Chapter Two: Walking the Earth
The days following the truce were filled with the uneasy quiet that often follows arguments that end in stalemate rather than resolution. Chuck and Amara talked and sometimes stormed off in opposite directions, retreating to nurse their wounds. The Winchesters handled everyday cases—salt-and-burns, vampire nests, cursed objects—while watching news feeds for signs of cosmic fallout. Castiel split his time between Heaven's politics and Earth's hunts, struggling to interpret messages hidden in meteorological anomalies. Crowley maintained his tenuous grip on Hell, snarking through tension. Rowena chased her own ambitions with half an eye on the heavens. And above them all, the Sky slept and dreamed.
He slept, but he did not ignore his sentinel's murmurs. The sentinel kept watch, scanning the cosmos for the kind of tremor that would mean he had to rise in defense. The sentinel heard laughter, heard prayers, heard cursing at traffic, heard weather reports; it heard, too, whispers of prophecy and crackles of cosmic energy. It also heard his father's occasional thought—gentle check-ins, vague assurances that things were progressing. The sentinel did not rouse the rest of him. It simply listened. As the days turned into weeks, the sentinel heard nothing that triggered alarm. Instead, it heard Chuck ask a different question: "What would happen if you didn't just watch?"
The thought arrived like a breeze in his dream, stirring clouds in the mental sky. The Sky considered it. He knew his father was thinking of him walking the Earth the way angels sometimes did—wearing a vessel, driving a car, maybe getting a motel room with questionable wallpaper. He smiled at the thought of inhabiting a body, of fingers and toes, of eyelashes and stubble. He remembered the feeling of grass when he extended his essence into that meadow to speak with Chuck; he had enjoyed the texture, the sensation of wind in hair. He thought of Sam and Dean's kitchen, the smell of bacon, the clatter of pots and pans. He thought of Castiel's perplexity over pizza toppings. Pie.
He rolled over in his dream and considered the idea. He could walk the Earth. He could meet his brothers and sisters in ways that did not involve cosmic battles. He could talk to humans not through omens or rainbows but face to face. He could taste food and drink. He could experience love or at least companionship beyond his father's and the angels'. He could get his boots dirty and maybe wear plaid. He could, perhaps, help in small ways without having to wake to fight his aunt. He could be part of the story, not just the stage. He smiled wider in his dream and thought, why not?
On a rainy afternoon in Kansas, Sam and Dean found themselves arguing over the best route to a haunting in Colorado. The map spread across the bunker's table had coffee rings on it, courtesy of Dean. Sam tapped at a road closure notice on his laptop. "I'm telling you, this highway is closed for repairs," he insisted. "We need to take the state road or we'll lose hours."
Dean scowled. "The state road goes through those mountains. Ice this time of year? It's stupid. We take the interstate, wait at the closure, detour around. Less mountain, less chance of me driving us off a cliff."
"You're the one who likes mountains," Sam retorted. "And we don't have hours to waste if those kids are in danger."
Castiel leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed, trying not to smile at the domesticity of his friends' bickering. He glanced at the door when he felt a shift in the air. It was subtle—an extra molecule, a change in pressure, a scent of ozone. He straightened, eyes brightening. "He's here," he said.
"He who?" Dean asked, and then the door opened without being touched.
A man walked in. He was tall—well over six feet—with the kind of stature that commanded attention, not because he was imposing but because he seemed to contain a horizon. His skin was the color of twilight, luminous and dark at once, and his hair fell past his shoulders in waves that moved gently despite the still air. He wore boots and dark jeans, a plain T-shirt, and a jacket that looked like it was made of clouds. His eyes were deep and calm and held flecks of light like stars. He smiled at them with both confidence and humility.
"Hello," he said, his voice the same as in the clearing—like wind through a canyon.
Dean's mouth fell open. "You… are you the… Are you sky dude?" he stammered.
The man chuckled, and the sound was like rain on a tin roof, comforting and rhythmic. "I suppose I am," he replied, amused. "I hope that is not my permanent moniker." He extended a hand as if to shake, an oddly human gesture that he had been practicing in his dream. "Call me Caelum," he said. "At least for now." He had chosen a name he liked, one inspired by Latin poetry but simple enough to be said with ease.
