A/N: I'm glad to know people like this, thank you for the support of this story. Have some Cas.

Heaven did not celebrate victories. There were no parades or trumpets. Not a word of praise coated the ears of Castiel and his garrison when they returned. Success was expected—demanded, even. Their mission had been to retrieve the righteous man had prevailed the same as any other. Heaven would have it no other way. Nothing had changed in God's realm.

The same grey coated the area the angels occupied. So, why did Castiel feel robbed of meaningless tribute? Why were the walls cold and metallic? When he'd never payed them mind before this mission. Heaven was the same; Castiel knew he was the one who changed. He'd even performed an unthinkable action. He lied to his superiors. No regular angel dared to show any kind of rebellion. Or, no one heard of the ones who did.

Ever again.

This gave Castiel an advantage when telling the unexpected lie. Truly, the trip into the abyss went differently than he had planned. It began as it should have, he lead as they stormed the gates of hell. Light spread it's fury around him as the angels fought their way down into the pit. Demons slaughtered the unprepared among them, but the angels were just as bloodstained. Castiel lead the charge; his blade shaped a broad path. Mixed grace had clouded the air around them and hellfire signed his wings, but Castiel marched on.

When he found the soul of Dean Winchester, it was as Heaven had expected. Still a human, but torn and mangled by hell. Castiel saw him drag screams out of his victims under the demons guidance. How fickle and frail the human soul was. Up until that point, everything had gone well. Then, the angel grabbed the damaged soul.

The soul grabbed back.

Being a soldier, Castiel knew how to adapt at any change in battle. He let the soul cling to him as he carried it out of Hell. Per his orders, Dean returned to a healed body and the angels who survived returned to heaven.

Part of the soul, however, had stayed. Castiel did his best to try and pry off the offending strands. It only pushed them to coil tighter around his grace and being. A snake around it's prey. He hosted an intruding otherness and it had an effect on his performance.

Castiel continued the duties of a garrison leader. Under the surface, everything felt wrong. Angels were not supposed to feel in the first place. Emotions, he'd been taught, were defective side effects of humans. Heaven had no place for soldiers who questioned orders. Castiel would fall if anyone knew of his new developments. So, he didn't report that part of his mission.

Yet, Heaven itself felt unwelcoming around him. Castiel sat like a discarded doll at the end of a deserted hallway. He needed a solution, but no sane ones were forthcoming. He wanted to fling himself out of Heaven. He wanted to scream into the connection with his brothers as they discussed future war plans. Most of all, he wanted to find Dean Winchester again.

Did the hunter know what he had done? Did he feel Castiel's grace as he choked it? Had he purposely tainted one of God's purest creations, just as humans had done with all of Earth? Added this ache within him to leave. To explore. To question.

Dean Winchester wielded his soul to lay siege in the most devastating way. With no option of surrender, Castiel drowned in the muddy water.

A flap of wings pushed him out of the depressing swirl of thoughts. Uriel, his subordinate, appeared before him.

"Castiel." The subtle warning tone in the other warrior's voice that told Castiel he was being summoned. He stood and nodded to the other angel. Some part of him, he guessed the new part, begged him to run away. For now, Castiel yielded to his fate.

Dean flinched as the psy-chick's cold hand touched his shoulder. Her fingers didn't reach the edges of the handprint-shaped scar. He sucked in a deep breath as she started to mumble unintelligible things about 'auras' and what not. The hunter looked across at Bobby and Sam, who were in similar states of cluelessness. They sat around the table in Pamela's house, holding hands. They didn't have to sing kumbaya or anything, thankfully.

"I don't understand." Pamela said. Dean shook his head at Bobby. This had been a waste of time. They should be tracking down what dragged his sorry soul out out of hell, not having a tea party with the spirits of the universe.

"Well, that makes two of us, sweetheart." Dean bit out with a sarcastic smile. She hadn't let go of his shoulder and he wanted to swat her hand away like a mosquito. Pamela narrowed her eyes at his comment.

"I'll ignore that, 'cause you're cute. You've got a lot more problems than I thought though." Pamela said.

"What do you mean?" Ah, Sammy, always the one to go right for the kill.

When it came to questioning, that is.

"I can't call upon what made this mark." She said, finally pulling her hand away from the hunter. "The energy comes back to you in a loop...almost like..."

"Like what?" Dean asked, his impatience had risen. It was enough that something decided to pull him out after what felt like years in hell; He wanted the answers she had. Now.

"Like it took a piece of you with it."

"A piece of me?" Dean assumed he was whole when he dug out of his own grave. He'd check everywhere and all his gear was there, in better shape than it'd been when he died. Pamela's eyes met his. It was clear this was a piece of him she would be able to sense; that left an option in his mind. "My soul?"

