Wrath and Revelation

Toronto, 1984.

The city never really slept. But for Castiel Winchester, the nights had begun to feel long and cold.

He sat on the stone steps of Saint Michael's Church, waiting with a half-eaten apple in his hand and a worn copy of The Two Towers in his lap. His best friend, Gursahib, should've been here an hour ago.

Again.

A whole week had passed now—seven days since Castiel had last seen him. At first, he thought it was nothing. Maybe a cold. Maybe family stuff. But the silence was starting to itch beneath his skin.

On the eighth day, Castiel couldn't take it anymore.

Gursahib's neighborhood was a working-class strip of narrow homes and overgrown lawns. Castiel knocked, and Gursahib's mother opened the door, her eyes red from crying.

"Gursahib hasn't been home in a week," she said, her voice hollow.

"A week?" Castiel's heart dropped. "Why didn't you call the police?"

"I did. They came. They… found nothing."

"Did he say anything to you? Anyplace he might have gone?"

She hesitated. Then whispered, "His cousin. He was spending time at his cousin's place… a bad man. A drug dealer. I told Gursahib to stay away, but…"

"Where?"

"No," she said, stern now. "You're a child. You shouldn't get involved."

"I won't go," Castiel lied. "Just tell me."

She gave him the address. A crumbling apartment building on the east end of the city.

Castiel thanked her, turned the corner, and broke into a sprint.

The place reeked of smoke and mold. The door was unlocked. Castiel stepped inside.

The body hit him like a punch to the gut.

Slumped against the wall, blood still drying, eyes wide open. The dealer was dead—his cousin.

Castiel's hands trembled. He hadn't seen death up close since his parents had been murdered.

He wanted to scream. To cry. But he forced himself forward.

There—on the floor. A blood trail.

He followed it.

It led to a window—shards of glass on the floor, blood smeared across the sill. He looked out.

A trash bin.

Castiel bolted down the stairwell, three steps at a time, lungs burning.

Outside, he found the body.

A man. Barely breathing. Groaning, broken.

Not dead.

Castiel grabbed him, trying to lift him. "Hey—hey! Wake up!"

His hands glowed.

White light, warm and bright.

The man gasped—and the wounds began to vanish. Bones reknit. Bruises faded. Skin sealed.

The man blinked, coughing. "What the hell…"

"You're alive," Castiel said, in awe. "I healed you…"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm looking for a boy—Gursahib. Brown hair. My age."

The man coughed, nodding. "Yeah… I saw him. He was there when we hit the place. The dealer sold him to us. Said he'd be a good mule."

Castiel's stomach turned.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know," the man muttered, standing slowly. "I'm heading back to the gang."

"No. Take me with you."

The man laughed. "Nah. I don't take kids on field trips."

He pulled a pistol and fired.

The bullet hit Castiel in the chest—and bounced off.

The man froze.

"What the hell are you?" he whispered.

Castiel stared at his own chest. No wound. No pain.

He looked at his hands, trembling with divine light.

"I'm blessed," he said quietly.

He grabbed the man by the head.

Another burst of light.

Suddenly, Castiel knew. The location of the gang's hideout—just outside the city.

He pulled his hand away, the man gasping, dazed.

Then Castiel drove his fist into the man's jaw, knocking him cold.

He stood, looked up to the heavens.

"Thank you, God," he whispered.

And ran.

It took him over an hour to reach the outskirts of Toronto. An old warehouse loomed near the rail lines, rusted and stinking of oil and urine. The sky above was gunmetal gray, thunder threatening.

Castiel didn't wait.

He barged through the door.

Ten gang members turned at once.

"Who the hell—?"

He didn't give them time to finish.

Castiel raised his hands, and the light erupted.

It surged from his chest, flooding his arms and shooting into his palms. The air rippled. Heat scorched the metal walls.

The nearest man pulled a knife—Castiel grabbed his wrist, and with a burst of white fire, the man screamed as light shot from his eyes and mouth, burning him from the inside out. His body turned to ash.

"Smiting," Castiel whispered. "That's what this is…"

The others attacked.

One swung a bat—Castiel ducked and smote him mid-spin, his bones glowing as they cracked.

Another fired a gun—Castiel caught the bullet, threw it back, and then smote him with a slap across the chest that turned his lungs to steam.

They kept coming.

Three tackled him at once—he threw them off with a burst of divine energy, bodies slamming into walls and exploding into white light.

Blood smeared the floor. Burned flesh clung to the air like smoke.

Castiel moved through them like a spirit of wrath.

One screamed, "What are you!?"

Castiel's eyes glowed. "I'm an instrument of God."

He walked through gunfire. He melted blades with his bare hands. He smote a man with a single touch and watched as the light consumed him, soul and all.

