Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Prologue: Oh Death, Where is Your Sting?

THEN 

“No, please,” the sheriff pleaded into the darkness of his bedroom. “I don’t want to die.” It wasn’t until his wife turned over in their bed that John Jones truly began to wake.

“Johnny, you okay?” her tentative voice asked.

“Shut up,” he grunted. “Go back to sleep.” She didn’t speak again and he felt a sick sort of desperation rush through him. He wished that she would push him for an answer so that he could focus on anger and ignore the fear that clutched at him, causing his breath to come quick and the hairs on the back of his neck to stand straight up. The nightmare felt real. The spectre, fierce. The faceless woman’s fingers had reached out for him, icy to the touch, yet putting his skin ablaze. The darkness of the valley in which they stood made it impossible to see, but, as he had moved closer, he could almost make out the familiar bridge of a nose, thick hair he may have once tangled his fingers in. Sheriff Jones knew she was someone he had met before, he just wasn’t sure when or where.

***

“She’s a demon, Bruce,” John Jones whispered, his ragged voice shaking almost as much as the hand that circled the brown bottle. “A ghost, I’m not sure. But I knew her...I know that I knew her…” Sheriff Jones stopped, tugged on his collar. His skin felt like fire. He pulled a long sip from his beer, until the flat foam coated the top of his mouth. When he swallowed, he looked up at his companion, eyes wild and scared. John knew his confession, this claustrophobic fear of the dream-spectre, was irrational, but he didn’t have anyone else he could tell.

John met Bruce when he moved to Yerington, after the war. They hadn’t known each other in Iraq, but they both served. Done shit they couldn’t talk about with anyone else. They also shared a distinct taste of bloodied knuckles, bar fights, cheap women and expensive vodka.

“John, you should get some rest,” the other man said before knocking back a straight shot of Grey Goose. He placed the cup upside down on the bar, zipped up his jacket and made to leave.

“But, Bruce. It could be any one of them. One of the dead ones.”

Bruce moved in close. John felt hot breath against his ear that smelled like alcohol and cigarettes and made his stomach turn.

“Johnny, pull yourself together. Cracking up now, after everything we’ve done, well, it isn’t smart and it isn’t pretty.” Bruce Buchanan straightened his spine and moved away from the bar. “I don’t want to hear anything more about this shit, do you hear me?” John did not answer. “Good. Now, get your ass home to Susan. It’s late.” John mumbled a goodbye under his breath as he watched Bruce walk out the door. He didn’t want to go home. Not just yet. Not when she could be there, just underneath the veil of slumber, waiting for him to give in; to stop trying to escape.

“Bartender,” he growled and pointed at his empty bottle “Another.”

***

On the other side of town, under the clouds of an almost moonless night, two sisters sat before a dwindling fire. The flicker of flames caused the shadows to undulate, making the rocky hills look like looming mountains.  “He sees me,” the younger one started. “In his dreams. To him, I am a fierce warrior. A goddess of fire and ice and everything unholy. He will pay for his crimes.” She paused, her chest heaving, eyes flickering between the flames of the dying fire and the sliver of white moon above. “I bring him here. To the crevices of our land, where I know each slope and jagged edge. He cannot see my face but something in him knows me. He remembers.” She looked at the other, her elder sister, sitting quiet, face stoic and unreadable. She stopped and, not for the first time, wondered if she had let her vengeance overwhelm her senses. For so long she had hated him. Hated both of them. Not even the drugs had been able to quiet the screaming in her head, the relentless reminder of all she’d suffered. It became her crutch; the anger like a lover’s sweet caress, familiar and comfortable. But pain caused her to turn into something twisted and terrifying. Her sister assured her that action needed to be taken. To heal, the town must first be broken. “Even if it is wrong, I want them dead.”

For a few seconds, the silence loomed. The only sound was the sleeping desert, pulsing with silent life. She watched her elder sister stare into the orange heat, entranced by the bouncing embers of the fire, bold and unafraid.

“I know.” There was no uncertainty behind it. The words exerted pure force and will that pushed through both of the women until the younger sister had to lean back on her hands, as if to brace herself against tangible language. “We have started this journey, sister,” The eldest began. “The path cannot change now. We do this for the family. We will not get another chance such as this. You understand?”

She nodded but could not speak. Her voice was caught in the shadows of the valley, pulled into the darkest corners of rock and dirt.

“The family deserves to reap what our forefathers have sown. The prophecy will be fulfilled.” The elder sister’s words soothed like a balm. Yes. The family needed this. She looked up at the darkened sky and heard the sound of the river echoing off the valley walls, deafening and proud. She sighed and looked up at the white orb, shining in the night sky.

“The moon will be full in two week’s time,” she said quietly.

“Yes. Yes it will.”

Chapter 1: Reason To Believe

NOW

Dean looks at his shaking hands, caked with blood and dirt, and slowly sets the empty glass down on the smooth wood of the bar. After years spent drowning in booze and anger, he’s grown tired of gasping for breath. The urge to cry and scream and kill crashes into Dean Winchester like a wave. Sam would call it “grief” but Dean doesn’t know what to call it. What he does know is, when he thinks of Cas, a weight in his chest bares down on him, making him dizzy, as though his brain does not have enough oxygen to function properly.

“Bartender!” Dean’s gruff voice carries across the bar, and a tiny, leather-clad woman looks up.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Lemme get another one, sweetheart,” Dean drawls behind his most shit eating grin. Instead of the customary flirtatious wink, Dean receives a piteous glance over the brunette’s eyeglasses. Dean wrinkles his mouth into a scowl and stares down into his cup and doesn’t bother to look up when the bartender pours another helping of Jack.

“You know, we’re technically closed. ” It isn’t a question. He doesn’t acknowledge her, and she lets out a sigh. “This one’s on me and then it’s quitting time, buddy,” the bartender says. She turns her back on him to dry beer mugs in the sink.

Dean gazes into the bottom of his glass. He wants to get the buzzing out of his head, force the tears to fall, but the alcohol isn’t doing its job. Dean snaps the whiskey back and winces, but not from the heat in his belly. He’s wasting time. He needs to get back. Grief and guilt clutch at his chest like a vise and won’t let go. He recognizes the hopelessness, and it terrifies him. Before, when the Mark of Cain oozed malcontent through his mind and body, when he felt himself bursting with fury at the smallest provocation, the alcohol made him feel human. He drank until the whiskey brought tears to his eyes and memories to his lips and he would cry over Sam and Cas, Bobby, Kevin, hell, Lisa and Ben, and even his goddamn father. When Cas decided to stay, after he burned through the Mark of Cain and lit the darkest corners of Dean’s soul with the impenetrable light of his grace, Dean thought he and Cas could be happy. He started to want them to be happy. When the doubt crept in, reminding Dean of all the ways he didn’t deserve to find peace, he’d started drinking again. Like an asshole with a crutch.