Pamela nodded and Dean lost whatever control he still had. He stood up and shrugged on his jacket. His boots were out the door before the rest of the room could respond.

The hasty exit didn't stop Sam from following him.

"Dean." Sam pleaded. It was the deal all over again. The desperation and the doom. And his little brother caught up in his shit again. Whatever this hell-raiser's plan was, Sam would stay put this time. Dean wouldn't let him get too close again. Whether Hell or Earth, he'd burn alone. No one else could handle the crossfire, especially not Sam.

"Go with Bobby. I'm gonna figure this out." Dean said.

"Dean, What? You can't just run off and fight this thing alone!" Sam yelled. The Impala's driver door slammed and Dean started his car. He ignored the approaching giant until Sam's face was at his window.

"It's my soul, Sam. Mine. Whatever this son of a bitch wants, it wants it from me." He said. His thoughts took a brief detour to whatever unlucky bastard had a matching soul, but he stayed attentive when Sam spoke again.

"You still can't take it alone. We have to do this together, find and hunt it like Lilith-"

"Oh and that worked out so well!" Dean ignored the hurt that spread across the other hunter's face. "No, Sam. This is my fight."

The car shifted and he drove. Only a pinch of guilt troubled him for leaving. It was squashed, as usual, by stubbornness as hard as whiskey and a shotgun loaded with determination.

For the first time in a long time, the Head Auror's office was filled with laughter. Mostly because the Head Auror himself, Harry Potter, hadn't waited until he was home to get tipsy. Another person spoke up above his chuckles.

"I hope you know now not to send me after an Amortentia dealer again."

"How was I supposed to guess you'd love it so much, Ginny?" He replied. After a quick smack to his arm, they both dissolved into peals of laughter. With all the years fighting against a murderous dark lord and then cleaning up after his death eaters, Harry found the humor in any job that wasn't life threatening.

He calmed down enough to pour his partner another drink. Ginny followed him into the auror program after the war. Harry always assumed he'd be fighting alongside a redhead, though, not this particular one. Ron dropped out of auror training to give Hermione some peace of mind. Those two love bird settled down quickly when neither of their lives were at risk anymore.

That was another common theme he and Ginny shared. Neither of them had gotten married. After Voldemort fell, everyone paired off. Wedding invitation always cluttered his table in those first few years. As did marriage proposals, not everyone found their soulmate, after all. Harry just couldn't let go of the idea that someone out matched him. And he wanted to find them.

He had let go of childhood fantasies of a quidditch player, because clearly anyone in the wizarding world would know by their own forehead. Whoever his soulmate was, they were a muggle.

A strange one.

"How goes your other assignment?" He asked, failing to hide the eagerness in his voice. Ginny blew a strand of red off her freckled nose and accepted the drink.

"Nothing. Not in any of the older books on runes. I even checked the in dark arts. I'm inclined to believe it's just a random design." She huffed.

Ginny hadn't been as strict with the whole soulmate thing. She'd dated a couple blokes, no one for more than a year, but not for lack of trying. The youngest Weasley had been adamant that she didn't care about fate or anything of the sort. Until a few months ago, when Harry found out she got a matching tattoo to his. Neither of them had gone to get it so the only logical conclusion was that their soulmates knew each other.

Harry refused to believe the two mystery people were shacking up together as lovers. Lots of friends got matching tattoos. Ginny didn't lean either way, but the clue had sparked a passion in her to seek out her man. At least to chew him out for getting into so many situations that warranted scars and pasting a 'tacky' design on her skin. The boy-who-lived sent a prayer up that the man would survive the encounter; Ginny was a female dragon when she wanted to be.

Harry couldn't wrap his head around the shared image. It was too simple in his mind to be personal, but not simple enough to be meaningless. With the pentagram in the middle, he thought it had some magical meaning. From what she found, it didn't hold any meaning in real magic. Harry chewed on his lip. This was so frustrating! He felt so close at time but when he looked, he still knew nothing.

"Harry." He locked eyes with her piercing gaze. "I know this means a lot to you, and hell, I want it too. Just...don't feel like you're alone okay. We'll figure it out."

He let a smile stretch across his face. The reassurance wasn't needed, he knew how many people were on his side. He waved the bottle of fire whiskey and let out a battle cry.

"Come on then! We have our friend the alcohol here!" They clinked glasses and continued swapping slurred stories.

At eleven o'clock at night the floo flared to life. Harry looked up from where he chased his glasses across the floor. Ginny didn't stop laughing as she greeted the new arrival between hiccups.

"Gee~orge!"

