of a shitty horror movie honestly. Being a hunter, being raised with and by hunters, Dean should know better. He had parked Baby by the shitty bar he'd planned to spend the entire night in. But something had drawn him away. He wasn't always thinking smart, but this choice had no thought in it. Only human instincts and morbid curiosity. Like slowing down while passing by a car crash. That's not to say there were any tells that anything had happened or was even here to begin with.

There were no sounds, no knocked-over trash cans, no movement out of the corner of his eye. It was more of a feeling that called Dean into the space. Kicking a can, Dean scans the area. The space was dully lit by a yellow lamp creating a hued, painted atmosphere. There were multiple turns to take that led through various alleys and doorways that led into abandoned houses no doubt inhabited by people with nowhere else to go. “Hello?” Dean called out. Definitely a horror movie waiting to happen. And Dean's the dumb protagonist everyone wants to yell, ‘Get the hell out of there you idiot!’

There was a crunch behind him and Dean whipped around just in time to block a grab at him. Before Dean could get a proper look at his attacker, he was gripped tightly and thrown against the wall of the alleyway with superhuman strength. “Mother fu-” is all Dean was able to gasp out before swiftly taking a knee to the stomach only to be grabbed again and forcibly lifted back to his height. Now with the new angle, Dean is able to get a somewhat better look at his attacker, a pale man with dark disheveled hair. He appeared to be around Dean's age, wearing a tan trench coat over a white dress shirt enveloped by a loosened tie, and what looked like black dress pants but it was too hard to see in the dark. A hand grabbed the hair on his nape and pulled backwards with alarming strength, exposing his neck. Dean attempts to throw the man -or vampire Dean assumes- off of him, but the man's arm pushed forcibly against him, keeping him pinned. The pull against his hair caused Dean's eyes to water, obscuring his vision. The man is mumbling something; his voice sounds wet and gravelly.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.” He mumbles against Dean's neck, which was wet from where the vampire had his lips against it.

“Fucking stop-” Is all Dean is able to huff, his airways constricted, before he feels a blinding pain. The rest of his sentence is turned into a panicked cry.

The body pressed against his smushes itself closer as if he's trying to climb inside of Dean. Hot, thick liquid drips down his neck; blood. Even in that moment Dean couldn't help feeling confused. Usually, vampires are cruel and unapologetic about their feeding off those they attack. With this one however, there's something off. Dean's vision is starting to get spotty; he finds his knees going weak. The arm forcing him into the wall relents and instead wraps around his waist, holding him up less forcibly and more gently. Remorseful even. Dean hears a whimper at his throat, he feels the vibration against his neck, and he realizes the man is shaking. There's a slick sound and the teeth in his neck retract. His lips remain, now kissing at the ravaged spot as if the wound is something to worship.

Dean groans, finding himself disoriented and too weak to shove back. He hears the man mumbling, slightly louder, but his voice is even more destroyed than before. “I'm so sorry.” He whispers-almost groaning, his face squished against Dean's neck. “I'm so sorry.” His words are coming out as inaudible whimpers now, and despite every bone in Dean's body telling him not to, Dean pities the man and the sheer grief in the man's voice. He chooses to ignore the arousal in his gut, and what about this fucked up situation inspires it? The man's grip on Dean's hair is looser now. Dean's head sags against his. Judging by his now crumbling form, Dean feels he can safely assume the vampire doesn't plan on hurting him any further, let alone killing him. If Dean wants to get away, now is the time.

Dean peers down at the vampire on his knees, his head slumped against Dean's pelvis. His shaking is only worse. Without the man's strength to hold him up, Dean slides down the wall against his back. Now they're at the same height, but Dean can't get a good look at his ducked face. For a minute Dean sits there and watches. He can't bring himself to get up and run, he's too weak. If the vampire decides he doesn't want any witnesses, Dean would be fucked. Considering all Dean wants to do right now is run his fingers through the man's hair and ask him ‘what's wrong?’ He must already be fucked. What the hell is wrong with him? Instead, Dean lifts his hands to the man's obscured face and cradles it. The man flinches at the contact. Dean frowns. “Shh, Shh.” He shushes as he lifts his head and moves his hair so he can get a better look at the man. His eyes are vividly blue, wet and pleading. His face is covered in blood, smeared all around the bottom half of his face. They stay like that, looking into each other's eyes for several moments. Dean drags his thumb over the man's bloody lips and he quivers. “Are you okay?” He questions gently. The man jerkily nods, still looking into Dean's eyes. “What's your name?”

