The next morning came with a kind of stillness Castiel hadn't felt in a while. He woke early, the light from the stained-glass windows casting colors across the wooden floor of his small room. He had slept with the broken sword of Saint Michael on the floor beside him, its faint holy glow a comfort throughout the night.
There was a quiet knock at the door. Father William stepped in, a kind smile on his face but something different in his eyes—something proud, maybe a little sad too.
"They're here," he said.
Castiel nodded, pulling on his coat. He slung the sword hilt in its cloth wrapping over his back and turned to Father William. "Thank you. For everything."
Father William pulled him into a hug, strong and warm. "You're destined for something greater, Castiel. But remember, even the greatest warriors need a guiding heart. Stay good."
Castiel swallowed hard and stepped outside. On the sidewalk, waiting calmly, was Charles Xavier, and beside him stood a tall woman with white hair and eyes like silver lightning.
"This is Ororo Munroe," Charles said, smiling. "But you may come to know her better as Storm."
Castiel shook her hand. Hello"
Storm smiled. Hello."
"So… how are we getting to New York?"
Charles gestured toward the end of the street. Castiel blinked—there was a sleek, black jet resting quietly between two lampposts, its surface shimmering faintly. No one on the street even looked at it.
Castiel gawked. "What the hell—how's that even here?"
"My telepathy," Charles explained. "I've cloaked it from the perception of others. To their eyes, we're just another set of pedestrians."
Castiel's eyes widened. "I can do telepathy too… but only on one person, and I have to look them in the eye. Yours is... way stronger."
"We all begin somewhere," Charles said gently.
As they approached the jet, a shadow moved across the street. A voice spoke, calm and powerful.
"Charles."
Charles turned. "Erik."
Castiel stopped in his tracks. A man stepped into view, dressed in dark red and black, a strange helmet cradled in the crook of his arm. Magneto.
Flanking him were several others—mutants, no doubt.
"I came for the boy," Magneto said. "You can't deny his power. He belongs with us."
Charles stood firm. "He doesn't belong to anyone, Erik. Let him choose."
Magneto turned to Castiel. "We are the Brotherhood. We fight for mutantkind. You saw what humans can do—they fear us, hate us. You could help us protect our kind. Change the world."
Castiel looked at him. Then he looked at Storm. At Charles. He thought of Father William. Of Gursahib.
"I don't want to rule anyone," Castiel said. "And I don't want to fight like you do. You kill, you think we're better. I can't be part of that."
Magneto's expression tightened. "So you choose to kneel at their feet."
"I choose to protect people," Castiel said. "Even the ones who hate me."
Storm moved closer, tense. "They're not going to let us leave, Charles."
Castiel raised a hand. "No. No fight. Just… describe the mansion. Quick."
Charles looked confused. "Green lawns. A wide field. A stone path. Trees all around. A fountain in the courtyard. Red brick—"
That was all Castiel needed.
He reached out, touching Charles and Storm, focusing on the image in his mind. The second he saw it clearly, the world blinked away.
And just like that—they were gone.
Castiel, Storm, and Charles Xavier reappeared in the courtyard of a large, beautiful mansion in Westchester, surrounded by trees and silence. The sun hung low in the sky, painting the world gold.
Castiel stumbled back a step, breath catching.
"…We're here," he whispered, staring in awe. "We made it."
Charles smiled gently. "Welcome to the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters."
Castiel turned, taking in the mansion—the place where his new life would begin. The past weighed heavily on his shoulders, but for the first time in a long time… he felt hope.
Castiel stood in the courtyard of the X-Mansion, sunlight dappling through tall oaks. The air was clean, crisp—a far cry from the alleyways and chaos he'd known for so long. But his brow furrowed as a thought struck him.
"The jet," he muttered.
Charles looked over, puzzled. "What about it?"
"I left it there. With them." He looked down at his hands. "I should've brought it."
Before Charles or Storm could reply, Castiel closed his eyes. In a flash of light, he was gone.
He reappeared in the exact spot they had been, back in the city street. Sure enough, the Brotherhood was still there, scattered and tense. Magneto stood with arms folded, eyes fixed on where Castiel had vanished just moments before. The jet, untouched and still hidden by Xavier's telepathy, sat idly beside them.
Castiel didn't say a word. He walked up to the jet, placed a hand on its hull, and vanished again.
Back in the courtyard, Charles and Storm turned just as the jet materialized behind them in a soft pulse of white light.
Charles raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. "Thank you, Castiel. That was quick thinking."
"I didn't want to leave your stuff with them," Castiel said simply.
Storm smiled. "You're already getting the hang of things."
Charles nodded toward the mansion. "Storm, why don't you show him to his room?"
"Of course," she said. "Come on, Castiel. I think you'll like your roommates."
They walked through the grand double doors into the mansion's wide, open halls. Students passed them here and there—some with wings, some with glowing skin, some with no obvious mutations at all. The mansion felt alive, humming with energy.
"So who are they?" Castiel asked.
"You'll be sharing a room with three others," Storm said. "They're older than you, but good guys."
They reached a door on the second floor. Storm knocked once, then pushed it open.
Inside, the room was large—four beds, a shared bathroom, some desks, and a TV in the corner. Three boys were gathered on the floor in front of the TV, arguing over a video game. One had blue skin, a tail, and pointed ears; another was tall and broad with a Russian accent that slipped through his laughter; the third had frosty-white hair and a Coke can freezing in his hand.
"Boys," Storm said, hands on her hips. "Up."
They froze, then scrambled to their feet, quickly straightening up when they saw her.
"This is Castiel," she said. "He'll be your new roommate. Play nice."
She turned to Castiel. "You'll be fine. I'll check on you later." With that, she walked out.
Castiel looked at the three of them, a little unsure.
The blue one stepped forward, tail flicking behind him. "Hello! I am Kurt Wagner—but you can call me Nightcrawler. I'm twenty-one."
He offered a three-fingered hand, and Castiel shook it.
Next was the icy one. "Bobby Drake. Iceman. Also twenty-two. Don't worry, we don't bite… usually."
The last, the big one, gave a small nod. "Piotr Rasputin. Colossus. I also am twenty-two. Welcome, comrade."
Castiel gave a small smile. "I'm Castiel. I'm… fifteen."
"Fifteen?" Bobby said, surprised. "Dang, you're just a kid."
"I've been through more than most adults," Castiel replied quietly.
There was an awkward pause. Then Kurt clapped his hands together.
"Well! You can have the bed by the window. The sunlight is nice in the morning."
Castiel nodded and moved toward it, gently setting down the wrapped hilt of Saint Michael's sword. He sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of everything still pressing down on him, but lighter now.
"You play games?" Bobby asked, lifting a controller.
"Not really," Castiel said. "Never had the time."
"You'll learn," Piotr said. "We will teach you."
Kurt smiled kindly. "Yes, and don't worry—we're not like those Brotherhood creeps."
"I didn't like them either," Castiel admitted. "Too much hate."
"You'll fit in here just fine," Bobby said.