Perception

Metamorphosis

Dean woke up to the bedside table lamp on and arms suspiciously absent of quasi-human. The sheets were tucked up to his chin, and the space beside him was unpleasantly cool. 

Looking up, he found Castiel standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed snugly over his chest, a frown the most prominent feature on his face, at the moment. He had changed into clothes that weren't his, and weren't Dean's. They looked like they belonged to a tax accountant, really. In front of Castiel was Gabriel, that damn smug bastard looking a touch more modest than Dean was used to.

"Cas?" mumbled Dean, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Castiel looked over to Dean, blue eyes sad and vaguely worried. "Cas, what's going on?"

Castiel broke away from his space in front of Gabriel and walked closer to Dean, taking his face in his hands and pressing his lips to his forehead in an idle kiss. "I'm getting my Grace back, Dean. I'm going to be an angel again."

Dean pulled himself back sharply, staring at Castiel incredulously. "What? And you didn't think to discuss this with us first?" His stare turned angry. "We're a team, Cas; we have to talk about shit before we go making big decisions!" 

Towering over Dean, Castiel glowered. "This decision was not a team effort, Dean. I am an angel. I was made an angel, I have remained an angel, and I will always be an angel, as you will always be human. I am an angel to the core, and your words nor anyone else's could change that. By the will of God Himself, I am an Angel of The Lord."

Dean sputtered, momentarily shocked and awed. "Cas, you don't know what's out there! What if it's too powerful for you? You're going to get yourself killed."

For someone who was drugged-up and spacey a week ago, Castiel was as solid as stone. "I know exactly what I'm up against. Dean, it's the Antichrist."

There was a beat of silence. "Oh, so you're not joking? You're really going off to fight the fucking Antichrist by yourself?"

"Yes," Castiel stressed, stepping away from Dean and turning towards Gabriel. Sam had woken up by now, and was watching the two argue with confused, if slightly sad, eyes. "Close your eyes, both of you." 

Dean knew that tone, and did as he was told, clenching his eyes shut and throwing his arm over them. There was a blue light and a ringing that almost had both brother's ears bleeding. The TV and one of the lamps burst. It all stopped in seconds, but it was still enough to make Sam nauseous and Dean's insides ache. 

When they finally uncovered their eyes, they saw the shadow of slightly singed wings behind Castiel, stretching completely across the hotel room and then some. Castiel looked at the brothers (more specifically, Dean) and Dean - if he were anyone else - would have cried at the sight. That wasn't his Cas. His Cas shivered when the temperature was below 60 and picked at Dean's fries when he was too tired to eat a full meal. 

This was Castiel, warrior of God, eyes as ancient as the Earth, expression stoic and guarded. He looked like a robot, not a perpetually confused 26 year old. In that moment, Dean hated Castiel. Hated him for taking away one of the only good things left in his life, someone whom had brought Dean happiness. 

Dean glared menacingly, standing and yelling, "Go, get out! Save the world and don't bother coming back, you bird-brained bastard!"

There was a swish of trench coat moving and a flash of the flask, tucked into the waistband of Castiel's pants, as he approached Dean. His eyes had softened for just a moment, but were hard and angry before Dean could react to it. He grabbed Dean by the collar and yanked him close to his face, growling out, "It takes one word, Dean," in a voice like gargled whiskey and gravel, before stepping away and fazing out of the room. 

Sam stared at Dean for many long moments, before shaking his head and sighing. "You really did it this time, man."

"Shut up, bitch," muttered Dean as he stalked to the bathroom.

"Jerk," Sam said to the bathroom door. Gabriel gave a halfhearted smile to Sam before winking and poofing off, to wherever estrange archangels go.

...

Castiel appeared outside of the Wallace Estate, where his nephew resided and made mischief. Dean had one Hell of a nerve to say those things to him, the angel that pulled him out of Hell. Especially since he had spent the week (unknowingly) becoming Dean's friend and consort, he deserved the respect that was due.

He grazed his fingers against the flask reverently. He hoped he still held the position of Dean's friend and consort when he returned, but knowing Dean as only an angel could, he had his doubts. At the moment, he didn't want to go back.

Castiel shook away the thoughts and turned to the more important matters. He walked with purpose to the door and threw it open with a pulse of energy, startling the staff that had just come back from vacation. Making an entrance was something Dean had taught him, and he was rather proud of it. He made his way to the backyard, where he felt Salpsan's presence. 

The demon-boy was sitting on a swing that hung from a bare tree limb beside a dead rose garden, pumping his legs idly, smirking knowingly, until he saw Castiel. He jumped off the swing and rang towards the angel. "Uncle Castiel!" he yelled, plowing into Castiel's legs.

"Hello, Salpsan," greeted Castiel, patting the boy's hair. "What are you doing here?"

Salpsan had the decency to look abashed. "Starting the Apocalypse." He looked down and twisted his foot in the snow. "Daddy and Uncle Michael told me to," he amended quickly, almost in fear of his uncle's wrath. 

"I had assumed so," Castiel said. "Stop this nonsense and go home. Tell your dad to stop being such a child. I'll deal with Michael."

Salpsan sighed. "Sorry, Uncle Cas." Castiel ruffled his hair in response and the boy smiled before disappearing back to Hell.

Castiel fazed up to Bruce Wallace's room, glancing around before his eyes landed on a radio, which was playing quietly. Castiel recognized the growling voice as one of his favorites from back at the hospital, and smiled. He would go back to the Winchesters. They needed him just as much as he needed them, even if Dean was being an ass.

He looked around the room before going to the closet and opening up a shoebox. He pulled out Salpsan's demon blade and stored it away inside his trench coat pocket. The boys could always use a second knife. 

...

Michael was frustrated. This was getting ridiculous. Castiel couldn't continue to thwart his plans anymore, and any measures taken to stop him were not enough. It was time for him to take matters into his own hands.