Dean places a twenty beneath the tumbler, stands up from his stool and walks out the door, waving a silent thanks.

“Hope it all works out,” she says. Dean doesn’t look back.

At the Impala, he stops, breath short. Dean blanches and leans against the car for support, but it isn’t the alcohol that makes him queasy. He is torn between wanting to finish the job and a desperate need to slink into another bar or a stranger’s bed simply to numb the pain. But there’s nothing simple about that, either. Dean pushes thoughts of failure and abandonment to the back of his mind and swings the door open, sliding into the driver’s seat. For the first time in a long time, Dean Winchester decides this isn’t about him. It’s about Cas. He needs to do right by the angel, no matter how terrifying the thought is. Baby’s engine revs under Dean’s foot as he turns onto the highway, soothing him. Family don’t give up on each other. Simple as that.

THEN

“Dean.” Sam sat cross-legged on the motel room bed, laptop open in front of him. “I think we’ve got a kind of witch on our hands.”

“A witch?” Dean looked up from the inch-thick Native American Burial Sites in Nevada first edition encyclopedia. He leaned back in his chair and took a slow sip of his beer.

“Really, Dean?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Really, what, Sammy? We’re hunting some evil sons of bitches. Cut me some slack.”

“I just think we need to focus on the case, Dean. The drinking doesn’t help, you know that. If you wanna get anything off your chest, you can talk to me.” Sam flashed his best "I know what you’re going through” face and earned himself an eye roll from Dean.

“It’s one beer, geez. I thought we were talking about witches.” 

Sam sighed. When his brother didn’t want to talk about something, Dean could make a cheap motel room feel seriously small.

“Whatever, dude. Let’s talk witches. Actually, in this case, they are considered Shaman and we’ve got one or more practicing in the area.”

“Alright, sasquatch, what’s going on, then?” Dean countered.

Sam frowned at the jibe, but continued explaining. “There isn’t much about the two men murdered, except that they seem to have been pretty upstanding citizens. The week they died, our vics exhibited signs of depression, lack of appetite, fits of terror, eventually dying in their sleep. The coroner ruled both deaths as ‘natural causes’ but, get this, according to the research, these guys suffered a variation of something called Paiute ‘dream sickness’.” Sam pointed at his laptop, even though it was facing away from Dean and he knew his brother had no idea what was being referenced. Served him right.

“Look, nerd, put it into words I can understand.”

Sam scoffed. “They were infected with a Native American--Paiute to be exact--curse that hasn’t been seen in these parts in over 100 years, Dean. The lore says victims are killed in their dreams by evil spirits. It looks like a heart attack or seizure, even if the vic is perfectly healthy. There were also bones stolen from a local cemetery two weeks ago.” Sam stopped as he watched his older brother make the connections. Everyone claimed Sam was the smart one, and maybe he had spent a couple of years in college while Dean traveled around the country with their father, but his brother had a second sense when it came to the supernatural. Dean memorized all the Enochian symbols Cas taught them and he could pick any lock this side of the Mississippi, not to mention bullshit his way through pretty much any situation with a calm confidence Sam never quite emulated as well as he would have liked. And, if Sam was a little biased because he had always looked up to his older brother, well, no one would blame him. 

“Well, who do the bones belong to and who would want them? Ingredients for a spell, maybe?” Dean asked. 

Sam smirked. He’d come to the same conclusion. “They belong to a medicine man, Wovoka. He was a religious leader of the Paiute, and according to the lore, this guy was a real life Shaman who claimed to have power over this dream sickness through the subconscious.” Sam paused as he read over the web page. “He was considered a ‘prophet of peace’ who claimed to have communicated with angels.”

Dean looked up at that.

“Yeah. Wovoka wanted to resurrect the tribe, come to power in the area. The military shut him down pretty quick and the tribe lost everything except the land. There’s a school and a few houses but recently, enrollment picked up.”

Dean nodded slowly as he sat down on the foot of the bed across from his brother.

“So, we think these witches are recruiting? Maybe looking to poke at an old wound and started by using the bones to cast a spell on our vics? But what do the victims have to do with this?” Dean pondered.

“Exactly,” he finished, leaning back against the headboard, crossing his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. Sam did not open them but grunted an annoyed sound when Dean tossed a book of Native American history into his lap to get his attention. 

“You head to the library and do some digging on the local Paiute tribes and find out everything you can about this sickness. And find out where we can find the current Shaman.  I’ll talk to the family and friends of the victims.” He paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his eyes.

“You should call Cas. He likes to play good cop, bad cop, right?”

Dean squinted and Sam knew he’d said out loud what his brother had been thinking. Dean shrugged and pulled out his phone, sent a text, and put his phone down on the bed to wait. When it rang less than ninety seconds later, Sam raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“Hey Cas. Uh, I need backup on a case. You still in Yosemite with Hannah? I know your mojo’s been acting weird but you down for a case? Yeah? Cool. Sam’s doing research and I need a partner. I mean, uh, I need help. FBI suit. We’re in Yerington, Nevada, at the Starlight Motel, room 11 on highway 208. Five hours? Great. See you in the morning.”

Sam smirked. It was going to be a long night.

Sometime before five, he heard Dean rise and open the door. From half-closed lids, Sam watched Cas and an already fully-dressed Dean say their hellos, Cas asking about the case, Dean asking about Cas. Both of them exuded palpable relief in the presence of the other. Sam could almost bet Dean wouldn’t drink tonight. Dean touched Cas’ shoulder, squeezed. Smiled. Christ. Sam coughed once and turned his back to them. He grabbed his duffel, mumbled a hello and headed to the bathroom.

Cas once told them, after the 40 years Dean was in Hell, he spent an unknown amount of time bringing Dean from the Pit back to the corporeal plane of reality, their soul and grace intertwined. Called it a profound bond. San knew, even though Cas brought him back from Hell, they didn’t have the same type of connection. They’d learned to be friends, but what Cas shared with Dean was different. But also great, because Dean had someone besides Sam to talk to when Cas was around. Unfortunately, when Castiel was on the road, Dean worried about him. It was during Cas’ trip to Omaha that Dean started drinking again. He stopped talking to Sam, avoided talking to Cas and spent most afternoons holed up in his bunker bedroom listening to music on his headphones. Some time on the road would be good for the two of them. It was nice to know Cas wasn’t going back to Heaven; that relieved a lot of tension around the Bunker, even when Cas was out on the road, hunting for angels. Dean needed him to stick around, even if Dean didn’t know it yet. Sam smiled as he finished brushing his teeth and opened the door to the bathroom. Cas was sitting at the table across from Dean, laptop open in front of him, scrolling through the open tabs of Sam’s research. Sam sat down and placed a book on rituals on the table and sat down between them.