"Why do I always have to be your designated flooer?" The other redhead sounded more fond than exasperated. He bent down, a long way since he'd gotten so tall, and handed Harry his sliding glasses. The black haired wizard latched onto him, mumbling praise to his hero. Ginny grabbed her brother's other side as he navigated them both to the fireplace.

"Cause you're the responsible one." Ginny said as the fire whisked them away to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Harry and Ginny shared the apartment above the store with George after the war. They were worried about him, but ended up benefiting just as much from not being alone. George lived in a house with his wife now, but still insisted they live there.

"Please tell that to Angelina." The older Weasley said as he caught Harry from falling on his face. Ginny giggled and failed to help him drag the other wizard to the sofa. Her laughter fell away and, deciding that the carpet was rather snug, she fell asleep. Harry was in a likewise state when he his the brown cushions.

George turned and swooped up his sister; she was lighter than Harry so, he carried her to her bedroom. Shaking his head at the little line of drool coming from her mouth, he tucked her into the soft blankets.

"Please let her soulmate be more like Bill or dad." George said, knowing that he would have joined the debauchery if he didn't work late.

The night went by with steady snores. Downstairs, the shop's unidentifiable items gathered dust in the dark. A soft flutter disrupted the air and heavy footsteps teetered around growing puddles of blood.

Castiel clutched at his side where a long gash painted his fingers red. His vessel's soul had departed from the lack of blood and the angel himself struggled to stay in existence. Blue eyes tried to scan the area, but only colorful streaks of light made up the world around him. No longer willing to hold his weight, his legs collapsed beneath him. Castiel splayed his arms to find balance, but only managed to knock over several tables full of products. The resounding crash was followed by several pops and a couple minor firework explosions. The angel didn't hear the aftermath, as he went unconscious soon after his fall.

Harry snapped to attention at a collection of noises. He'd trained to awaken at any disturbance, so even a great dose of alcohol didn't dim his instincts. Someone was down in the shop. He summoned and downed a hangover potion, waiting the few moments to get back to his full senses. Why hadn't the alarm gone off? If a thief apparated in, the resulting alarm would be much louder then a couple crashes and quiet. Why was it quiet?

Creeping down the stairs, he thanked Merlin they didn't creak. The wizard flicked the light on and took in the wreckage. It wasn't too bad, only a small area in the lower left of the shop was full of topped tables and scattered bits and bobs. He sent a charm to stop the Silent Slinking Snakes from traveling around the floor and moved closer. Wht he caught out of the corner of his eye had him rushing to a figure on the floor.

He recited the spells he'd learned in auror training to stabilize the form. It was a man. He had black hair and had dressed himself in a tan trenchcoat. When Harry turned him over he noted the man had a handsome face, though it was quite worn. Understandable, considering the injury. When the wizard peeled back the coat and white shirt, it revealed a deep gash. By all logic, this man should already be dead.

Ignoring his curious mind, Harry set to work on levitating the man up to his bed and healing the injuries. Once the wound was closed, he took another, longer, look at his unexpected guest. The man was handsome. The wizard's eye roamed over the pale chest before looking away. He berated himself for being so sexually deprived he resorted to oogling passed out half-dead men. He leaned over to rebutton the man's shirt and give him some semblance of decency.

Just as he fitted the last one through, a hand clamped over his own. Harry willed his blush down to go back to a state of alertness. This man had showed up here without clear motive. He twisted out of the grip and backed away.

"Thank you." The gruff voice took a while to get to Harry's brain. Those eyes were so blue and the captured him like flying on a clear day.

"What?" He'd meant to say something more interrogative and aggressive. The wizard gave himself a mental slap, he needed to remain in control. Who knew what could happen in this unknown situation. Harry's hand shifted to rest over the wand in his back pocket.

"You healed me." Blue-eyes said.

"Oh." Harry said. His eyebrows furled. Was that genuine? It was rare that he couldn't get a read on someone after so many years as an auror. Yet, he couldn't tell anything with this man besides the case that he wasn't currently attacking. Before he could ask anything else the man spoke again.

"I did not think Heaven would be able to cut off my Grace before I could heal." The man said, as if that was a rational explanation. Of all the crazy people Harry had met in his life, this one looked the least like a crazy person.

"Heaven?" His voice sounded disbelieving, even to his own ears. But Harry had never been one for religion. Magic presented enough explanation for the nonsense in his life, thank you very much.

Then with a ruffling noise, the wizard watched two great wings spread from the man's back. They were torn and looked to be burnt at the edges. Harry found them nothing less than beautiful. His hand fell from his wand and reached forward to touch the feathers before he thought better of it. The winged man's gaze never faltered and his expression never shifted from its blank state.

"My name is Castiel. I used to be an angel of the Lord."