And then—he saw him.

In the corner, behind crates and broken glass.

Gursahib.

Lying in a pool of blood.

Still.

Castiel stumbled forward. "No. No no no—"

He dropped to his knees, lifting his friend's head into his lap.

His body was warm—but limp. His chest unmoving. Blood seeped from his side.

Castiel pressed his hands to the wounds. "Come on—just breathe—please—!"

He focused.

The light returned—but nothing happened.

"Please!" he begged, voice cracking. "God, please—he's my best friend—he's a good person—please!"

But the light flickered.

And faded.

Gursahib didn't move.

Tears streamed down Castiel's face. His hands were still glowing, but now they trembled.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should've come sooner…"

And then—

Footsteps.

Shouting.

More gang members flooding into the warehouse, drawn by the screams and chaos.

Castiel stood, eyes burning white with grief.

He didn't say a word.

He just raised his hands—

And the smiting began again.

He moved.

A flash of white light cracked across the concrete as he charged, his glowing fists breaking through flesh and bone. One man raised a bat—Castiel caught it mid-swing, crushed it with a squeeze, then slammed his palm against the man's chest. A burst of energy surged from his hand, and the man's eyes flared white as his body convulsed and collapsed in a heap.

Another swung a knife. Castiel didn't dodge—he didn't need to. The blade snapped on contact with his glowing skin. With a roar, he drove his elbow into the attacker's face, breaking his nose and sending him sprawling with a wheeze.

More gunfire. Castiel winced as the bullets hit him—but none pierced him. They fell like raindrops against his chest and arms, harmless.

He was untouchable.

He lifted his hands, and a pulse of light exploded outward. Three men were flung off their feet, smoke rising from their twitching bodies as the light burned them from within. It was no longer just defense—it was holy judgment. It was vengeance.

It was wrath.

The last man turned to run. Castiel reached out instinctively—and his hand gripped the man's shoulder. He hadn't moved, yet somehow he was there. Teleportation. His eyes widened at the realization—but he didn't question it. Not now. The light poured into the man, ending his life in a flash.

Silence.

And then—

Boom.

The side of the warehouse exploded inward as the gang boss arrived, flanked by nearly two dozen men. They were armed with everything—from rifles to submachine guns to crude explosives. They opened fire the second they saw Castiel. Bullets filled the air like a swarm of metal wasps. The sound was deafening, glass shattered, wood splintered—but Castiel stood tall, taking each shot like wind against stone.

The gang leader screamed, "He's not human! Get the goddamn launcher!"

One of the men fumbled with a rocket-propelled grenade. The others pulled back, scrambling for cover. The launcher fired.

BOOM.

Castiel flew backward. His back hit the wall so hard it cracked, then exploded from the blast. Fire and dust filled the air.

The gang fell silent, waiting. Watching.

Then—light.

It started faint, like a candle in the dark. Then it grew.

A beam of pure white light shot down from the heavens, breaking through the warehouse roof and slamming into Castiel's crumpled form. The light wrapped around him, lifting him off the ground. His eyes snapped open, glowing like twin suns.

Wings.

Not made of feathers—but of light, energy, power—unfurled behind him. Towering, radiant, divine. The gang gasped, horrified.

"God sent an angel…" one of them whispered. "That's an angel!"

"No," another cried, dropping his gun. "No, we're not ready to die!"

Castiel's feet touched the ground, silent.

He looked up, his face calm—no rage, just sorrow and purpose.

Then he vanished.

A whisper of air, a blink—and he appeared right behind the gang leader.

The man turned, terrified. "Wait—please—"

Castiel placed a glowing hand on his head. "For Gursahib," he whispered.

The boss screamed as light burst from his mouth and eyes, his body convulsing as he was smited—burned from the inside out in an instant.

Panic erupted. Gang members ran in every direction.

But Castiel moved like a ghost through smoke. With each flicker of light, he reappeared somewhere new. His wings stretched behind him like the judgement of heaven itself. He smote them—one after another—some with fists, others with a flash of light from his eyes, some with just a touch.

Within minutes, none remained.

He stood alone again. The light around him dimmed. His hands stopped glowing. The warehouse was quiet.

He walked slowly to Gursahib's body. He knelt beside it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, laying a hand on his friend's chest.

There was no miracle this time. Only silence.

And then, sirens.

Far off, but growing louder.

Castiel closed his eyes and thought of his bed in Saint Michael's. The warmth. The cross on the wall. The safety.

The next moment, he was there—collapsing onto the bed, the effort finally taking its toll. His spiritual wings flickered, then vanished into nothing.

He didn't even make it under the blanket before sleep claimed him.