Sam wiped his hands on his jeans and took the offered hand. The grip was firm but gentle, the palm neither cold nor warm. "Caelum," Sam repeated, tasting the syllables. "Like the constellation?"
"Like the word for sky," Caelum said, smiling. "Though I am no sculptor of chisel or marble. Unless you count sculpting space." He turned to Dean and extended his hand again.
Dean shook it tentatively. "Dean," he said, as if that needed explaining. "Uh. Welcome. Is it… safe for you to be here?" He glanced at Castiel, who gave a tiny nod as if to say yes.
"Safe is relative," Caelum answered, releasing Dean's hand. "My father and aunt are still negotiating. The balance holds. My being here does not tip it. In fact, it may help." He looked around the bunker, taking in the shelves of lore, the maps, the bullet holes patched in the walls from past hunts. "You live in an interesting place. It feels like a library, a home, and a bunker. It suits you."
Dean snorted. "It smells like old books and microwaved burritos," he muttered. Then, because the being in front of him had asked in a cosmic way to be offered pie, he said, "You hungry?"
Caelum laughed—a genuine burst of laughter that made Sam and Dean smile despite themselves. "I have never eaten," he admitted. "I am curious. I would like to try something you eat when you are celebrating, perhaps, or when you are comforted." He had glimpsed pie in Chuck's memories; he wanted to know if it was as good as everyone seemed to think.
Dean pointed at the kitchen. "Pie's over there," he said. "We got apple and pecan. Pecan's better." He motioned for Caelum to follow him. Caelum moved with a grace that was almost floaty but still grounded. He seemed to glide and then remembered that people walked; he adjusted, making his boots thud just enough to be normal.
Sam and Castiel trailed behind, amused by the sight of Dean playing host. In the kitchen, Dean cut a large slice of pecan pie and handed Caelum a fork. "This might be overkill," Dean said, "but better to start with the good stuff." He watched as Caelum studied the pie's glistening top.
Caelum leaned in, inhaling the scent of brown sugar and butter and toasted nuts. He smiled at the complexity, at the way his nose catalogued each note like a weather report. He took a small bite. The sweetness hit him like sunlight breaking through clouds. The richness, the crunch of nuts, the softness of filling, the flakiness of crust—every detail exploded in his mouth. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, feeling texture, taste, temperature. He laughed again, softer, almost reverent. "This is… wonderful," he said. "It is like tasting a storm that has not yet broken, like inhaling lightning. It is like experiencing a sunrise through flavor." He took another bite, more confident. "Humans are remarkable."
Dean grinned. "Told you pecan was better." He cut himself a slice, not wanting to waste the moment. "So, uh, Caelum. Why'd you come down? We didn't look up."
Caelum swallowed his bite before answering. "Curiosity," he said simply. "And a desire to help in small ways. To experience your world. To see if I could… blend." He set the fork down with great care, not wanting to drop the pie. "I also came because I heard a storm that is not weather. Something is stirring that is not my aunt or my father. I thought I would investigate. And I have questions."
Sam leaned forward on the kitchen island. "Questions?"
"Yes." Caelum looked at Sam intently. "Your father told me you are curious." Sam smiled slightly. "What is love like?" Caelum asked. "Not the love I feel for creation—broad and diffuse—but the love you feel for a person. How does it differ from loyalty or duty? Does it feel like pain? Does it feel like pie?"
Dean choked on his forkful of pie. Castiel raised his eyebrows. Sam cleared his throat. "Uh… That's a big question," Sam said, aware that he was speaking to an entity who held up the sky. "Love is… complicated. It can feel like warmth and safety. It can also hurt if things go wrong. It's… specific. You love someone because of who they are, not just because they exist. It's…" He fumbled for a metaphor. "It's like… like a good song. It sticks in your head. It moves you. It makes you want to listen again even when it makes you cry." He shrugged, embarrassed. "And sometimes it is as good as pie."
Caelum listened, nodding. He filed away Sam's metaphor. "Thank you," he said. "I have never felt that kind of love. My love is… structural. But I wondered." He turned to Castiel. "And you, brother. You have loved humanity in ways that have defied orders. How would you describe it?"
Castiel looked down, then up. "Risky," he said, choosing his word carefully. "And worth it. Sometimes it is painful. Sometimes it is joyful. Often it is both at once. It is… choosing someone over yourself." He glanced at the Winchesters. "I'm still learning."