“Alright, Cas. So, what do you know about Paiute lore and the angels?” Sam began.

***

“Dean.” 

Dean snapped back to attention. He realized he’d stopped listening about four Native-American historical references ago and instead, sat staring mutely at Castiel, whose dark brown hair stood on end, as if he had traveled through a lighting storm to get to them. Sweat clung to his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced. He looked tired. Dean knew life was different for Cas now. He and Hannah spent days on the road together, gathering fallen angels and trying to convince them to return to heaven. Cas decided to continue travelling with her, even after moving into the bunker, because she still didn’t understand the concept of free will. Without Cas, she tended to lean toward violence and coercion. Castiel, on the other hand, understood the desire to stay on earth, to create a life here. Didn’t mean Dean didn’t worry about him. Although the stolen grace allowed Cas to fight like an angel, it was unstable.

“Half-assed mojo isn’t a good look for you, man. You feeling alright?”

As the hunter spoke, he noticed Cas’ hands clutching a map of Lyon County, the fingers lean and long and strong. He took a sip of black coffee--thank god the room had a coffee maker-- ignored the feeling creeping up in his gut and decided he needed to stop staring at his best friend’s hands and focus on the case. Dean tore his eyes away and rolled them at Castiel to punctuate Sam’s nerdiness. The angel didn’t look amused.

“Dean,” Castiel repeated, brow furrowed. “I asked three times if you had any guess as to how the victims were chosen. Why are you so distracted?” He looked at Sam. “Sam, what is wrong with your brother?” Sam just shrugged.

“Dean’s weird, as always,” Sam offered. “Maybe you can get something out of him when you guys get on the road,” he added.

“Goddammit, Sammy, I’m fine. What, are you my shrink?” Dean flipped his brother off and grabbed the keys to the Impala, which was parked in the spot closest to the motel room, shiny and ready to hunt monsters.

“Just give me a call when you have some answers about the case. Cas, get your ass in the car. You get to ride shotgun today, my man. Aren’t you the lucky duck?” Dean clasped Castiel's shoulders before heading to the driver’s side of the vehicle and climbing in. 

“Dean, I don’t think that fortunate poultry has anything to do with the case, but perhaps I am mistaken,” Castiel began, sliding into the passenger side of the Impala with comfortable ease. 

“Oh, Cas, don’t ever change, you big dork,” Dean huffed as he started the engine.

“I thought you said you wanted me to change my suit...oh,” Castiel stopped. “I do not plan on “changing”, Dean. I still have enough mojo to be considered an immovable force of the Universe,” Castiel explained, head tilting in a way that made him look inexplicably old and innocent. Dean shook his head and smiled as he popped his favorite AC/DC mix tape into the Impala tape deck and pulled out of the parking space and onto the highway. Sam watched them go and wondered when in the hell those two were going to get a clue.

Chapter Text

NOW

If he doesn’t look to the right, to the empty seat way too close, Dean can almost imagine he is driving to a highway diner with Sam and Cas for a slice of homemade pie. He could very well be traveling to some out of the way, one-star motel or maybe back to the bunker after a hunt, except for the smell of whiskey on his breath and the ache in his chest. Dean reaches into the floorboard of the passenger seat and fumbles around until his fingers land on a cassette case. His favorite AC/DC mix tape, given to him back in ’97 by Jenny Cole, right before she found out he’d fucked her best friend, Stacy. When John found out, instead of a lecture, Dean got a cold beer, a pat on the back and a sly grin from his old man. The Winchester boys tore out of town a couple of days after that, leaving Dean with the memory of the two limber cheerleaders, the most epic mix tape he’d ever heard and misplaced respect from his father. Dean pops the tape in the deck and Highway to Hell begins to pulse Baby’s speakers. The road is empty in the hour before dawn, and so, with the window down and the music turned up as loud as Baby can stand, Dean lets his thoughts linger on Jenny, the blonde captain of the cheerleading team and Stacy, her ginger co-captain. Their lips, hips, god, the way the blonde one’s tits bounced when he’d fucked her.

Things were much less complicated back then, before the angels came. Dean glances in the rearview out of habit, as if expecting someone (Cas) to materialize in the backseat in the middle of Dean’s dirty, albeit brief, thought of the women. Dean sighs. Even he recognizes a weak attempt to ignore the grief that envelops him like a shadow, dark and all around him. God, if it weren’t for that angel. They’d fought side by side for so many years, and shit, the angel gave up an army, gave up his grace, all for Dean. Cas is family. Family don’t end with blood. It hasn’t been just Dean and Sam for a long time. What does Cas say the angels call the three of them? Team Free Will? Shit. He’s wasted so much time already. Dean runs a hand over his face, fingers pausing on rough stubble, the wave of hopelessness threatening to overwhelm him until he remembers the job. He reaches to turn up the volume and runs an agitated hand through his hair. He needs to find Sam. His brother will help him figure out what to do. Dean really doesn’t want to contemplate a future without Cas.

THEN

“So,” Dean started. “What do you think about our Big Bad, Cas?” He glanced at the angel in his passenger seat, who stared quietly out the window, watching the Singatse Mountain Range loom over them on the horizon. Castiel hummed his satisfaction and turned to the hunter.

“Did you know that I met the angel who created these hills?” Cas turned his intense azure eyes on Dean, disarming the man and sending calming waves of intent right through him. “Her name was Hael,” he continued softly. “Stationed in North America, she molded all the natural wonders of this region.” Castiel’s voice broke and he stopped talking to look down at his hands. “She wanted me to teach her how to be human. I think the Fall turned her mad or maybe she was already crazy,” he admitted. “I killed her.” 

Dean looked away from the road long enough to meet his friend’s eyes. “You did what you had to do, Cas. Don’t beat yourself up about it. If I’ve learned anything living this life, it’s that you can’t save everybody.” He looked back at the road. “No matter how hard you try.” 

Castiel, who had been God, who had traveled across space and time, to Heaven and Hell and everywhere in between, sighed a deep, sad noise and turned to look out the window. Dean wasn’t used to seeing Cas act so human. Dean supposed the new attitude wasn’t all bad. Sometimes Castiel actually laughed at his jokes and the pair shared a beer once in a while, often after a hunt, and cheeseburgers were often involved. When Castiel asked to stay and admitted he was slowly losing his powers, Dean let go of a breath he hadn’t even known he held. After the fuck ups, the fights, the lies and all the shit in between, they still had each other and Sam and a homebase at the bunker. Team Free Will, in the family business of saving people and hunting things. Dean ignored the weight in his gut that reminded him he wasn’t supposed to get the happy ending. Instead, he turned up the radio and grinned at Cas, who smiled a small, almost imperceptible, smile. Invisible to everyone but Dean.

