Chapter Text
April, 29 A.D.
Jerusalem, Roman Occupied Judea.
The night was cold. Far colder than the arid, cool nights Castiel had come to recognize as normal. A chill had swept its way through the city’s narrow streets, freezing the stone rooftops that a few hours before were baked in heat and sunlight. He leaned against the frigid wall of a balcony on the third floor of an inn, staring up at the moon as it rose over the city through a haze of fog. Though the cold air had no effect on him, he knew his vessel would likely be shivering.
Castiel listened to the chatter coming from inside the room connected to the balcony while the smell of roasted lamb and freshly baked matzo wafted around him. Eight men with thick Galilean accents laughed and joked with one another, their voices slurred by wine. Peter debated the finer points of net tying with his former fishing partners, the Zebedee brothers, and his own brother Andrew.
They were men Castiel knew, but not well.
The two men Castiel did know well were seated at the end of the table where they joked quietly with each other between sips of wine. They were brothers. The two eldest sons of a carpenter from Nazareth. The younger one was called James. The older one was called Jesus.
Jesus was a prophet, the man Castiel’s father had chosen as the Messiah and Castiel was charged with keeping watch over him.
Castiel wanted more than anything to leave Jesus alone, to let him enjoy his Passover Seder, but he had to speak to him. Two of the apostles, Judas of Kerioth and Simon the Zealot, were absent from the festivities. They had been missing all day.
Shortly after sundown, Castiel heard Judas pray a quiet and resigned ‘yes’. After that, Judas was silent. Suppressed.
Castiel sighed, stepping just beyond the threshold of the room.
Finally, Jesus caught his gaze. Castiel gave a slight nod and exited the room, walking back onto the balcony.
Jesus rose from his place at the table and followed Castiel outside, stopping a few paces beyond the threshold. “You’re not here to join us. Are you, Castiel?” He glanced down at the wine cup in his hand before locking his eyes on Castiel.
“Unfortunately, No. I’m not.” Castiel shook his head. “ They’re— ” Castiel paused. “They’re going through with their plan.”
Jesus furrowed his brow. “How? You etched cloaking sigils onto my ribs and the ribs of all my disciples. Even Simon the Zealot and Judas.”
“Yes, but that won’t do you any good. Not anymore.”
“What do you mean? ”
“They have Judas.” The words hung in the air. “They’ll use him to find you.”
Jesus frowned. He was silent. “Do they have anyone else?”
“The Roman Prefect,” Castiel explained. “Even if he wasn’t possessed, Pontius Pilate would have no qualms putting a would-be messiah who caused a near riot in The Temple to death. He’s killed far more for less.”
Jesus didn’t say anything. He ran his hand down his face, shutting his eyes as he began to pace around the balcony.
“I will fight them off,” Castiel declared. “Anna and Balthazar will help me.”
Jesus stopped. He lifted the cup to his mouth, drinking down the rest of his wine. “No. You won’t.”
“What?” Castiel blinked. He stepped closer to Jesus “You can’t—”
“—If this is to be my fate, then it is to be my fate.” Jesus shrugged, tapping the rim of the cup with his thumb.
Castiel clenched his fists. “So you’re just going to give up?” he hissed. He closed the space between them, glaring. “You’re going to give them what they want?”
“Yes,” Jesus snapped. “Because what they really want from me I won’t do. I can’t do.” Jesus glanced into the room, looking briefly at his brother. Tears filled his eyes. “I won’t see the world destroyed. This—this is only way I can ensure that it won’t be.”
“What about your mission?” Castiel asked.
“This is my mission now.” Jesus paused. “And perhaps,” he glanced up at the night sky. “Perhaps it always was.” He brushed the tears roughly away from his cheek.
“Do you truly believe that?”
Jesus didn’t say anything. He looked at Castiel. “Just promise me you won’t try to stop it.”
Castiel shook his head. “I can’t promise that.”
Jesus placed his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Then promise me you won’t get yourself killed.” He pleaded.
Castiel didn’t say anything.
Jesus gave him a sad smile, patting his shoulder before he headed back into the room. When he sat back down at the table, he took one of the remaining pieces of matzo into his hands. He looked back at Castiel, clearing his throat before he turned his gaze to the apostles.
Not long after, the men gathered up their belongings and left the inn, heading into the street were they found Simon the Zealot hiding in an alleyway. He shared a few words with Jesus before joining them on their walk to the city gates.
Castiel followed them at a safe distance to a garden called Gethsemane, located at the foot of the Mount of Olives. He paced around the edge of the garden, moving in between the twisted olive trees, his sword safely tucked inside the sleeve of his rough wool tunic.
By midnight, Castiel had killed two demons and three of his brothers. Their bodies lay at the entrance of the garden, the charred impressions of their wings contrasted highly against the sand in the moonlight.
