This fic contains ideas and concepts that some might consider blasphemous. First and foremost, this is my attempt at coalescing Christian mythology with Supernatural's own mythology. Secondly, despite this premise, I am not a person of faith. I am an irreligious individual who has a love for Christian mythology strictly as mythology. While there is a Catholic leaning - by virtue of my own upbringing and to a certain degree the subject matter - I take my inspiration from many different sources. Some are historical and some are mythological. Some are canonical and some are non-canonical. Above all else, it is my goal with this fic to be as impartial as humanly possible.

This fic has been updated! The final three chapters are up! The narrative of the fic is finished, but the fic itself is not yet completed. I still have to do a final edit.

April, 29 A.D.

Jerusalem, Roman Occupied Judea.

It was a cold night compared to the blistering, arid heat Castiel had come to recognize as normal. A cool wind wove through the city's narrow alleyways, chilling the roof tops that a few hours ago would have been hot enough to melt goat cheese. He leaned against the wall of a balcony on the third floor of an inn, staring up at the sky as the moon rose over the city. Though the cool air had no effect on him, he assumed his vessel would likely be shivering.

Castiel listened to the chatter inside, while the smell of roasted lamb and fresh baked matzo wafted around him. Eleven men with thick Galilean accents laughed and joked with one another, their voices slurred by wine. Peter debated the finer points of net tying with his former fishing partners, the Zebedee brothers, and his own brother Andrew. They were men Castiel knew well, but had rarely, if ever, spoken with.

Two men Castiel did share words with were seated at the end of the table away from the others, joking quietly and reminiscing with each other around cups of wine. They were the two eldest sons of a carpenter from Nazareth. The younger one was James. The older one was Jesus. Castiel was charged with to keep watch over him. Jesus was a Prophet, the man Castiel's Father had chosen as the Messiah. His Son.

Though Jesus joked and laughed, Castiel could tell that he was hiding fear.

Castiel wanted more than anything to leave Jesus alone, to let him enjoy his Passover Seder; but he had to speak to him. A twelfth man, Judas, was absent from the festivities. He had been missing all day. Even though he was often by himself, tonight that absence was a harbinger of things to come.

Castiel sighed. He turned, stepping into the doorway, just beyond the threshold of the room.

Finally, Jesus caught his gaze. When he did, Castiel gave a slight nod and exited the room, walking back onto the balcony.

Without a second's delay, Jesus stood from his place at the table and followed Castiel out, still holding his cup of wine."Castiel, what are you doing out here? Come inside and join us," he said, grinning.

Castiel didn't respond.

Jesus watched him for a moment, his grin slowly sliding off his face. "What's wrong?"

Castiel paused. "They're going through with their plan," he whispered.

"What?" Jesus blinked. "But how? You etched the protection sigils onto my ribs. You cloaked all of us."

Castiel shook his head. "They've gotten to Judas. They'll use him to find you. They also have the High Priest." Castiel continued.

"But Caiaphas doesn't want me dead. We disagree on interpretations of the Torah, but that's all." Jesus looked at Castiel, confused. " He's saved me from the Romans at least twice."

"Yes. But after your fit of anger in the Temple and with all this talk of you being the Messiah and it being Passover, he was worried that you're going to start a rebellion, one that the Romans would crush with violence and bloodshed. He wanted you thrown in jail, at least until the festival was over. "

Jesus pressed ran his hand down his face, tightly shutting his eyes.

Castiel took a deep breath. "They also have Pontius Pilate. He's the Roman Prefect, the only man with the power to execute you. Even without being possessed; he'd have no qualms doing so. He's put to death plenty of would-be messiahs."

Jesus frowned.

"I will fight them off," Castiel declared. "Anna and Balthazar will help me."

Jesus didn't say anything. In one swift motion, he finished off the rest of the wine. "No."

"What?" Castiel blinked. "But you can't—"

"If this is to be my fate, then it is to be my fate." Jesus shrugged. Though he had tried to be nonchalant, Castiel could hear him holding back tears.

Castiel froze. He clenched his fists. "So you're just going to give up?" he hissed. He closed the space between them, glaring. "You're going to give them what they want?"

"Yes." Jesus snapped. "Because what they really from me I won't do. I can't do." Jesus glanced into the room, looking briefly at his brother. Tears filled his eyes. "I won't see the world destroyed. This—this is only way I can insure that it won't be."

"But what about your mission?" Castiel asked.

"This is my mission now." Jesus paused. "And perhaps," he glanced up at the night sky. A tear fell down his cheek. "Perhaps it always was."

"Do you truly believe that?"

Jesus didn't say anything. He looked at Castiel. "Just promise me you won't try to stop it."

Castiel shook his head. "I can't promise that."

Jesus smiled sadly. "Then promise me you won't get yourself killed." He patted Castiel's shoulder before he headed back into the room, sitting down at the table. He glanced briefly at Castiel as he grabbed one of the last pieces of matzo on from the table and refilled his cup with wine, before turning his attention solely on the Apostles.

