Title: Let Us Die to Make Men Free
Characters/Pairings: Castiel/Pamela.
Word Count: 1,479.
Rating: PG13.
Summary: Castiel goes the last place he probably should to get help for the Winchesters -- Pamela Barnes.
Author's Notes: Yes, I was looking at the Supernatural Kink Meme on LJ, want to fight about it? ... This prompt was '"Pamela/Castiel, with the prompt "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."' TELL ME YOU COULD RESIST THAT. And thus is my introduction to SPN fic. Takes place between 4x10 and 4x15.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything having to do with Supernatural and associated copyrights etc. I am a fan doing this for fun.

Even though the eyes had burned right our of their sockets, Pamela still saw the angel in her mind's eye. Castiel had warned her, yes, but the supernatural did not just tell her no. Not until Castiel. Even though his visage had been the last thing she saw, it was seared into her mind's eye and she doubted she would ever forget it. The figure that was not quite flesh but not quite fire, burning with intense, white light and the wings that had, too late, tried to shield him from her sight. Too fucking late.

She adjusted to life without her sight pretty easily -- having one foot in reality and one foot in the unseen had left her feeling a bit blind even when she had been able to see -- but that didn't make her not bitter about it. Angels taking something like your sight, what kind of a sick joke was that?

She'd put water on the stove to boil for tea when she felt him again, in a physical as well as spiritual sense this time. "I know you're there, you flaming bastard," she said.

"I am sorry." The voice was low, almost to the point of being gravelly, and it grated on Pamela's brain. "If I had known that you would persevere in looking for me…"

The tone to the voice suggested little, if anything, and that probably annoyed her worse than anything. "Unless you have something you can do for me then get the hell out." At that moment the kettle began to whistle as the water boiled, and she whirled back around to take it off the burner. She fumbled, reaching and touching the hot metal rather than the handle. She swore loudly, but before she could even instinctively put her fingertips into her mouth, a soft cool hand took hers.

"I am sorry," he repeated, holding her hand in his, palm up, and then he covered the other side as well, sandwiching the burned hand in his. The touch was so gentle that it made Pamela tremble. "I cannot straighten what the Lord has made crooked."

"The Lord?" She was stunned at the implication. "Even if you forgot, I didn't, so let me remind you: you did this."

"It happened. Neither of us have done anything that would have gone against our natures. You searched, and looked, and I was…"

"Unseeable?" she suggested tartly.

"Something of the kind," he conceded, lifting one hand from hers. She could feel no trace of the burns to her fingers. "God has done this, Pamela. He has made the good and the bad in the world, all for His purpose."

Pamela wanted to pull her hand back but she couldn't -- she didn't want to. "You're full of shit," she said bluntly, hoping that he would then leave her with her tea in piece, leaving her other five senses intact.

He didn't answer her right away, but she knew he had not gone. Her hand remained in his, and the air still hummed with his overwhelming presence. "I must show you something, with your permission."

Her smile must have been more than a little sardonic. "If you can, why not," she replied.

She probably should have known that an invitation like that wasn't going to end in sunshine, daisies, and rainbows, but when he touched his fingers to her forehead, she gasped with the visions that projected onto her mind like a movie. Everything she'd ever expect of a doomsday prophecy was there; fire, darkness, the screams of thousands upon thousands as they died. Demons were raised, angels fell, and humans were sheep for the slaughter. Her knees went out from under her, and she felt them crash into the ground when she heard the strange, atonal chant.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, since God is marching on."

"What is it?" Pamela gasped. Her fingers gripped the lapels of the jacket he wore.

"It is the End of Days." Castiel was very matter of fact about it, if he was at all alarmed he failed to show it. "It is what will come upon us all if he does not stop."

Her chest was tight and breathing was a chore. "If who doesn't stop?"

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat. Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.

She was trying to breathe deeply, but passing out right now felt like a really good idea. "What is it with the fucking spiritual?" she asked.

"It is not a spiritual," he replied calmly. "It is a prophecy."

"Oh you are joking me." Her head felt like it was stuck in a vise and like there was an elephant sitting on her chest, she was not in a joking mood.

"I am not joking," Castiel replied, a note of confusion entering his tone. "Do you remember the first lines, Pamela?"

The fire, death, and general mayhem that was playing in her head was getting in the way of memory retrieval, but her stomach twisted once she did finally remember. "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord," she whispered hoarsely. "He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored…"

"He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on," he completed for her. Pamela let the words sink in, the damn weird song was a prophecy. Somehow, that made more sense than it being a spiritual. He removed his hand and it was like someone had switched off the projector. "Since you last saw him, Sam Winchester has… been sliding into the flames of Hell despite the best of intentions. I'm sure you felt it."

Something had been off about the kid last she had visited them, that was true. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, but it had hung around him like stale cologne. "I'm not his momma, I can't keep him from doing something."

"No," Castiel answered. "But now that you have seen what is to come, help him. If he continues ingesting the demon's blood -- "

"Whoa," she said, stopping him. "He's -- what?"

"I can't say," he said immediately. The response was so quick that Pamela didn't think to question or push against it, as she may have normally. "He is being pushed down a dangerous path, Pamela. To deny that is to deny that the world will end in flames. They will call for you again, and you must answer."

Even though she felt like she already knew the answer, she had to hear it from the angel. "What does he do?"

"He destroys demons," came the unflinching answer. "He doesn't merely exorcise them, he pulls them from their host and lays waste to what's left of their soul. In doing so, he degrades himself. We have told Dean to stop him, but he is… too permissive with his brother."

The implied "it's his weakness" hung in the air between them, and Pamela was quiet for a bit longer than she might have been otherwise, just to see if Castiel was actually going to give it voice. When he didn't, she said, "You're… you know, God and whatever. Why can't you just stop him?"

"Because that's not how it works." On the surface he is resolute but the resolution covers something nastily close to doubt, and that note shined through for Pamela. "They will call you for help, and they will listen. Be a light to their path, Pamela."

He put a hand to her cheek, and even though it would have sounded like a load of fuzzy wuzzy crap that she would never admit to out loud, a warmth washed over her. She swallowed. "I will." If not for them all, then for the boys. Those damn Winchester boys with the pretty faces and the asses you could bounce a quarter off of. "One more thing before you go," she said.

"What is it?" he asked.

Pamela had a hard time keeping the smirk off her face as she reached behind the angel, grabbed, and squeezed. "Ah," she said, smiling in satisfaction as he jumped in surprise. "I should have known any friend of the boys' was going to have a perky ass too."

Imagining the long suffering look on his face that went with the small sigh he gave made the entire thing worth it. He then touched her forehead and when she awoke, she was still in her kitchen, alone with the whistling tea kettle.