***

Back in Black thrummed a consistent beat just under the hum of the Impala’s engine and Castiel looked over at Dean tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. The angel knew, although he seemed engrossed in the road and the task of driving, Dean was focused on solving the case using all his knowledge of the supernatural. The pair had spent most of the day interrogating locals about the murders of John Jones and Bruce Buchanan. They also found out that the two victims were not as innocent as they’d first appeared. After talking to friends and family, enemies and neighbors, they found the pair had a questionable history in the town, even though it was squeaky clean on paper. Both had been accused of violent crimes they’d been acquitted of, and, when Dean hacked into the military database, he discovered the Sheriff had omitted a dishonorable discharge on his job application at Yerington Police Department back in 2007. Jones had been kicked out of the armed forces for questionable behavior while in Iraq, getting beaten almost to death by a fellow soldier in his platoon after the man claimed to have found Jones pants down in an alley with a twelve year old girl, fucking her face. His companion, Bruce Buchanan, on the other hand, seemed to be squeaky clean, except for accusations from an estranged daughter. She lived two towns over, and slammed the door in Dean’s face when he knocked on it to ask about her father.

“That motherfucker got what he deserved,” she hissed, eyes burning with an old fire that made Castiel ache deep in his bones and flared up Dean’s protective instinct. “He can rot in hell, for all I care,” she snarled before kicking the door shut with her foot, giving no room for morose looks from Castiel or sweet talk from Dean. The only lead had been from Sam, who called from the library with the address of a local school run by two Paiute community leaders. Sisters.

“So,” Castiel began. “This ‘Big Bad,’ as you say. The theft of Wovoka’s bones points to a Shaman who plans to use the prophet’s parts for a spell. That explains the grave desecration but not the deaths. Perhaps the victims discovered the Shaman’s plan and were eliminated before they had the chance to report back to local authorities, or perhaps the murderer knew the victims and it was a crime of passion?” Cas supposed, breaking the silence.

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “But how are they connected?”

“That, I don’t know, Dean.”

Dean grunted and pushed the accelerator up to 85, frustration hanging over him like a cloud.

“Dean, you said we cannot save them all,” Cas said gently. “We help who we can and kill the monsters. The victims died before you even got to Nevada, and we don’t even know how the men were involved in the Shaman’s plans.” Cas turned and placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “We will stop this, Dean. No one else has to die.” Dean sighed and then Castiel felt a surge of calm emanate from his soul, and something else, something the angel did not recognize. Dean looked over at his friend and smiled weakly while shifting his body so that Castiel’s hand fell away from him. Castiel let his hand move back to the seat and smiled sadly at Dean. He merely wanted to help. Cas’ deep blue eyes filled with concern, and he dusted the sleeves of his secondhand suit that Dean helped pick out at a Goodwill before he left for Omaha, searching for the right words to express his unease.

“All this small talk isn’t helping, Cas,” Dean muttered, not looking at him. “Keep an eye out for a road marker or something.” Cas looked across empty desert and frowned into the windshield, wondering if Dean was angry with him. He wanted to ask, but instead sat silent, periodically glancing between the coordinates Sam had given them and the desolate, open space ahead. 

***

On the way to Wilson Canyon, which sat at the end of highway 208, only a few buildings spotted the land along the stretch of road. In this part of the country, malls and big buildings did not clutter the horizon. In fact, it seemed like a pretty nice place to live in, with ample diners, a lot of wide open space and plenty of liquor stores. When Dean admitted he wouldn’t mind settling down in a town like Yerington and he actually liked the desert, he didn’t miss the small movement of Castiel turning his head to smile out the window. That feeling returned, gnawing at the base of his spine, but he ignored it, choosing instead to strum the steering wheel and sing softly under his breath.

“Ridin' down the highway, goin' to a show

Stop in all the byways, playin' rock 'n' roll

Gettin' robbed, gettin' stoned, gettin' beat up

Broken boned, gettin' had, gettin' took

I tell you folks it's harder than it looks

It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock 'n' roll…”

“Dean.”

“It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock 'n' roll…”

“Dean, there are angel wards on those markers.” 

Dean rolled his eyes, song dying on his lips. “Of course there are. This must be the place, then,” he grumbled as he turned off the highway and parked the Impala on the side of the road. In front of them was a fence between the road and the wide open space and rocky hills of Wilson Canyon. No path existed, only dirt, rocks, and cacti. Through the land the pair were trying to cross, the Walker River. No way Dean could bring the Impala through this terrain.
 “We’re gonna have to leave Baby out here and hoof it. Fuck.” When Sam sent them in the direction of Wilson Canyon, Dean jumped at the chance to get out of the city and onto the back roads. Now, all he wanted to do was catch the bad guys and get back to the bunker. He had a bad feeling about the Enochian sigils and Dean Winchester always listened to his instincts.

“Cas, you cool?”

The angel nodded.

“Maybe we can just poke around and see what we see. What do you think about those angel wards? You think your brothers are involved?” 

“I’m not sure what it is,” Cas admitted quietly as he observed the horizon. “But the wards mean the Shaman has knowledge of Enochian symbolism.” Cas took a deep breath. “Angels may have visited this area before, but they are long gone. There is something here. Quite old. Perhaps divine, at one time.” Cas asserted. “According to the map, the compound is approximately one mile across the river. We need to start moving now.” Cas put his hand on the door handle. “Should we call Sam and ask him for backup?” 

“Nah. We are just scoping it out. He knows where we are. If we don’t check in, I’m sure he’ll come running,” Dean declared as he opened the door to the Impala and stepped out.

Dean gathered supplies of silver, holy water, salt rounds and his machete from the trunk of the Impala, and gazed into the horizon of wilderness. It didn’t look bad, but it didn’t look great, either. Dean supposed there were men with guns up ahead, but he was a man with a gun, too, so that didn’t worry him much. What worried him were the mountains. All the open space, unfamiliar land, seemed to throb with life. While most of Mason Valley in Nevada was lush and green between the two mountain ranges and two river systems, the area in front of Dean looked absolutely desolate. Years of water erosion, perhaps ancient flooding that the artist Hael herself had used, caused the rocks to jut out from the land in varying shapes and sizes. After dark, the territory would become home team advantage. No one seemed to be around, or watching them, but Dean moved warily just the same, hoping they weren’t walking into a trap. Castiel, of course, followed; unsheathing his angel blade from a plane Dean could not see and preparing himself for battle.

***

“Dean.” Almost a mile in and Castiel felt his power draining from him, until all that was left felt like a neverending ache.

“It is the sigils. I have lost access to what grace I had left.” The angel looked sideways at his friend, who shook his head, cursing under his breath.

