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Castiel is cheating again.
He wishes somebody would notice.
"Verily," says Michael, "look upon your actions again, beloved brother, and seek wisdom in your errors."
Michael has been talking like that ever since the Host returned to Earth to fight among men. Castiel would suspect him of pride and arrogance, but he knows (forgive him) Michael is really just a bit slow. Even by the end of the war Michael still wasn't used to the "terrible fire-sticks of metal and noise" humans brought to battle, and Castiel had giving up trying to explain automobiles to him after the first try.
"Verily," says Castiel, "bite me. 'Winningest' is certainly a word. That's a triple-word score and a fifty point bonus for using all seven letters." His letters settle on the board with the gentlest chimes of bell-song.
Michael grumbles disapprovingly, but he doesn't further the challenge. Michael has never been much of a speller.
"Your turn," Castiel says. "You're only nine hundred and twenty-four points behind."
Michael rises to his feet. Or he would, if he had feet; he is once again formless perfection and glowing love and glorious light, as are they all. "Beloved brother," he says, "I must forfeit this contest at this juncture. There are matters to which I must attend."
"Sure," Castiel says when Michael is gone. "Important matters like sharpening your sword and sulking on a cloud."
He immediately glances about to see if anybody heard, but there is no one nearby. There rarely is. They don't say so directly, but Castiel knows they've all decided he's gone a bit funny in the head since well before Lucifer escaped. He probably shouldn't have described preparing for battle as "waiting for the angels of Avalon, waiting for the eastern glow," but it's not his fault they do not understand human idiosyncrasies of symbolism and faith. And, okay, there was that business with disobeying orders and allying himself with humans and preventing Armageddon in favor of preserving Earth, but they've mostly forgiven him for those transgressions. They do not shun him now, not precisely, but they do not seek his company either.
They could not shun him even if they wanted to. Every soul is united in Heaven. All voices join together in song and praise. There are no secrets.
Correction: There are probably no secrets. Heaven's recent track record in that department isn't so great, but it's a little soon for somebody else to consider rebelling.
Castiel sighs. Or he would sigh, if he had breath, but he doesn't anymore.
The reason there are no secrets is because nobody is doing anything interesting at all. Raphael has learned to knit. Metatron has taken up yoga. Azrael has turned herself into a fish. (Nobody knows why, but they all learned several thousand years ago not to ask Azrael why she does the things she does.) Sammael is trying to organize a chorus of beautiful eternal souls into dramatic reenactment of the Peloponnesian War, complete with musical accompaniment and interpretive dance.
It's almost enough to make Castiel miss Uriel. Sure, Uriel was a traitor and a murderer who helped the Adversary escape from the Pit and nearly brought about Hell on Earth and the destruction of all that is good and right in God's creation, but at least Uriel would be first in line if you said, "Hey, I'm feeling restless, want to smite something today?" Uriel always wanted to smite something.
Castiel stands up abruptly. Or he would stand, if he had legs. He doesn't anymore.
"I'm leaving," he says.
Nobody pays him much mind. If anybody notices how he assumes the form and visage of a familiar human - Jimmy Novak is now relieved of his Earthly existence and enjoying his just rewards for faith and sacrifice in Heaven, a reward which currently involves a starring role in Sammael's musical production - they keep their opinions to themselves.
Metatron, balanced on one hand, waves cheerfully as he leaves.
In a blink, he is on Earth again.
He pauses beside a rain-slicked roadway to take it all in, every human sense unfolding with familiar sharpness.
The trees breathe with perfect rhythm, the rain falls with brilliant cleanliness, the sky murmurs with impeccable thunder, the neon lights glow with welcoming warmth, and it smells like something died nearby.
Castiel sniffs and looks around until he finds it: there's a rotting raccoon in the gutter.
Earth is wonderful.
He strides across the shining asphalt and knocks on room 3A.
After a long pause, the door opens.
"We have work to do," Castiel says.
Dean Winchester slams the door in his face.
Heartened by Dean's reaction, Castiel moves effortlessly past the door into the motel room. "There is a swarm of ravenous undead rising from their graves five miles from here," he says without preamble. "We must stop them."
"Uh," says Dean. He and Sam share a confused glance. "Why?"
"Because the ravenous undead seek to devour the brains of the living." Castiel tilts his head to one side and asks, "Is that not reason enough?"
Sam looks extremely wary and none too pleased to see Castiel. "It's reason enough for us," he says. "But why are you here?"
"Is this, you know." Dean waves his hand toward the ceiling. "An order from the man upstairs?"
Castiel believes The Man Upstairs is currently downstairs, as it were, standing outside Lucifer's newly reforged cage to impress upon him yet again the terrible consequence of his treachery and evil.
Or perhaps He's down there to stick His tongue out and taunt, "Nah nah nah, sucker, you lost again, how do you like them brimstones?"
Indeed the Lord works in mysterious ways.
Castiel does not want to be punched in the face, however, so he refrains from sharing this holy truth with the Winchester brothers. Instead he says, "No. This is a matter entirely unrelated to the eternal battle between Heaven and Hell." After a moment he adds, "Your work in that matter, as you know, is finished. I did not lie to you."
"So what do you want?" Sam asks. He relaxes a bit but his manner is still suspicious. Castiel can't blame him. Sam Winchester will rightly be suspicious of anything angelic or demonic or anywhere in between for the rest of his life, and probably well beyond. "I didn't think you guys ever bothered with this kind of problem. It's a little beneath you, isn't it?"
"I love all creatures in my Father's beautiful universe," Castiel says solemnly, "except zombies."
Sam makes a noise very much like a laugh quickly disguised as a cough.
"That doesn't explain why you're here," Dean points out.
"I have bested Michael in all the games and contests in all of creation," Castiel says.
The brothers stare at him blankly.
"Even Hungry Hungry Hippos."
Dean grins. "Sam used to cheat at that game when he was a kid."
"Hey!" says Sam, scowling. "Shut up. That was only once."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude, in the grand scheme of things, I don't think cheating at Hungry Hungry Hippos is going to be much of a black mark on your heavenly scorecard." He turns toward Castiel again. "Seriously? Hungry Hippos?"
Castiel admits, "I have even considered learning to play the harp."
Dean is still staring, bewildered, but Sam begins to smile. "Castiel," he says slowly, "are you saying you came down from Heaven to fight zombies because you're bored?"
Castiel looks at him carefully. Sam's smile is radiant and free of shadows, free of burdens, free of doubt. Castiel wonders, not for the first time, how he and all the Host could have been so blind before when looking upon this child's soul.
He says, "I believe the traditional method for banishing this form of ravenous undead involves axes and fire?"
"It's raining too much for us to set them on fire," Dean says, but he's still grinning.
"No," Castiel says, "it isn't."
With a brilliant flash of lightning and a deafening clap of thunder, the rain stops.
"Cool," says Dean.
Sam tosses an axe to Castiel, who catches it easily. "Okay, then. Let's go."
They make him ride in the back seat, but he doesn't mind.