AN: I don't know where this came from. Literally, NO idea. I don't even read crossovers…but here it is, for your reading pleasure (or not lol). Hope you enjoy!

Takes place SPN, Season 6 (before finale) and NCIS, anywhere from season 3 on

Castiel has fallen. He has fallen hard, and is fractured in more ways than one.

It started gradually, his plan. It seemed clever, smart. It seemed so damned perfect.

It was damned all right.

All the shame, the pain, the determination, the misplaced anger, the intense desire for belonging and status and just to know that he finally did something good…it all led him to this point.

Now he's standing, invisible to all, in the living room of a suburban home, studying a shifter as it goes in for the kill, wearing the face of the victim's family.

The crestfallen betrayal on the victim's face makes Cas uncomfortable, and he's not sure exactly why.

Doesn't really matter anyway.

A human life is extinguished before his eyes, and he wonders when that stopped bothering him as much as it formerly had.

The shifter smiles and steps back, blood on his hands. His eyes gleam in the reflection of his face, distorted in the pool of blood spreading on the floor. Cas continues to watch, with much less disgust than he used to. Because instead of a cold-hearted monster and its victim, he sees opportunities. Instead of a murderer and a casualty, he sees possible allies. Instead of brutality and death, he sees power. Power is what he's looking for, what he needs.

He can ignore the rest. He didn't used to be able to, but he can now.

The numbness inside him tingles every once in a while, but he just tells himself that he was forced to this point. It's not his fault.

It's not his fault.

He's doing the right thing.

He's doing the right thing…

Cas watches the shifter wipe the blood smoothly on his pants, smearing it all over, a grotesque blotch of red streaked over the material.

The sight repulses him less than it once did.

He truly has fallen. Hard. And somewhere in the lies, misgivings, fights, vengeance, and blood, Cas knows he's been broken. He wishes he could blame it on the angels, the demons, even God…but deep down, he has broken himself and he knows it.

Accepting it is another thing all together.

A car engine sounds distantly in the background and he watches as the vile creature flees the scene, leaving behind a dead woman, a destroyed home, and a broken angel…none of which have any hope of finding their way back to how they once were.

The numbness tingles again, and Cas wonders if some souls are just too broken to be of any use.

The door of the house flies open, revealing a small group wielding guns, eyes determined and prepared.

It's funny how much their stances remind him of Sam and Dean. So funny he wants to laugh, but instead finds himself trying not to cry.

"Boss, we've got a body."

The voice comes from a middle-aged man, tall and sturdy, who sounds far too accustomed to the sentence to be a civilian. His eyes blaze an emerald hazel color, clear and expressive. His narrowed gaze and shielded pain remind Cas of Dean, and he wills the numbness to return.

"Call Ducky."

This man falls a hair shorter than the green-eyed man, with a gaze as icy as the pale blue of his orbs, hair silver and striking. Castiel immediately senses a strong protectiveness emanating from the man, and an air of authority that could rival Raphael on his best day. He has an instantaneous respect for the man, as though there's no choice in the matter.

The pain and deep-buried guilt in the silver-haired man's eyes remind Cas of Sam.

Once again, he wishes the numbness would come back, at least for a small while.

The green-eyed man speaks again, regret tainting the practiced tone. "I should've seen the connection sooner, Boss. It was always the husband."

Or a monster with a husband's face.

A monster that could've been stopped.

A life that could've been saved.

One less soul that he could use.

And when will the benefit outweigh the cost?

Cas isn't sure he'll ever know.

"None of us could have known," a woman says. Her eyes are deep and chocolaty, as if they'd seen far too much. Her voice is inflected with a foreign tone to match her unique beauty, and Cas can't tell if the words are meant to be a comfort or not.

"I should have," the green-eyed man says with conviction. Then, he turns toward the door. "I'll call Ducky," he mutters quietly. With that, he walks out.

No one stops him.

Cas has a feeling that he wants someone to.

"Boss-" another man begins. He's smaller than the green-eyed man, lighter and younger. His eyes follow the back of the green-eyed man, concern bubbling out of them.

"He'll be fine," the silver-haired man replies curtly. Cas isn't sure if he truly believes it.

Intrigued, Cas follows the green-eyed man out the door. He turns left out the doorway, moving to stand by the side of the house. He pulls out a phone, dialing quickly and putting it to his ear. Distress is clear in the green-eyed man's face as he breathes deeply.

Then, the person on the other line picks up, and the tenseness, fatigue, and guilt is gone in an instant, replaced by a clean slate, masked and shielded.

"Hey, Ducky…Yup, left a pretty big mess behind, too. Looks like the tip came in just a few minutes too late…Yeah…" Weariness creeps back into the emerald hazel eyes. "Yeah, I know, Ducky…Well, Gibbs is ready for you, so grab that Autopsy Gremlin of yours and come on over. 32 Mildred Street…See you in a bit."

Autopsy Gremlin? Was this man a hunter of some sort?

The phone is swiftly shut, beckoning the darkness to return to the man's expression. He leans his back heavily against the siding of the house, and closes his eyes. The pure weight in the man's posture is draining to look at. The exhausting strain on his soul feels, to Cas, even worse.

Impulsively, Cas reaches his hand toward the man, palm out, and places it against his chest. He can't touch the soul from here, but he can sense it.

He can sense the healed scars, healing fractures, and freshly inflicted wounds of guilt and regret. Though far less damaged than the souls of those he'd touched before—souls like Sam's and Dean's—this soul is almost worse. Because this man hadn't been to Hell, and still bore similar markings. Similar pain.

The man's head shoots up at the contact, though he should not be able to feel Cas. Physically, he can't.

Yet the deep emerald hazel looks straight at Cas. Through him, almost.

Cas is taken aback by the connection, and freezes in place.

Because what he sensed in the man's soul is nothing compared to what he can see unbridled in his eyes. With the shields down, the guard lowered.

The wall was broken, and Castiel tried not to think of that in any other sense.

Emotion pours out of the expressive orbs, years of pain, betrayal, remorse, self-loathing, brokenness creeping out. Cas vaguely remembers hearing once that the eyes are the window to the soul, and the truth of it takes his breath away.

The man straightens and pulls away, breaking the contact. The shields are thrown up; the guards slammed shut once more. In seconds, the wall was rebuilt, adding another small crack to the brokenness within him.

As he watches the green-eyed man walk away, Cas wonders once more if some souls are just too broken to be of any use.

Little does he know, the green-eyed man wonders the very same thing.