Not long after, the men gathered up their belongings and left in the inn. Castiel followed them at a safe distance to a garden called Gethsemane, located at the foot of the Mount of Olives. He paced around the edge of the garden, moving in between the twisted olive trees, his sword safely tucked inside the sleeve of his rough wool tunic.

By midnight, Castiel had killed two demons and three of his brothers. Their bodies lay at the entrance of the garden, the charred impressions of their wings contrasted highly against the sand in the moonlight.

While he paced, Castiel listened to the sounds coming from deep within the grove. Peter was sharpening his knife, just in case they needed it. The Zebedee brothers whispered and bickered with one another. The rest of the men were fast sleep.

At least twice, Castiel heard Jesus and James fighting. The fights took the form of Jesus ordering James to go back into the city followed by James steadfastly refusing. At first they were shouts, then they became cries.

When Jesus wasn't yelling at his brother, he was praying. Half spoken prayers of sorrow, anger—and most of all—fear. Fear that shook his entire body. Castiel could smell the blood Jesus was sweating.

During one of these bouts of prayer Castiel visited Jesus and tried comfort him. He sat with Jesus and healed away the blood he had been sweating. He asked Jesus to change his mind, to let Castiel fight his siblings, but again, Jesus refused and ordered Castiel to leave.

As Castiel made his way back to his post, he saw the glow of torches off in the distance, breaking through the dark and fog. They shone low light on the figures of a squad of men that were making their way through the garden.

Then Castiel heard the sound of sandaled feet making contact with gravel and dirt behind him, far ahead of the squad. Castiel turned to find his one of higher ranking brothers standing there, the bright moonlight casting a shadow of wings under his vessel.

"Zachariah," Castiel said. His gaze drifted down to the leather coin purse, heavy with silver pieces, tied to his belt. "You didn't have to make Judas take blood money."

Castiel noted the dagger at Zachariah's waist—its blade made of silver and etched in old Hebrew—and the hamsa pendant dangling around his neck, just visible under the hood of his cloak. He also noted the small cloth bag filled with clumps of rock salt, a slingshot hanging loosely on the other side of his belt.

Zachariah scoffed, shrugging. "We needed to operate with the upmost discretion." His voice was detached as he circled Castiel. "Besides, once I'm done wearing him, I don't think Judas is going to care much either way. Despite your clever little attempt at hiding The Son and his followers, getting to him was simple. All I had to do was go into his dreams and…persuade him a little. He knows exactly what's at stake and he owes us a debt."

Castiel raised his eyebrow. "A debt?"

"We raised Judas precisely for this reason, Castiel." Zachariah's voice was blunt. "You know the prophecy. The one who begins it must be the one who ends it."

"You're damning him. He's not—"

"Judas is helping The Son fulfill his scared destiny," Zachariah said annoyed. "He's a faithful of servant of Heaven."

Castiel shook his head. "This is not Jesus's fate." His words were angry. "And Michael wouldn't jeopardize his only—"

"Michael is the one who gave us the order." Zachariah glared. "The final two seals are set to be broken before the festival ends. If the Nazarene won't to cooperate, then we'll… wash our hands of him. Start over." Zachariah watched Castiel for a moment. He gave me a smug smirk. "The fate of the world is more important than the life of one ape. Even if that ape is the man Our Father chose to be His Son."

Castiel's eyes narrowed. Carefully, he lowered the sword hidden up his sleeve, letting the weapon slide into his hand. Before he could strike, however, Zachariah knocked the blade out of his hand and slammed him against one of the olive trees. He pressed his own sword against Castiel's neck.

"Once the Nazarene is dead, we'll make sure that the brothers and sisters you led astray are handed over to Naomi and dealt with. You can thank Uriel for that, he was loyal enough to come forward and beg that their lives be spared," Zachariah hissed, his eyes narrow. "As for you? Anna to convinced Michael to spare you. And because you're one of our best soldiers, we will, but this is your last chance. The next time you defy a direct order, brother, it will be your last."

Zachariah began chanting in Enochian. A blue-white light glowed from the mouth and eyes of Castiel's vessel and he felt himself being pulled, wrenched out from the body. He fought it, desperately, but to no avail. The next thing he knew Castiel was floating, incorporeal and invisible, next to his unconscious vessel.

A slight distance away, Zachariah joined the squad of men. They spoke briefly before marching further into the garden.

Unable to do anything, Castiel heard Jesus speak of Judas' betrayal before the clearing erupted in chaos. Once faithful Apostles fled for their own salvation. A knife sliced through air, followed by a blood curling scream. Peter was pinned against a tree by a man with bleeding ear while another pried the blade from him.

The last thing Castiel saw was James, running out of the grove and back to the city in nothing but his tunic, his cloak ripped from his body. His knuckles were bloody and his eyes red with angry tears.

The night air became colder.