Caelum smiled softly. "You are all teaching me by example," he said. "I appreciate it." He looked at Dean. "Do you love pie?"
Dean considered. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "Pie's like… a hug you eat." Caelum laughed again. "Then I love pie," he declared. "Not as deeply as your love for each other. But as deeply as I can love a food."
They ate in companionable silence for a while. Caelum tried apple pie next and found the tang and sweetness a different kind of delight. He tried coffee and found it bitter but invigorating. He tried beer and wrinkled his nose—fizz tickled in a way he didn't expect. Dean raised his eyebrows. "We'll get you on whiskey later," he said. Caelum nodded, game for experimentation.
After their informal tasting, they moved back to the library. Caelum wandered, running a finger along book spines. He recognized some titles from dreams and others that were new. He stopped at a shelf of Greek mythology. He pulled a volume off the shelf and flipped it open. "Ah," he said, reading about Ouranos being overthrown by Cronus. "I have been castrated in none of my timelines," he remarked dryly. Dean choked on his beer. "Please don't be," Dean said. "That'd be… awkward." Caelum nodded. "Agreed." He put the book back.
As they talked, the lights flickered. Castiel looked up, senses sharpening. Caelum tilted his head. "Did you feel that?" he asked. "There is a pressure building in the atmosphere that is not natural. It is like a storm but not of weather. I think the disturbance I sensed earlier is manifesting now." He closed his eyes. His consciousness expanded, reaching up through the concrete of the bunker into the air above Kansas. He tasted ozone, static, and something foul. He pulled his awareness back. "There is a breach. A tear in the veil that is not my aunt's doing. Something is trying to come through."
Sam stood. "Where?" he asked, adrenaline spiking. "Hell?"
"No," Caelum said. "Not Hell. This is more… Purgatory-adjacent. But not within the structure of Purgatory. It is like a pocket dimension wedged between layers of reality. Something old is trapped there, and it is trying to break out." He frowned. "It smells like Leviathans but feels like something else. It is making the air heavy in a way I do not like."
Dean put his beer down. "Great," he muttered. "Another thing to worry about. Do we know what it is?"
"Not yet," Caelum admitted. "But I can find out. I can go there. I exist in between. That is my realm. I can slip into the space between. I can investigate and report back. I might be able to fix it if it is a purely physical tear." He glanced at them. "Would you like me to?" It felt important to ask. He did not want to be another cosmic being imposing himself on their agency.
Sam exchanged a look with Dean. Dean shrugged. "Yeah. If you can do it without, you know, ripping yourself apart or starting another apocalypse," he said. "We appreciate the help."
Castiel nodded. "Be careful," he said quietly. "If it is connected to Leviathans, it may be a trap."
Caelum nodded. "Duly noted." He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, drawing air into his lungs as if he needed it. He exhaled slowly. As he did, his form dissolved into mist, then into light, then into nothing. He simply wasn't there anymore. Dean blinked. "That's gonna take some getting used to," he muttered.
In the space between dimensions, Caelum stretched. He felt the layers of reality like pages of a book. He slipped between two pages near the Earth—one that led to Purgatory and one that led to Earth's atmosphere. The tear was in the margin. He slid into it. It was cold and wet and smelled of rotting vegetation and something metallic. He sensed pressure as if something were pushing from the other side.
He extended his essence around the tear, examining its edges. It was irregular, like a tear in fabric made by claws. It had not been caused by the Darkness. It had not been caused by his father's light. It felt older. He pressed gently, reinforcing the boundary. The thing pushing from the other side pressed harder. He heard a grating sound, like teeth grinding. He sent a probe of himself through the slit.
On the other side was a cavernous space filled with viscous liquid. There were shapes moving in it—dark, large, with eyes like voids. Leviathans. But mixed among them were other things—translucent, glowing, smaller but numerous. He recognized them from his dreams: Souls that had been devoured by Leviathans early on, before Purgatory was sealed, souls of ancient creatures that predated humans. They swirled, disoriented, stuck in the mire.
In the center of the space was a structure, like a bone cage, made of ribs from something massive. Inside the cage was a pulsing mass of shadows. It pushed against the cage, seeking weakness. It was not the Darkness but a shard of her essence, perhaps a drop that had been flung off during the first battle and trapped. It had grown by feeding on souls and Leviathans. It was now large enough to try to break free. If it escaped, it would slip into Earth's skies, devouring oxygen, turning blue into black.
