I’ve seen a lot of misinformation going around about CAS, the Copyright Alert System, AKA the Six Strikes system. Hopefully this will clear things up.
What CAS isn’t:
- CAS is not a law. It is not SOPA or CISPA. It does not directly involve law enforcement agencies.
- CAS cannot see…
the whole thing about Cas being manipulated by angels is actually sadder than I first realized.
Cas was one of the very few angels who believed in free will. He rebelled. He tried to teach the other angels about free will too.
And now, what are the angels doing? They’re taking his free will away from him again. Something he fought so hard for.
NO NO NO SHUT UP I’M DELIBERATELY NOT THINKING ABOUT THAT
Somewhere in Middle America there is a dense forest. In that forest, nobody knows exactly which one, there is a meadow. It is perfectly circular, and in this meadow the rain falls, and from the ground, thousands upon thousands of flowers bloom.
The most likely explanation for this is the bees. You see, the bees love this meadow. There probably has never been a meadow that was better pollinated, and when the breeze blew you could catch the smell of honey from the hives in the trees of the surrounding forest.
At the center of the field there are two tombstones. They are unremarkable except for the way that they stand tall and together through the passage of time, even as moss began to spread, and vines began to crawl up their stony faces.
Behind the tombstones there is what at first seems to be a strange, green mound rising up from the earth, but upon closer inspection, one could see that the shape was that of an automobile, albeit covered in vegetation generations old. Really the structure would make an ideal home for a family of raccoons, or maybe a snake, but none reside there, for the structure is already claimed by that which made the meadow unique.
What was once the roof of a car, was now a mossy bed for a sleeping shape of stone—the shape of an angel. The curled body was cradled by bursting blossoms, and his wings draped over the knoll, consuming it in places, to touch the soft ground. The angel had been there in silent vigil for longer than anyone could say, and not even the fox would spill the blood of a rabbit in this meadow because of his presence. They wouldn’t want to tarnish the beauty that gathered around him.
The meadow stayed unchanged, except for the passing of the seasons, until no mortal could have remembered how to find it.
No one came there, until the day somebody did.
When the angel awoke he was confused. He gazed around at a place he had not seen through eyes on earth for so long. The meadow was unbroken, unchanged from how he had crafted it, except for one man. The angel, whose wings had disappeared inside him when his grace returned to his body, fluttered from the roof to the ground in an instant.
The man flinched at the sudden change in position but didn’t move from where he stood between the tombstones with a bowl at his feet and a cloth in his hand—a cloth turning red. His hair was dark, but his eyes were bright, despite the weariness the angel could see in his soul.
“You summoned me… and you are a hunter,” the angel realized, blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Why have you woken me?”
Despite his clear words, the angel’s focus wavered as he took in the place where he had lain down what must now be centuries ago, after he had finished crafting it. His gaze settled around the tombstones, eyes filling with swirling clouds of something hunter couldn’t place.
“I needed an angel,” the hunter said. “Nobody has seen or heard from one in over a hundred years but I had to find one, and if I couldn’t summon one from Heaven then I would find one still on Earth. I knew at least one was still here.”
The angel glanced down to the bowl and saw a thick, leather-bound volume by its side. A hint of a wry smile touched his lips. The Book of Chuck, the cover read.
“Why do you so desperately need an angel?” he asked, voice rough at the sight of the tome in the man’s possession.
The hunter’s face twisted in what appeared to be pain.
“There’s this thing, and it can only be killed by the light of an angel. It needs to be smote,” the hunter explained. “I need you to kill it—it’s after my brother and I have to kill it.”
The angel’s eyes widened and his grace flared against the body it was no longer used to being confined within. His eyes locked back onto the tombstones.
“I will help you,” the angel said without hesitation and the hunter’s face lifted, “But under one condition.”
“Anything,” the hunter said.
The angel nodded, and as the hunter turned to lead him from the meadow, he asked one more question.
“How did you know I would be here?”
The hunter, whose eyes now joined the angels to rest on the twin tombstones, placed his palm against the cover of the book and spoke softly.
“‘And when they finally sleep, so too will he sleep, and over them he will sleep for eternity, as his love for them is as immortal as he…’ Prophecies 2:19 of the Winchester Gospels.”
The angel’s eyes closed and he bowed his head, the corners of his lips turning barely upwards, and as he passed between the tombstones he reached out to brush his fingers over them, feeling cold stone and damp moss under his fingertips, but so much more under his skin—a promise. He wouldn’t be gone long.
When the angel returned to the clearing in a rustle of feathers, the sky was dark. The meadow was dormant. Even the bees slept, but there was still a hum, only audible to the angel, that seemed to greet him—it was still faint. The grass and the flowers and the trees swayed and an ancient trench coat fluttered in the wind.
The angel was alone. The hunter had kept his promise and allowed the angel to wipe all memory of this place and its location from his mind. Before he had, though, the hunter had asked the angel a question.
“Will you just go back to sleep?”
The angel nodded, eager to return to the clean air that quickly forgot how soaked in blood flesh could be.
The hunter had cocked his head to the side.
“Isn’t that lonely? Boring, at least,” the hunter said, and for another moment he distinctly reminded the angel of two other hunters.
The angel smiled softly for the third time since he awoke.
“I am angel. Just because my vessel and my body sleep does not mean my grace is not free.”
Then he had pressed two fingers to the hunter’s forehead and disappeared with whisper.
Now, he closed his eyes once more and when he opened them he had returned to his place above the tombstones. Thoughts and memories swirled through the angels tired mind, battles fought, battles lost and battles won—but mostly he thought of the times in between, of love and forgiveness, of family. He thought about how he became the guardian of two hunters, and of how they saved the world with his wings at their backs, even when they were broken.
The hum grew louder, and the angel lay himself down. He felt the soft moss on his cheek, and the rusted metal frame beneath, and he whispered goodbye to the meadow and to the tombstones as he shut his eyes for good.
The hum grew to a voice as his grace began to disengage from his body and his vessel—two voices. They whispered in his ears and tugged at him, pulling him up and away from the meadow.
He pushed away from the ground, from the earth, wings folding out to touch the grass as the last of his grace slipped free.
Cas… it’s time to come back.
It’s time to come home, Cas.
The voices murmured to him and he felt the lights join him, swirling with him up towards Heaven.
Cas, we’re waiting.
His grace glowed, a million times brighter than it could ever have shown on earth because here he was bursting with elation, as were the two blissful souls swirling around him.
Suddenly he was in a different set of woods. These may have been darker than the forest of the meadow, but above there were stars that pricked millions of tiny holes in the black, and here he wasn’t alone.
There was a crack and a hiss, and then brilliant lights exploded above a little field and two shapes were illuminated. They sat with their backs to the angel, bottles in their hands, and he heard them laugh as they leaned back to watch the lights burst above them.
The angel smiled as he recognized this place. They came here often. It was one of their favorites.
The two looked up when the angel approached and brilliant grins split their faces. Castiel smiled, too.
Dean pulled him down to sit between them.
“Took you long enough, Cas,” he said, throwing his arm around the angel’s shoulders, green eyes sparked with blue as another light burst above them.
“We’re glad you’re home,” Sam said sincerely, white smile easily visible in the dim night, face flushed and happy as he handed the angel a bottle, bumping his knee against Cas’ leg.
The feeling of peace and happiness was nearly overwhelming as they sat together, side by side, shoulders brushing so they never forget each other’s presence, and their laughter sprung into the air like birds taking flight.
The angel closed his eyes and smiled.
He was home.