While he paced, Castiel listened to the sounds coming from deep within the grove. The rhythmic sound of a knife sliding across a whetstone. The work of either Peter or Simon. The Zebedee brothers whispered and bickered with one another. The rest of the men were fast asleep.
At least twice, Castiel heard Jesus and James fighting. The fights took the form of Jesus ordering James to go back into the city followed by James steadfastly refusing. At first, they were hisses, and then they became shouts.
When Jesus wasn’t yelling at his brother, he was praying. Half spoken prayers of sorrow, anger—and most of all—fear. Fear that shook his entire body. Castiel could smell the blood Jesus was sweating.
During one of these bouts of prayer, Castiel visited Jesus and tried to comfort him. He sat with Jesus and healed away the blood he had been sweating. He asked Jesus to change his mind, to let Castiel fight his siblings, but again, Jesus refused and ordered Castiel to leave.
As Castiel made his way back to his post, he saw the glow of torches off in the distance, breaking through the dark and fog. They shone a low light on the figures of a squad of men that were making their way through the garden.
Then Castiel heard the sound of sandaled feet making contact with gravel and dirt behind him, far ahead of the squad. Castiel turned to find his one of higher ranking brothers standing there, the bright moonlight casting a shadow of wings under his vessel.
“Zachariah,” Castiel said. His gaze drifted down to the leather coin purse, heavy with silver pieces, tied to his belt. “You didn’t have to make Judas take blood money.” Castiel nodded at the dagger at Zachariah’s waist—its blade made of silver and etched in old Hebrew—and the hamsa pendant dangling around his neck, just visible under the hood of his cloak. He noted the small cloth bag filled with clumps of rock salt, a slingshot hanging loosely on the other side of his belt.
“We needed to operate with the utmost discretion.” Zachariah’s voice was detached as he circled Castiel. “Besides,” he scoffed. “After that money buys him a jug of wine or two Judas won't pay it any heed. Despite your clever little attempt at hiding The Nazarene and his followers, getting consent from him wasn’t difficult. All I had to do was go into his dreams and persuade him a little. Not shocking, really. After all, Judas knows exactly what’s at stake and he knows the debt he owes us.”
Castiel raised his eyebrow. “A debt?”
“We pulled Judas out of Gehenna, Castiel.” Zachariah’s voice was blunt.
“And you are throwing him back in. He —”
“—Judas is a faithful servant of Heaven,” Zachariah said annoyed. “You know the prophecy: ‘The righteous one who begins it must be the one who finishes it.’ And he is. By helping The Nazarene fulfill his destiny.”
Castiel shook his head. “This is not Jesus’s fate.” His words were angry. “And Michael wouldn’t jeopardize his —”
“—Michael is the one who gave us the order.” Zachariah glared. “The final two seals are set to be broken before the festival ends. If the Nazarene wants to continue acting like a petulant child than this will be his fate. We’ll wash our hands of him and start over.” Zachariah watched Castiel for a moment. He gave him a smug smirk. “The fate of the world is more important than the life of one ape. Even if that ape is the man Our Father has chosen as His Son.”
Castiel’s eyes narrowed. Carefully, he lowered the sword hidden up his sleeve, letting the weapon slide into his hand. Before he could strike, however, Zachariah knocked the blade out of his hand and slammed him against one of the olive trees. He pressed his own sword against Castiel’s neck.
“Once the Nazarene is dead, we’ll make sure that the brothers and sisters you led astray are handed over to Naomi and dealt with. You can thank Uriel for that, he was loyal enough to come forward and beg that their lives be spared,” Zachariah hissed, his eyes narrow. “As for you? Anna convinced Michael to spare you. And because you’re one of our best soldiers, we will, but this is your last chance. The next time you defy a direct order, brother, it will be your last.”
Zachariah began chanting. A blue-white light glowed from the mouth and eyes of Castiel’s vessel and he felt himself being pulled, wrenched out from the body. He fought it, desperately, but to no avail. The next thing he knew Castiel was floating, incorporeal and invisible, above his unconscious vessel.
Zachariah walked over to his vessel and placed a hand against his chest before snapping his fingers.
With that, Castiel's vessel was gone. Hidden from him.
A slight distance away, Zachariah joined the squad of men. They spoke briefly before marching further into the garden.
Unable to do anything, Castiel heard Jesus speak words of anger at Zachariah before the clearing erupted into chaos. A knife sliced through the air, followed by a blood curdling scream. A bright light flashed and there were more screams.
When the chaos stopped, Peter was pinned into the dirt by a man with a bleeding ear, while another pried the blade from him. Simon lay against a tree, his hand pressed against a bloody sigil painted on the trunk. The rest of the apostles had fled.
Jesus and Zachariah had disappeared.
The last thing Castiel saw was James, running out of the grove and back to the city in nothing but his tunic, his cloak ripped from his body. His knuckles and face were bloody and his eyes red with angry tears.
The night air became colder.