Caelum withdrew, his essence recoiling from the wrongness. He did not want to let that thing out. He pressed again at the tear. He used his ability to thicken and thin space. He condensed the molecules of reality at the tear, weaving them tighter. The thing inside sensed him and pressed harder, releasing a wave of darkness. It seeped through like smoke. Caelum inhaled it, then exhaled it back into the pocket dimension, refusing to let it out. He worked methodically, weaving space like a patch. It reminded him of that first time he had patched a crack for his father. But this time there was no cosmic sibling watching. It was his job, and he did it calmly.
As he worked, a Leviathan swam toward him, mouth open, teeth like knives. It lunged at the tear, trying to bite him. Caelum recoiled, then remembered he was space. He let the Leviathan bite emptiness. It bit into nothing and lost traction, spinning away. He felt pity. These creatures were nightmares to humans, but here they were hungry, trapped, manipulated by something older than themselves. He wished he could free them, but he knew he could not. He needed to seal the tear.
He hummed as he wove, a soundless vibration that matched the frequency of his father's light. The fabric of space responded. The tear narrowed. The darkness inside shrieked in frustration. It pressed one last time. Caelum pressed back. The tear sealed.
He held it for a moment, feeling the pressure ease. He reinforced the edges with his essence, leaving a trace of himself woven in as reinforcement. He sent a whisper through the pocket dimension, soothing the souls. "Rest," he thought. "I cannot free you, but I can give you peace." He felt them settle, like leaves falling gently. He withdrew.
Back in the bunker, a breeze rustled papers. Caelum reappeared, mist coalescing into form. He inhaled the bunker's stale air and exhaled slowly. "It is handled," he said. Dean sighed in relief. "What was it?" Sam asked, grabbing his notepad.
"A shard of my aunt," Caelum explained. "A drop of her essence that broke off during our first battle. It fed on Leviathans and souls in a forgotten pocket. It tried to break out. I sealed it." He looked at his hands, flexing them. "We will need to watch for other shards. She is one, but she is also many. Pieces of her were scattered when I first pushed her back." He looked up. "I should have remembered that."
Dean shook his head. "That's not on you," he said. "You can't remember every piece of cosmic shrapnel. You did good." He slapped Caelum on the shoulder—then paused, thinking maybe slapping the sky might be weird. Caelum smiled. He appreciated the gesture.
Castiel tilted his head. "You said you have questions," he reminded Caelum. "Besides love."
"Yes," Caelum said, remembering. "I do." He sat at the end of the library table, the way one might at a family meeting. He looked at each of them. "I would like to understand free will. My father speaks of it often. He gave it to humans as a gift. He gave it to angels, to some extent. He did not give it to me in the same way. My purpose is fixed, though I can choose small things. But I want to understand how you carry this gift. How you bear its weight. I have seen you make choices that go against what you are told. I have seen you sacrifice yourselves. Why do you choose pain when you could choose ease? Why do you defy destiny? Is it because you can? Or because you must?"
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. They had been asked variations of this question before, but never by the sky. Sam leaned forward. "I don't think free will is… something you carry like a backpack," he said. "It's more like… a horizon. It's always there. Sometimes you can't see it because of mountains or buildings, but it's there. And sometimes you choose pain because not choosing pain would mean someone else will suffer. Sometimes you defy destiny because destiny sucks. It's not predetermined who we are. We decide. That's… maybe dumb. But it's who we are."
Dean nodded slowly. "We fight because we fight," he added. "Because if we don't, who will? We're stubborn. We're angry. But we're also… hopeful." He shrugged. "We've lost a lot. We keep going because we're dumb like that. And because of each other. I make choices that hurt because if I didn't, Sam would get hurt. Or Cas. Or someone else. It's… it's not complicated, but it's not easy."
Castiel looked at his hands. "Free will is… terrifying," he admitted. "It means I am responsible for my choices. I cannot blame orders. I cannot blame Father. When I chose to rebel, it was because I thought my father was wrong. It cost me. It still costs me. But I would do it again because I would rather choose and be wrong than obey and be right for the wrong reasons." He looked at Caelum. "You have purpose, yes. But perhaps you have free will in ways you do not see."