The man licks his lips nervously several times before answering. “Castiel.”

“My name's Dean. Do you know what you are, Castiel?” Dean figures he must be freshly turned. He might not even know what's going on or why.

“A vampire.” Scratch that, apparently, he does know. Castiel's awareness only makes the situation that much more odd. Dean tries a smile.

"Well Castiel do you need a place to stay?” The man – for in That moment Dean thought of him as a man – stared at him, uncomprehending. "We both need to get out of here, preferably without being seen. Come on, I'll take you to my place."

Despite being the one with the bleeding gash in his neck, Dean found himself carrying Castiel into his motel room. Castiel fell into the metal dining chair, dazed. Dean let him sit there quietly while he went into the bathroom for the first aid kit. His first instinct of course was not to let his bizarre guest out of his sight for a second longer than he had to. Somehow he got the impression the only thing he was in danger of from Castiel was that the man would run away into the night. So he patched himself up in front of the bathroom mirror, cleaning and wrapping his wound as efficiently and effectively as if it had been his whole profession. He returned to the living room to find Castiel staring at him, his eyes hollow and sad.  "If you're going to kill me, just give me a quick death."

Dean was floored. Not at the request as much as the realization that he wasn't even considering what should have been a common sense course of action. The man's eyes were an icy blue, his voice pleasant and pained. “I know you're a hunter. I know your kind. I won't stop you. But please, just kill me and be done with it.”

When Castiel woke up, he was tied to the chair he'd fallen asleep in. Dean was standing a few feet away from him, holding a silver knife in one hand and what he could only assume was a flask of holy water in the other.

“Here's how it is Castiel. I need information. I need to know my enemy. You tell me what I want to know, you get a quick death like you asked. You screw with me,” he takes a threatening step forward, “or lie to me,” H puts the long edge fo the blade against Castiel's neck, just under his jawline. “and things will get very unpleasant for you. Capiche?”

Castiel nodded faintly. “I capiche.”

“Okay to start with the obvious, were you targeting me?”

“As a hunter?” Dean nods. “No.”

“Then why me?”

“I sensed your strength vibrating off of you. You're powerfully alive.”

Whatever Dean had been expecting to hear, this clearly wasn't it.

“You figured I could survive you feeding off me.”

Castiel could not tell for certain if this was an assertion or a question. Deciding it didn't matter, he shook his head gently. “Take from it what you will.”

“When were you turned?”

“1508.”

It was a good thing Dean was trained by the absolute best hunters or he would have choked on air. “Are you serious?”

Castiel cocked his head to one side, as if surprised. “I wouldn't lie. With your threat against my life or no, I wouldn't lie.” He swallowed hard, the defeated tone in his voice returning. “And anyway, why would I risk it?”

“I'll accept that. What happened last night?” It was clear by the way his head jerked back, that he had surprised himself with the question.

“Blood loss wasn't the only thing making you weak in the knees, was it?”

Dean clutched harder at the handle of the blade. How the hell could this vamp understand him so completely? “How do you know that?”

“Blood is a life-force, the very essence of who you are. For us feeding is an extremely sensual experience, intoxicating even. And the__victim isn't always immune to it.” His calm eyes suddenly became over bright. “I do not know how to beg your forgiveness. But I AM sorry. Please believe that.”

Finally they had gotten to the heart of the matter. One of them anyway. “Is that why you're so eager to die? Because you believe you deserve to be punished?”

“It's not that I'm eager to die.” Castiel answered fiercely. “I am not eager to die. Merely expecting it. And I learned to live without fear of death long ago.”

“Well that I can understand.” Dean remarked. He turned around so Castiel couldn't see him smile. “A man who fears death has already died many times.” “Yes, exactly.”

Finally Dean decided he'd had enough. Facing the vampire again, he held the knife at Castiel's torso, specifically the left side of his ribs. 'No, no you said if I answered your questions!' Castiel's face protested wildly.

...and he cut the ropes.