“Can you still use the angel blade?”

“Of course.”

“Can you zap out a demon with your shiny hand thingy?”

“No.”

Dean paused. “We’ll be fine.”

Castiel squinted his eyes at Dean, unconvinced.

“Without my grace, I am powerless.”  

Dean huffed but did not answer and Castiel knew better than to continue protesting. If Dean believed they should remain on mission, Castiel would follow. He committed himself to the Winchesters when he healed Dean and stayed on Earth, even after the Fall. When the gates of Heaven reopened, the Host called upon Castiel for guidance. He knew Dean never expected him to refuse, but, as the grace Crowley infused him with began to dwindle, Castiel realized he wanted to stay. He would never again be the angel who travelled to the Pit for Dean. He was still a warrior, yes, but, each day, Castiel moved further away from Heaven. It was terrifying to have sacrificed so much and yet he understood it was because of the man Castiel believed Dean could be. The other angels could never comprehend the love and pain dictating the choices of humankind. For Cas, Dean represented the best of humanity. Moving forward through any obstacle, faithful and kind to those he cares for. Castiel supposed he fit somewhere into that category, and the idea made him want to be a better friend to both Winchesters. So he stayed. Castiel was not the leader the Host needed. When he chose to remain in his original post, protecting and observing the Earth and all of his Father’s creations, it felt like the right decision. He assisted Hannah on earth as well as he could, if only to remind her to be kind to their siblings, to remain nonjudgmental and allow them the freedom of choice. He spent the rest of his time, of course, fighting monsters with Dean and Sam Winchester even as his grace faded in and out like a radio station with a bad connection. What Crowley had stolen was precarious at best, but Dean and Sam assured Cas they needed him around, grace or not. As the pair crossed the river and neared the foot of the mountains, Castiel stopped. “According to Sam’s map, the school should be right through those rocks, at the edge of Wilson Canyon.”

“Then let’s stop and get the gear together.” Dean tossed his duffel on the ground and sat down on the nearest rock, pulling out the rifle and loading his pockets with extra salt rounds.

“Your brother mentioned you have been acting weird,” Castiel pronounced carefully as he sat down thigh to thigh with Dean, who stared down at the gun in his hands and did not answer. “We killed Abaddon. We will bring the traitor, Metatron, to justice. Thanks to Crowley, I have limited grace again. You and Sam are safe. What is it that troubles you?”

Dean sighed. Cas knew Dean had been making an effort to remain more open and honest with both him and Sam. After the angels healed Dean from the Mark of Cain, the hunter promised no more lies, no more secrets. Secrets just don’t mix well with Winchesters. Or, Cas amended silently to himself, adopted Winchesters, as Dean often called him.

“Look man, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Sam. When I am ready to talk about it, I will. I swear. It’s just...” He paused and looked up, right into Cas’ eyes.“Complicated.”

Castiel frowned. Complicated was not an answer, and the angel could see in Dean’s soul a hue of confusion and an unknown emotion...could it be fear? Castiel thought he knew what Dean’s fear looked like, and this seemed different. When Castiel looked directly at Dean Winchester’s soul, the colors which manifested clearly revealed the man’s feelings, even as he tried to hide them. Dean did not know that Castiel and other angels could visualize his aura. Even if Castiel knew how to articulate this very simple angel skill, Dean might take offense at such an “invasion of privacy”, as he would say. So, Castiel did not mention that he knew Dean was struggling with something that confused him, because, whatever that something might be, it did not seem to be affecting his judgment about the case.

Perhaps, if Castiel had not lost access to his wavering grace, or had not been so focused on the well being of Dean Winchester, he might have prevented what happened next. Unfortunately, the angel warding weakened Castiel enough that, when the tribesmen snuck up on them, nothing could have been done to escape the brutal blow to the head or the blackness that came with it.

Chapter Text

NOW

Sitting in his thinking spot, behind the wheel of Baby on a no-name highway, the sun peeks over the mountain range to the east and Dean lets his mind settle on Castiel and the guilt tastes like bile in his mouth. All the secrets about the Mark and his time with Crowley. All the drinking and the lies, even after Sam and Cas took him in. Hell, he can’t ever make that up. They both just let it go, and he doesn’t deserve to be forgiven so easily, because then he’s got to start thinking about what he wants. He’s spent so long pushing every feeling and desire down for the sake of the family business. When things start to even out and feel good, well, Dean has a habit of self-destructing. He wants to turn tail and run from this sliver of hope burning him from the inside out. Ever since Cas decided to stay, the desire for more thrums underneath Dean’s skin, a constant buzz that distracts him. Scares him. Cas never gives up on Dean, and Dean’s starting to count on that. On him.

The truth of it washes over him like a calming wave. Dean Winchester, with a normal-to-severe allergy to anything resembling commitment, is calmed by the realization. He dives right in, savoring the cool simplicity of it all. With Cas, he feels safe. The hunter stretches across the leather of the Impala to reach into the glove compartment. Behind the handgun, fake FBI badges and extra salt rounds is a picture. Bobby, Dean, Jo, Ellen, Sam and Cas. His family. Dean remembers finding the photo at Bobby’s on his trip to 2014 and shoving it in his pocket. In the 2014 filled with hungry Croatoan and Lucifer in a Sam-shaped meat suit, even that Cas had clipped his own wings for the future douche bag Dean. He remembers a broken Cas; the fallen angel looking for salvation in meaningless sex or at the bottom of a prescription pill bottle. Dean promised Cas he’d never let him get like that. He promised to be there for him, and goddammit, Dean Winchester keeps his promises.

“Bang a few gongs? Jesus, Cas,” Dean says out loud to the empty Impala. He smiles but feels tears well up in his eyes. No. He isn’t going to give in so easily. He and Cas don’t give up on each other. Nothing in Heaven, Hell or Purgatory can deny that. Cas makes Dean feel like a good man because Cas always chooses Dean, even if he doesn’t deserve it. God help him, Castiel makes him want to be selfish. Dean sighs, tucks the picture in front of the odometer and punches Baby up to 90. Dean isn’t sure how they’re gonna fix this. If they’ll save the day and gank the bad guys. This time, he doesn’t have a plan. Dean just knows he has to do right by Cas. Cas. Oh, God, Cas.

THEN

She stared at the creature, hand against his forehead. The dream fever caused sweat to form on the crease of his brow, his eyes working swiftly behind closed lids. If the woman closed her eyes, images bombarded her. Fighting. Brothers. The forest. Monsters. Blood. Death. Home. Him. The girl forced calm to surge within her, through her, all around her. She was told only to keep the creature sated, but he deserved so much more.