Caelum absorbed their words. They tasted like storms—chaotic and layered. He felt something like envy, but also respect. "Thank you," he said. "I wanted to understand. I do not think I could have a life like yours. I do not think I would want to. I prefer the structure. But I admire you."
They smiled. "Likewise," Dean said. "We appreciate the whole… holding up the sky thing."
They spent the rest of the evening talking. They told Caelum stories of hunts—some funny, some tragic. He listened, fascinated by the details of human life. He asked about music, and Dean played "Carry On Wayward Son." Caelum nodded along, loving the harmony, the layered voices. "It is like wind through different valleys," he mused. He asked about television, and Sam explained binge-watching. Caelum laughed at the idea of wasting an entire day watching shows. "Time is strange for you," he remarked. He asked about baseball, and Dean showed him a game on a small TV. Caelum tilted his head, amused by the fuss over hitting a ball with a stick. He tried beer again and still didn't like it, but he pretended he did to be polite. Dean saw through him and laughed.
Caelum also asked about Lucifer. "He feels… angry," he said. "He ranted in his cage when I woke. He shouted about being overlooked. I heard him. I wish to speak with him. Do you think that is wise?"
Sam and Dean stiffened. "Probably not," Dean said immediately. "He lies. He manipulates. He'll mess with your head."
Sam nodded. "Lucifer can be charming, but he's dangerous. He blames everyone else for his choices. He'll say whatever he can to make you doubt yourself." He looked at Caelum. "I'd be careful. He's… good at finding weaknesses."
Caelum considered. "I do not have the same vulnerabilities you do," he said. "He cannot tempt me with what he tempts you with. But he might twist my care. Still, I would like to speak to him. He is my brother. I have not talked with him since he fell. I want to tell him I love him. Perhaps it will do nothing. Perhaps it will anger him further. But I wish to try." He looked at Castiel. "Could you take me to him?"
Castiel's eyes widened. "Lucifer is currently free," he reminded him. "He was out of the Cage, possessing a vessel, causing chaos until we put him back. Rowena and Crowley were involved. It's… complicated. We eventually forced him back into the Cage. To speak to him, we'd need Rowena's magic. And we'd need to be sure he couldn't escape."
Caelum nodded. "Then perhaps not today. But soon. I will speak to Rowena. I will ask politely." He smiled. "I can be persuasive. I held back the Darkness. I can hold back one fallen angel for a conversation."
Meanwhile, Chuck and Amara's negotiations continued. Sometimes they met in cosmic spaces—on the surface of a dead planet, in the glow of a nebula, beneath the rings of Saturn. They argued and laughed and sometimes cried. They tested each other. They occasionally called on Gabriel and other archangels to mediate. They sometimes took breaks. During one such break, Chuck slipped away to the bunker, appearing in his Flannel God persona.
He walked into the kitchen where Dean was teaching Caelum how to open a beer bottle with a lighter. "Not bad," Dean praised as Caelum popped the cap off. Caelum beamed at his new skill. Chuck cleared his throat. "Am I interrupting?"
Dean nearly dropped the bottle. "You! Hey. No, we're just… teaching sky guy how to be a guy." He grinned at Caelum. "He can open a beer, he can patch dimensions. I'd say he's good."
Chuck smiled fondly at his sons. "You look like you're having fun," he said. "That's nice. How's the breach patching going?"
"Done," Caelum replied. "There may be more. I will monitor. The shards of our fight with Aunt have not all been accounted for. There may be more pockets. I will fix them as I find them."
Chuck nodded. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I didn't think about those shards. I should have. I'm… sorry."
Caelum shook his head. "We all missed things," he said. "It is not only your burden." He tilted his head. "You should ask Michael and Raphael to sweep the spaces between. They can detect grace signatures. My essence is not grace, but theirs is. They may find shards that hide from me."
Chuck nodded thoughtfully. "Good idea," he said. He looked at the Winchesters. "By the way, boys, Amara wants to speak with you again soon."
Dean groaned. "Again? She still not convinced?"
Chuck shrugged. "We're getting there," he said. "But she's… easily distracted. She wants to understand why you keep fighting for each other. She doesn't get it. She thinks free will is wasteful."
