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of castiel ♃ (castieli) wrote in silverage,

It had been months now, since they had been cut off from Heaven. They never should have sent the entire garrison here. The information that had led them to the city had come either falsely or too late, and by the time they realised this, they were trapped, along with seven million people and some spare. They had gotten no closer to finding an explanation than they were on Day One. Without communication and ever thinning threads to Heaven's resources, they were forced to rely on themselves and their own Grace. To act without orders . . . such a thing had never happened before. Even Anna had seemed less than certain and she always knew what to do.

That was only the beginning of their concern. There was a steady stream of Travellers arriving from alternate futures, many foreign even to their knowledge. Some desired only to return home, but others had proven themselves hazardous to the principal universe. At least, it had given the garrison something to busy themselves with, until a more suitable solution could present itself.

The man who had prayed for supplication was lying sprawled on the floor of a public lavatory, colour draining fast with the growing pool of scarlet around him. The skirt of Castiel's coat stirred silently as he knelt before the dying man. The angel carried the sky in his eyes as he peered at the face. This would be a minor figure in the coming war against Lucifer. But for the creature that should never have been here, the man would have lived. If there was any hesitation as he lay his hand on the man's crown, it was only because it was frowned upon to intervene in matters and consequences of free will. What if this was, after all, God's will? What if this was exactly as it should be? Without orders from above, he had no way of knowing.

In the next second, the deed was done. The skin had sealed where there had been gaping wounds before and the man would soon regain consciousness. Castiel stood with a worried look. Healing was one of those abilities tied to Heaven, and being that this tie threatened to cease to exist at any moment, it may well be that the next fatal victim could not be saved.

But as he made to leave, he caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass by the sink. The association between the stranger in the mirror and his physical manifestation was not immediately made, but a glimmer of recognition dawned on him soon enough. Approaching it as though it were a portal to another world, he solemnly inspected the face that stared back at him. Yes, these features held familiarity, as expected of a vessel descended from the same bloodline, but it was not the one he had taken, of this he was sure.

Hearing the forgotten man arouse behind him, Castiel stalked out of the facility and into a packed floor. It was Happy Hour and overlapping chatter drifted from dozens of tables, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He wandered down the narrow mahogany aisle, unsure what it was that he was searching for. In his distraction, the trenchcoated brunet chanced to brush shoulders with a drunk in a black mood. Despite a haphazard apology, he found himself shoved against the nearest wall by a thick, strong arm. With the stench of alcohol hot in his breath, it was obviously a brawl and not a cravenly submission that the drunk wanted for. To his disappointment, the response he received was neither fight nor flight.

"I have no desire to harm you," Castiel declared, the same way he might have declared no, I don't want fries with that. This evoked a barking laughter from his aggressor.

"The little man doesn't want to harm me," the larger man made known to the room. With a rough shove, he released his quarry. Oblivious to where this was going, Castiel took this for the end of it, but found that his path was blocked by the man. "Go on then," the drunk insisted, opening himself up to an attack. "Hit me."

"Hit you?" Castiel echoed, confusion evident in his face. Was it not desirable to avoid pain? Why did this man want to be hit?