***

Castiel felt warm. He hadn’t felt warm since he had been human as Steve Rogers and Nora asked the staff to attend a group trek through the local woods to a waterfall. Castiel had enjoyed the final destination, but walking as a human turned into quite an uncomfortable affair. Castiel had not realized to what the extent the body’s muscles had the capacity to strain until that afternoon. He had also been very hot and thirsty. Nora gave him water, which led to a whole different type of uncomfortable affair. Castiel tentatively stretched out his legs and arms, rubbing his hands over his eyes to help him focus.

“Dean.” Castiel spoke softly. He did not want to alarm his captors, but he needed to find Dean. The angel peered into the darkness of the unknown space, attempting to identify his surroundings. It seemed he was inside some sort of building, most likely underground. There were weapons on the wall, but Castiel could not discern make or model. He seemed to be in some sort of bed and nearly naked. His assailant must have disrobed him and placed him in the bed after that painful hit on the head. Castiel sighed. If he had been unconscious, that meant he had lost his grace, more than he initially deduced.

“Dean.” Castiel spoke the name louder and sat up in the bed, his head pounding furiously at the sudden movement.

“Whoa, whoa there, Captain America.” Dean Winchester, dressed in a blue bathrobe tied tightly at his waist and white ankle socks, opened the door to the room. The man balanced two mismatched ceramic mugs in his free hand and held a newspaper under his arm. “No need to rush off anywhere,” he grinned over the steaming coffee as he flipped on the lights.

“Where are we? What happened to the witches? How did we get here?” Castiel stood up, his head swimming and causing him to double over in pain.

“Hey, hey,” Dean quickly set down the two cups on the bedside table and put his arm around Castiel. “We’re in the bunker. The hunt is over. We ganked the sons of bitches and came back here to celebrate. Don’t you remember last night at all, Cas?” Dean’s soul reverberated a hue of subtle disappointment that seemed genuine.

“I...I don’t understand. I was hit on the back of the head. My grace…”

“Cas, were you dreaming again? They’re not real, Cas, the dreams. You get used to them.” Dean reached out and carded his fingers through Castiel’s hair. The gentle movement caught Castiel by surprise and he leaned into the other man.

“You mighta hit your head, yeah, but you also drank half a bottle of tequila. Cas,” Dean frowned and rested his hand on the back of Castiel’s neck. “You know you haven’t had your mojo in a while, right, buddy?”  

Castiel furrowed his brow. Dean was not making sense. Just a moment ago, they had been in Hael’s wilderness, flanking the enemy, preparing for battle. When Castiel said so, Dean frowned, and the tint of fear in his soul caused the angel to waiver.

“Cas, Cas, buddy, it’s okay,” Dean spoke in soft soothing tones as he rubbed his hand up and down the other man’s back. “We’re home. We’re safe. I’m here,” and then Dean Winchester did something Castiel did not expect.

The kiss was anything but soft. Both Dean and the angel hadn’t shaved in at least two days, and the stubble caused a pleasant friction that made Cas moan into the other man’s mouth greedily. Dean seemed to know Castiel’s body as well as he knew his own, effortlessly coaxing a reaction from the angel. It terrified him how quickly his arms wrapped around Dean, hands snaking their way beneath blue bathrobe, desperate for the man’s skin. When Dean pulled away, he looked at Cas with dark, lust-blown eyes, his breath heavy and ragged, red lips glistening with spit. Castiel allowed his body to move as he had when he was human, instinctively. He shifted closer to Dean and kissed him hard, shoving a tongue inside his mouth, swirling it around, caressing teeth with teeth, as if he were trying to climb inside of Dean through this scorching, wet hole. Castiel remembered seeing Dean in the Gas’n’Sip that first time after they separated at the bunker, his heart pounding in his chest at the signature Dean Winchester smirk tossed in his direction, cock twitching every time the hunter’s fingers brushed over the ex-angel’s skin. It was excruciating because Castiel recognized that pooling heat in his belly as arousal and he felt conflicted by the very human response to sight of his best friend. He had no such qualms now. Castiel pushed the taller man back onto the bed, and Dean let out a low chuckle.

“Want another go?” Dean asked. He ran his hands down Castiel’s back, down to his ass and squeezed. Castiel keened at the touch, arching his back and grinding his hardening cock into Dean’s warm body.

“Yes, no, Dean, I...I don’t know. I am a little confused by all of this. I’m not even sure that this is real.” He breathed the words into the other man’s mouth, shakily, frightened that his confession would cause Dean to stop. Castiel did not want him to stop.

“Don’t worry, angel, I’m real.” Dean tucked his index fingers into the band of Castiel’s boxers, tugging gently. “And I’ve got you.” Dean started at Cas’ neck; nipping and biting, scraping his teeth against soft skin, hands carding through dark, messy hair. He moved his body so that they were lying on their sides facing each other and reached out to trace fingers down Cas’ side, from shoulder to hip bone, as he sucked a tiny bruise into the angel’s neck. Castiel shivered at the enormity of sensation coursing through his body. When he reached out to touch Dean, his skin felt like fire. Cas remembered his first encounter with the hunter. While angels fought all around them, Dean, the apprentice demon so skilled in hurting others, fought against Castiel, screaming all the filth he had learned in the depths of Alistair’s dungeons. The host wanted to give up; regroup and return later, but Castiel refused. He would never give up on Dean Winchester. The angel bore his hot tongue into Dean’s waiting mouth, moist with anticipation, hand firm on the back of his neck.

“Turn over, Cas,” Dean grunted and Castiel complied, moving onto his belly. “Don’t worry,” he reassured when Cas stiffened. “I’ll take it slow this morning.” The breath that Castiel had been holding released in a huff of nervous laughter but he physically relaxed when Dean leaned in to kiss his shoulder. “I know what you need,” Dean spoke, hot breath warming Castiel’s skin. He raised up on his knees and quickly straddled Cas, who lay on his belly, splayed out and naked. Dean groaned and shook his head, as if in wonder. “I’ve never seen you look more beautiful. You know I love you, right?” Dean affirmed and then bent down to place holy kisses on the lean skin below. Castiel sucked in a breath, at the touch or the words, neither could be sure.

“Dean, this is all too much,” Castiel’s spoke in a whisper. He did not want to stop, but he also knew that this could not be real.  “Please.”

Dean shrugged off his bathrobe, naked underneath. Castiel could feel the line of Dean’s half-hard dick against the crack of his ass, and he trembled underneath strong thighs.