Sam sighed. "We'll talk to her," he said. "Again."
"Thank you," Chuck replied. He clapped Caelum on the shoulder. "Keep trying the human stuff," he said. "But maybe go easy on the beer at first." Caelum looked at his half-empty bottle and nodded. "I feel… bubbly," he admitted. Chuck laughed. "That's beer." He turned to leave. "Amara will call you," he said to the Winchesters. "Be ready."
In Hell, Rowena sat at a long table in Crowley's throne room, sipping tea. She looked up when she felt a gust of wind that should not have existed there. Caelum materialized across from her, leaning against the table. Crowley jumped from his throne. "What in all that's unholy—" he started, then stopped when he recognized the being. "Oh. It's you. Sky guy. What's the occasion?"
Caelum smiled. "You have nicknames," he observed. "That is endearing." He looked at Rowena. "Rowena MacLeod, I presume? You are a formidable witch. I have questions and a request."
Rowena raised an eyebrow. "Aye? And what could the sky want with a wee Scottish lass?" she asked coyly.
"I wish to speak to Lucifer," Caelum said bluntly. "In his Cage. I wish to tell him I love him. I need you to open a window for me and ensure he cannot escape. I will stand in the space between so that he cannot take my body. I need only a connection." He looked at Crowley. "And I need you to ensure no demons attempt anything while I am occupied."
Crowley scoffed. "As if my demons would dare," he said. Rowena rolled her eyes. "Wee boy's demons dare all the time," she muttered. She leaned forward. "Lucifer is dangerous," she said. "He's cunning. He'll try to use you. He'll twist your words. He may try to break whatever barrier we put up. Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes," Caelum said simply. "He is my brother. I have not spoken to him in a long time. I would like to remind him of what he once was, of what he could be again. Even if he does not listen, I need to say it."
Rowena sighed. "You do realize this is a terrible idea," she said. "And that I'm intrigued. A being of your power asking my help?" She smiled. "Flattery will get you everywhere." She set her teacup down. "We'll need the Book of the Damned, the Cage's key, some of my blood, and your cooperation." Caelum nodded. "I can provide my essence," he said. Rowena raised an eyebrow. "We'll keep the sky in a jar," she joked. Crowley rolled his eyes.
They made their preparations. Rowena drew a circle on Crowley's floor with chalk made from burnt bones and iron filings. She placed candles at cardinal points and cut her palm, letting her blood drip into small bowls. She chanted in Latin and Gaelic, her voice resonating. Crowley stood by, arms crossed, ready to blast any demon who tried to get creative. Caelum stood in the center of the circle, eyes closed, focusing on his essence. He let a sliver of himself extend into the cage—just enough to create a connection.
In the Cage, Lucifer lay on a bed of nothing, staring at the ceiling that was also nothing. He hummed to himself, making up lyrics about boredom. He stopped humming when he felt a breeze that shouldn't exist there. He sat up, narrowing his eyes. "Well, well," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "If it isn't my big brother." He clapped slowly. "What brings you to my humble abode? Come to gloat? To preach? To offer me a pie? Because your lackey's about to cut off your mic if you preach."
Caelum manifested at the edge of the Cage, not inside but through the veil. He appeared as a silhouette of sky, shimmering, his features blurred by the boundary. He smiled sadly. "Hello, Lucifer," he said. "I came to say hello. And to tell you that I love you."
Lucifer scoffed. "Spare me," he said. "You love nothing. You don't even have emotions. You're sky. You're emptiness. You're Dad's safety net. You're his pet project. He makes you hold everything up while he plays with his ants. You think that's love? He used you."
Caelum listened. He had expected anger. He let Lucifer vent. "He asked me," he replied calmly. "I agreed. I was not coerced. I enjoy what I do. It gives me purpose. And I love my father, just as I love you."
Lucifer laughed. "You don't even know me," he said. "You weren't there when he chose them over us. You weren't there when he made me kneel. You were sleeping. You don't know the pain of being the second thought. You don't know what it's like to be asked to love something beneath you because Daddy says so." He sneered. "Do not talk to me about love."
