A/N: And here we are again. I don't know how this keeps happening. The prompt comes from Leviathan Castiel.

This is an AU and also Destiel. It should be a three part story, so don't kill me when you get to the end. Also, warnings for a suicidal!Cas. Beware. Please R&R and enjoy. Thanks.

Castiel used to think he could fly. As a child, it seemed only logical that if he just jumped high enough, tried hard enough, his body would stay weightless and with a little effort he would soar with the birds.

It seemed ironic now, that he'd returned to such a sentiment. As he stood on the precipice of the building, every gust of wind threatening to send him off and into the blue, he was holding out hope—a tiny hope—that when he jumped, gravity would turn its eyes away, and he'd grace the sky instead of falling through it.

But that wasn't right because Castiel wanted to fall. He wanted to hit the ground. He wanted his bones to shatter and skull to crack. He wanted his blood to stain the concrete below and for it all to finally, blessedly, be over. He didn't care anymore what his father would say. His cold, judgmental eyes would never pass over Castiel again but to identify the corpse in the morgue.

Castiel would never get a chance to apologize to his mother. Somehow he doubted they would see each other in the afterlife. His final destination would surely be much warmer. Castiel couldn't ask for a happy ending.

He just wanted an end.

People were screaming. He could hear it all the way up here, one hundred and twenty stories high. However, Castiel wasn't going to look down. He'd spent too much of his life, gaze glued to the ground. How many sunrises did he miss? How many sunsets? In his last moments, he had eyes only for the sky—overcast, but the sun continued to struggle under the clouds.

Castiel took a deep breath. He'd stalled for too long. Years had been wasted in denial of one obvious fact: Castiel Novak had no reason to live. Castiel Novak deserved to die.

He could count on his hand how many breaths he had left. Five.

Were there sirens? It didn't matter anymore. Four.

Castiel spread his arms wide, familiar tan trench coat billowing in the wind. Three.

The clamor below surged. Two.

Castiel closed his eyes and tensed his knees in preparation. One.

It was time.

Zero.

"HEY!"

Castiel froze.

Castiel opened his eyes.

Castiel didn't jump.

Castiel breathed in again air that didn't belong to him.

He turned around slowly to the source of the voice. It was a man. A policeman. With shiny, golden brown hair and bright emerald eyes. He was panting, holding the railing (which Castiel stood outside of) practically clutching it for dear life. There was pure panic in his eyes, but also, a perfect sort of tenacity.

Castiel looked away. There was no room for distraction here—on the rooftop of the end of his destiny. There was no room for anyone else but him on this stage. And he had missed his exit.

Slow. Always behind.

"Can't even kill himself correctly."

"Dude!" The policeman spoke again, shattering Castiel's bitter memoires. "Hold on a second—don't be so hasty! You can't jump."

Castiel laughed. Oh, he begged to differ.

"Ok, ok, you can, but you shouldn't."

How wrong he was. How ignorant. What Castiel shouldn't be doing was wasting time—procrastinating. Failing. Again.

In his mind, Castiel's father's shrewd eyes mocked him.

"No! Buddy, calm down! You didn't even let me finish."

Castiel shouldn't have paused. He should have jumped. This man was irritating.

And yet, he continued to talk and Castiel continued to listen. "See, how this works is, you let me say a few things, ask you a few soul-searching questions, renew your faith in humanity and then you get off the freakin' ledge. Or, y'know, you could just hop off now and save me the trouble."

Castiel was saving him trouble. He was saving the world trouble by jumping.

Except that he wasn't jumping yet. He was still on the rooftop, feet firmly planted on the brick siding. "Go. Away." He commanded.

Castiel didn't need this. Not now when he was so close. He just wanted it all to stop. He just wanted to be at peace.

Was that too much of an inconvenience?

"Woah there, how about you think about someone else. Like me?" the cop interjected. "I'm terrified of heights. If you just got down and took the elevator a few floors groundwards, maybe we could talk about this like two civil adults."

Castiel blinked. "If you dislike heights so much, you are free to leave."

The cop chuckled—chuckled. "You see, I would, but my boss told me I couldn't 'til I brought 'ya with me. So do a guy a favor and just come down."

"No." The malice in Castiel's voice almost surprised him. "This is my business—my life. You would do well to stay out of it."

This put a crease between the insistent man's eyes. "Now, I'm sorry, but I just can't do that." He straightened, then kept a hand on the railing as he took a few cautious steps in Castiel's direction. "It's my job, and well, I'm also a stubborn sonofabitch, so don't think you can outlast me." He cast a petrified look downwards, but still took another step. He was now inches away from Castiel's outstretched arms.

Castiel didn't need to outlast him. He only needed to ignore him long enough to gather his resolve and just jump. Why was this so difficult? Why couldn't he just extend one leg? It would be a simple step, albeit the last he would ever take, but Castiel had been living a life of lasts for a long time. He was ready.

He wouldn't have stepped onto the roof if he wasn't.

"I can tell you're mulling it over. Think you can just jump." The cop had a little waver in his voice. "But do you know what I think?"

No, Castiel couldn't possibly care less.

"I think that if you were going to jump, you would've done it already. You looked pretty determined when I got up here, but now?" He shrugged. "A little noncommittal."

"You don't know anything," Castiel hissed. He had conviction. He had twenty-six years of conviction. Just one step…

"Yeah? Yeah, well, you might be right. I don't know you. I don't know your life. I couldn't tell you from a stranger on the street—except that you need me. Right now, whoever you are—whatever you've done—it doesn't matter. I'm not gonna let you die."

Castiel wanted to scream. "What do you care?" he demanded. "What does it matter? If I jump—if I die, what will you mourn for? The man you never knew? A soul you couldn't save? Because there's no point to that. My life has no meaning. My death will not either. Your words mean nothing."

"I don't—"

"Nothing matters," Castiel spat. And now he was worked up. His palms were sweating in the early chill of September. He wanted to die. He shouldn't have to defend himself. He had thought over this choice every night since Daphne died. The night he told her he wasn't as in love as she thought he was. When she stormed out of their apartment and he didn't chase after her. When he got the call, hours later, that a semi had totaled her car. Daphne had been killed on impact. Dead.

Murdered.

And Castiel couldn't carry her ghost anymore. Not with the rest of them. He couldn't take it. "Spare me your contrived sympathy or misplaced sense of responsibility. I don't care." Castiel was beyond that. He was so beyond it all.

One step was all it took. One single step. Castiel was ready.

The cop jerked forward a single second before Castiel moved. He reached out, yelling, as Castiel took that one single step.

And Castiel leapt up to fly with the birds.