“Gonna take care of you, baby,” Dean whispered into Cas’ ear and Cas could feel every inch of Dean Winchester on top of him. Then he started to move. Dean began grinding his naked body into Castiel, thrusting lazily, as if he had all the time in the world. Dean spit on his hand, reached underneath Cas and fisted the other man’s engorged cock, slowly pulling, and Castiel lost it at the touch. The angel began squirming face down in the mattress, clenching the already messy sheets in white-knuckled hands as he groaned his pleasure. Cas bucked into Dean’s moist, tight fist, breathing in deep airy sighs, muffled by the pillow under his face. To Cas, the feeling was like nothing he had ever experienced. Emotion coiled with lust, a hot fire burning at the base of his spine. He understood his love and devotion, even worship, of Dean. Angels were created to praise, but humankind--they were created to want. It seemed sinful for Castiel to feel such intense desire and he would almost be ashamed, if not for the reverence with which Dean Winchester whispered his name, over and over again, into his ear, like a prayer. Surely his heavenly Father would not deny Castiel the blessings of tender affection from such an astounding specimen of humankind?

“Feels so good, Cas. Never gonna let you go,” Dean mumbled as his movements became more erratic. Pre-come leaked out of Dean’s sensitive cock, lubricating Cas’ ass as Dean rubbed himself on top of the angel, expertly moving his hand up and down underneath both of them, working Castiel to the edge of orgasm. “Cas, Cas, Cas,” he repeated over and over again, in prayer to his angel.  When Castiel felt the warm burst of liquid fill in the space between his and Dean’s naked bodies, it was too much. White heat exploded through him and then Cas was coming, hoarsely crying Dean’s name. He turned Castiel’s face toward his and kissed him sloppily through wave after wave of pleasure, the bliss of orgasm shining around and through Dean’s soul.

“Please, Dean, please,” Castiel continued to move his mouth around the other man’s name, even after his vocal chords stopped working and no sound came out. In that moment, it almost did not matter if the angel and the hunter were real; if they were in heaven or hell. Castiel felt content and loved and it almost did not matter why or how.

***

“This is the bunker.”

“Obviously.”

Dean sat up in the bed next to Castiel,  his hands moving in calming circles on the angel’s back.

“And we were--” Castiel stopped. He did not want to upset his friend with misguided assumptions, but he had woken up in what seemed to be Dean’s room in the bunker, in Dean’s bed, half naked. Plus, they just had sex. This had to be some sort of trick. Perhaps Gabriel was not dead after all?

“We are together?” He finished.

“What the fuck, Cas? What is that supposed to mean?” Dean pulled his hand away and frowned at Castiel, who narrowed his eyes, tilted his head and peered at the other man.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I am just trying to understand all of this.” Castiel reached out to Dean, who groaned, rolled his eyes and shifted his body weight toward Castiel.

“Well, shit, Cas. Since when are you questioning us?” Dean waved his hands between the pair, and Castiel could see the hurt in Dean’s eyes and in the color of his soul. “When we got together, we promised no more lies, no more secrets. What is going on with you, man?” Dean gazed at Cas and the angel knew he should wait to explain to Dean what had happened at the Reservation, but he could not lie to this man sitting in front of him looking absolutely gorgeous and open and perfectly content with him.

“I think I am from an alternate universe,” Castiel blurted out. The angel looked down and spoke at his hands, which he crossed and lay in his lap. “I went to sleep, well, I was actually rendered unconscious by a Shaman on a Native-American reservation. Or,” Castiel continued to speak, as it seemed Dean was at a loss for words, “an apprentice to the Shaman, who must have transported me here or put me into some sort of a trance to keep me docile even though I do not think I have much of my grace left,” he stuttered. “They seem to be knowledgeable in Enochian symbology. Most likely, this world is created through a subconscious fantasy so I will not question or struggle.” Castiel stopped. He looked up at Dean, who sat silent, thigh pressing gently against Castiel’s, naked and warm. “Dean.” Dean clenched his teeth together, jaw working furiously underneath ginger-tinted scruff. “I am not your Cas.” Dean closed his eyes at that, turning his head away from Cas to stare at the picture of Mary Winchester on top of the dresser across the room. Castiel could see in Dean the dim colors of desire, confusion, need. So many times, Castiel kept secrets. Made the wrong decisions. Even if this wasn’t his Dean, Castiel did not want to hurt him. The angel spoke a silent prayer to his own hunter so far away; I will come back to you, somehow.  

Dean let out a low sigh. “I’m gonna have to test you.”

“I would expect nothing less from a seasoned hunter like you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean reached across the bed and pulled a bottle of holy water, a silver blade and a long, iron nail out of the dresser drawer. Gently, Dean dragged the silver blade across Castiel’s arm, raising blood but not much else. Next, he sprinkled holy water on Castiel’s head. Castiel did not flinch, he just looked at Dean and opened his hands.

“Give me the iron.”

Dean handed Castiel the iron nail and when nothing happened, Dean let out a sigh of relief, grabbed the gear and returned it to the bedside table. He settled back next to Castiel, and stared straight ahead.

“Whadaya need me to do?” he asked without looking at the angel. Of course Dean felt betrayed. His soul burned with it. Castiel knew that in this universe or fantasy or whatever it was, Dean Winchester was in love with a grace-less angel and the angel, apparently, loved the hunter right back. This man was missing the Castiel who fucked his boyfriend after a vigorous hunt and drank tequila until his head ached.

“Dean.” Castiel lifted his hand to touch the other man’s face. He pulled on the his chin, tugging gently until they faced one another. “I’ve loved you since the moment I gripped you tight in Perdition with an army of angels behind me, following my every order to lay waste to the demons of Hell so that I might save the Righteous Man.” Dean smiled, perfectly symmetrical wrinkles at the corner of his eyes crinkling in silent amusement. Castiel felt his chest lurch inside him. All he had gained in such a short time. So much that he had never even hoped was possible.  

“You said almost the same thing to me right before the first time we kissed,” Dean spoke softly. “Always been such a smooth little fucker.” Dean chuckled darkly and Castiel smiled a small, almost imperceptible, smile. Invisible to everyone but Dean.  

“We’ve never,” Castiel faltered, the words for what had occurred between them earlier nearly impossible to articulate. “Where I come from, we’ve never been intimate before, Dean. But,” Castiel stopped. He was sitting naked on his best friend’s bed, sticky and sweaty, with bodily fluids drying on his skin. Castiel’s smile deepened. “I enjoyed our time together very much.”

“So, where’s my Cas, then?” Dean pulled back and looked at the angel sitting naked next to him. “And why the fuck did you fuck me, you perv?” Dean smiled and punched Castiel’s leg, but then rubbed the spot gently and sobered. “Is he okay?”