Caelum's eyes softened. "You are right," he said. "I was not there. I do not know your experience. I cannot fully understand your pain. But I do know rejection. I know what it is like to see my father choose to speak through prophets instead of speaking to me. I know what it is like to be hidden, to be unacknowledged. He hid me to protect me, but it also hurt. I know what it is like to be misunderstood. I know what it is like to be feared by those I protect. I know what it is like to be alone in a way none of you can understand. I am not empty, Lucifer. I am full. Of stars, of dreams, of breath. And I love you because you are my brother, and because you are part of the story, even when you choose to be the antagonist."
Lucifer blinked. He had not expected the Sky to acknowledge hurt. He sneered anyway. "So what?" he said. "You think telling me you love me is going to make me say sorry? You think it's going to make me go back to being Dad's favorite lapdog? I don't do forgiveness. I don't need your love. I need freedom."
Caelum nodded. "Perhaps you do not need my love," he said. "Perhaps you do not want it. That is your choice. I wanted you to know it exists. I cannot free you. You have bound yourself with choices. My father will not free you because you will hurt his creation if you are free. My aunt may free you, but she will use you as a tool. You have trapped yourself. I am sorry." He looked at him with sadness. "I also wanted to tell you something else. You are not as alone as you think. There is one who understands your pain—the child who will be born of your essence and of a human. He will choose love. He will choose humanity. He will be the one to end our aunt's rampage. You will see. Your essence can do good. There is hope, even for you."
Lucifer glared. "Stop," he hissed. "Stop talking. I don't want your sermons. I don't want your hope. Hope is a lie. Love is a chain. I'd rather burn." He turned his back. "Get out."
Caelum stayed a moment longer. "I love you," he repeated softly. "Even if you never accept it." He withdrew his essence. Rowena felt the connection break and released the spell. Caelum opened his eyes in Crowley's throne room. Rowena wiped her hands on a cloth. Crowley smirked. "Well, that went swimmingly," he said. Caelum smiled sadly. "It went as expected," he said. "But some seeds take time to grow."
In the bunker, days turned into weeks. Caelum continued to learn. He helped with hunts, manifesting wind to blow away sulfur smoke, guiding Dean's aim when bullets ricocheted, causing rain to wash away a trail. He watched television and tried to understand why people argued about superheroes. He sat quietly while Sam and Dean patched each other up after hunts, offering silence as comfort. He listened to Castiel confide in him about feeling torn between Heaven and Earth. He spoke to Michael in Heaven's orchard, telling him that love could exist in obedience and rebellion. He visited Raphael and learned new chords. He visited Gabriel in the Empty (where Gabriel was playing poker with the Shadow), and they laughed about cosmic pranks.
He also visited Rowena again, bringing her dried herbs from the top of mountains that humans couldn't reach, which she delighted in. He asked her to teach him a spell, and she taught him a simple glamour to make his eyes brown instead of starry. He tried it and was delighted. He walked through a farmers' market in a small town wearing sunglasses, reveling in anonymity. He bought strawberries and tasted them, laughing at the burst of juice. He bought a hat and wore it crooked, making Dean laugh. He watched children blow bubbles and tried to blow one himself, only to fill it with so much air that it grew enormous and floated away like a balloon. The children squealed, thinking it a magic trick. Caelum chuckled and waved at them.
He visited Greece. He sat on a hill near ancient ruins and listened to tourists mispronounce myths about Ouranos. He smiled at the statues that depicted him as a stern old man. He whispered a breeze through the columns of a temple, making tourists shiver and talk about ghosts. He visited a modern bookstore in Athens and bought a book of poetry by Sappho. He read it under olive trees, marveling at human capacity to compress eternity into a line like "stars veil their beauty when she is near." He visited a bar on a cliff overlooking the sea and listened to music he didn't understand but felt in his chest. He danced, awkward at first then graceful, moving like wind. People around him smiled and clapped, thinking he was just a free spirit. He enjoyed not being recognized.
He kept an eye on the sky, though. He felt the pressure of minor cracks and patched them without leaving his body. He detected demonic rituals that threatened to tear reality and whispered to hunters to stop them. He felt witches trying to harness cosmic storms and sent gusts to blow out their candles. He felt Lucifer simmering in his Cage and checked on him occasionally, sending cool breezes to temper his rage. He felt the Empty shifting and smiled, knowing it was jealous of his autonomy. He felt Chuck and Amara's conversations lengthening. He felt his father laugh more. He felt his aunt's anger cooling into something like curiosity. He was hopeful.
One evening, Sam and Dean returned from a hunt in which they had almost been killed by a group of rogue angels. Dean's shirt was torn. Sam's arm was in a sling. Castiel had a cut on his cheek. They stumbled into the bunker, exhausted. Caelum met them at the door. He touched Sam's sling, and the pressure on Sam's shoulder eased. He looked at Dean's torn shirt and snapped his fingers, and the fabric mended. Dean looked impressed. "Nice trick," he said. Caelum shrugged. "Air can knit fabric if you convince it," he said. "And I wanted to help." He looked at Castiel and wiped the blood from his cheek gently. "You are hurt because you are free," Caelum said. "It is worth it."
They sat at the table, too tired to cook. Caelum smiled and disappeared. He reappeared five minutes later with a basket full of sandwiches from a deli in Chicago. "Teleportation is not technically within my purview," he said, setting the basket down, "but if I turn myself into wind, I can travel quickly. I wanted to bring you something good." Dean's eyes widened. "Italian beef sandwiches?" he asked, lifting the lid. Caelum nodded. "Chicago style," he said. "I asked the cook what made them good. He said it's the giardiniera. I am curious about these pickled vegetables." He watched as they ate, delighted by their smiles.
After dinner, Dean flicked on a movie. It was an old Western—one of John's favorites. Caelum watched, fascinated by the wide shots of landscapes, the galloping horses, the men with hats. He laughed when Dean shouted at the villain on the screen. He gasped when the hero took a bullet. He wiped away a tear when the cowboy tipped his hat and rode off into the sunset. "Why do we find endings so satisfying?" Caelum asked, sniffing. Dean shrugged. "Because they end," he said. Sam smiled. "Because we hope we'll get there someday," he added. Caelum nodded.
Later, as Sam and Dean went to their rooms and Castiel went to Heaven, Caelum sat in the library alone. He opened a blank journal he had bought at the farmers' market. He wrote on the first page: "Day One: I walked the Earth." He detailed his experiences with pie, with tears, with laughter, with Leviathans. He wrote about hope and free will. He wrote about love being like a song and a pie and a storm. He wrote about his conversation with Lucifer and how even ungrateful brothers deserve to be told they are loved. He wrote about the children's laughter when his bubble floated away. He wrote about Chuck's smile when he learned to open a beer. He wrote about the way the air tasted after a storm in Kansas. He wrote, "I am made of sky, but I can learn to be ground."
He closed the journal and set it on the table. He looked up at the ceiling, through the concrete, through the atmosphere, to himself. He whispered, "Thank you," to the part of him that held up the heavens. The sentinel whispered back, "You're welcome." He smiled and went to sleep on a couch, curling up like a human, feeling heavy and light at once.
When he dreamed, he dreamed not of cosmic battles but of mundane things: teaching Sam to whistle properly, losing at poker to Gabriel, helping Mary Winchester bake cookies, sitting in a rocking chair on a porch watching a lightning storm with Amara, who in the dream smiled genuinely at the thunder. He dreamed of Lucifer hugging him back and crying. He dreamed of his father writing a new book about free will and including a chapter about the sky tasting pie. He woke with tears in his eyes and laughter in his chest.
Morning came with a crack of thunder outside, though no storm was forecast. Caelum smiled. He stepped outside the bunker to see clouds rolling in. He felt rain on his face. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting water run down his cheeks like tears. He laughed and cried simultaneously. He heard Sam and Dean join him, each stepping into the drizzle, faces upturned. Castiel appeared, wings out, letting the rain darken his feathers. They stood silently, breathing in the scent of wet earth. Caelum felt the weight of his love for them. He could hold up the sky and still stand in the rain. He could hold it all.
Across the planet, people woke to strange rain that smelled like ozone and felt like renewal. Farmers smiled, city-dwellers groaned, children jumped in puddles. In Hell, Crowley looked up suspiciously when water dripped from the ceiling. "Bloody condensation," he muttered. In Heaven, an angel smiled. In the Empty, the Shadow pouted. In Purgatory, Leviathans lifted their heads at the sound of thunder.
And somewhere in a forgotten pocket between realities, a sealed shard of Darkness simmered and quieted, lulled by the resonance of the Sky's laughter that echoed through the fabric of space.