“I think your Cas must be suspended in space and time,” Castiel paused. “Or you are a figment of my imagination. Which is actually a more likely scenario as space and time are difficult elements to master.” Castiel and Dean locked eyes. Castiel knew that he had to be under some sort of spell, perhaps not unlike the sleep created with Djinn venom. But much more potent. Able to affect angel grace, which meant an Enochian based spell. Castiel shuddered at the idea of a Paiute Shaman with a lust for vengeance and access to Enochian symbology. “I will need your help to get back to my own reality,” Castiel paused. “And bring your Cas back to you, Dean.” Dean turned to face Castiel, and the angel became felt very aware of his nakedness. Such a vulnerable state would usually make him uncomfortable, but next to Dean Winchester, the angel felt safe. Content. For Castiel to be confronted with this unspoken desire--for a romantic relationship with Dean Winchester to be thrust upon him so abruptly was disconcerting but also felt like coming home. The only home Castiel had ever known was heaven, so the moment felt important. The angel focused on the man beside him. This Dean--who gave help indiscriminately, who openly confessed his adoration and passionately expressed it--he made Castiel ache with a need the angel had never before known. The Dean in Castiel’s reality had spent so many years suppressing emotion for fear of rejection--from his father, his brother, God--and Castiel felt a swell of pride lurch up within him. An apparently grace-less angel and his emotionally stunted hunter had stumbled upon something that brought them true joy: each other.

“Okay then, Cas. Looks like we’ve got work to do.”

“But...Dean.”

“First, a shower.” Dean smirked and continued on. “Then, we tell Sam. He can start by researching these Paiute Shaman and any possible connection between the women and Enochian symbolism. You and I will have to get on the road. I’m thinking a reverse summoning spell might be the ticket to getting your ass back to Kansas but we should be probably on the Paiute holy ground if we want it to work.” Dean was all business, now. Even naked, he had the authority of a career military man, barking orders in such a way that Castiel, the warrior, felt compelled to oblige.  

“But...Dean.”

The hunter stopped talking and stood up, nude except for his white socks. He lazily bent over and picked up his blue bathrobe and tied it loosely around his waist. Cas knew Dean had gone “dark side”, as he called it, because of the Mark of Cain--and it seemed to be the case in both worlds. Castiel could still see the fading scar on Dean’s arm where the emblem had been eradicated. Before Hannah and her followers helped Castiel healed Dean from the Mark of Cain, the hunter had weaved a web of lies and deceit so intricate, he had almost lost all of his humanity. This Dean--this emotionally-healed Dean--had many scars, and Castiel did not want to give him any new ones. This was going to hurt both of them, but Dean seemed prepared to face it head on. Castiel did not feel as confident.

“What am I supposed to do?” Castiel shifted away from the wet spot on the bed he had shared with the hunter, feeling uncomfortable with his willingness to lay bare his most secret fears and desires with an illusory version of the man he had spent the last 6 years falling desperately in love with.

“How can I go back to him and pretend that this never happened?” Cas’ face crumpled from the pain of a rejection Dean’s other self hadn’t even given yet.  “He will never want me.” Castiel looked at Dean, their eyes meeting. Dean’s shone with tears but he smiled through them.
“Oh, Cas,” Dean sighed and stood up. “He already does. What do you think all the booze is about? The stupid jokes? The awkward silences?” Dean opened the door and stepped out of the room, his blue housecoat tied firmly around his waist. When he returned, it was with a warm, moist towel. He sat on the floor at Castiel’s feet and began wiping away at the sweat and dried come, gently scrubbing one inner thigh and then the other. Dean moved the cloth up toward Cas’ belly, and the angel felt his body’s physical reaction building slowly, warming his skin and making his heart thump hard in his chest.

“The idiot loves you and he doesn’t know what the hell to do about it,” Dean paused in his sacrament and looked up with eyes like a dark forest, full of mystery and knowledge and loss. “Cas, I’ve needed you for a long time. This isn’t new. It just took losing everything for me to figure it out. Don’t make me wait that long.” Dean resumed his worship of Castiel with the wash rag, moving the cool cloth across the messiest spots on his chest and then across Castiel’s flaccid penis, which twitched in acknowledgement. Dean grinned and stood to his feet.

“Use that line about Perdition and laying waste to the armies of Hell. Works every time,” Dean tossed the used towel into a laundry basket. “I’m gonna take a shower. You, uh, wanna join me?” He offered his hand to Castiel, who took it and let himself be drawn off the bed.

“Without feeling too traitorous to my Dean, I must say, I do like this version of you,” Castiel’s eyes sparkled and Dean huffed gentle laughter, pulling him to the steaming shower, built large enough for two.

***

“So, you’re telling me that either we are all parts of Cas’ subconscious and he’s in a djinn-like sleep state brought on by some Shaman’s Enochian spell or he’s taken the place of the Cas we know and that guy is floating around somewhere in the ether, suspended between space and time?” Sam articulated the facts, as always, with such precision and clarity, that it irritated his brother.

“Yeah, Bill Nye, you got it.”

“Dean,” Cas began.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, ease up,” Dean grinned and put his arm up on the couch across the area he was sitting, but not around Cas. It was a subtle movement, but Sam noticed and shook his head.

“Oh, come on.” Sam frowned, giving Dean bitchface #56, in which he judges Dean for sleeping with the Cas from an alternate reality.

“He’s not even your real boyfriend, Dean.”

Dean looked evenly at his brother.

“He’s always my angel, dude.”

“Ugh, you guys are gross,” Sam grumbled and pressed his nose back into the laptop on the table in front of him. Dean smiled and slid his hand off the couch and onto Cas’ shoulder, pulling the other man closer to him. Cas tensed, initially, until Dean turned his head and leaned into him, whispering so that Sam could not hear. The younger Winchester rolled his eyes and turned to frown into the screen. He continued typing phrases into the search engine, opening window after window on his Mac and mumbling under his breath. “Fucking dick angels. Fucking witches. If this reality isn’t real, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Chapter Text

NOW

It is just after dawn when Dean pulls up to the Starlight Motel for the second time that night. The parking lot is vacant except for a Ford Country Squire station wagon that belongs to the owner and Sammy’s veggie car, parked in the corner. Dean puffs out a sigh of relief. At least now his brother’s car is here, but Sam’s room looks dark and empty. Dean knows he can hunt alone, but it’s always easier with Sam. The Nevada air feels like syrup on Dean’s skin. Crossing the river only made him dirtier. Dust clings to his jawline and Dean understands what he must have look liked to that bartender.

When he gets to the door, Sam doesn’t answer. When Dean picks the lock and slides in, the room looks slept in, but empty. Dean wants to cry or scream or drink. Instead, he sits on Sam’s unmade bed and puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t even realize he is lying down until the darkness envelops him.

When Sam returns from his run an hour later, he finds his brother asleep on the bed, fully clothed, unshaven and dirty.

“Dean.” Sam considers blasting rock music to wake him, since it’s what Dean would do, but instead sits down on the corner of the bed and gently touches his brother’s shoulder. “Dean, wake up. Where’ve you been? I’ve been calling you. What the fuck is going on?”

Dean opens his eyes slowly, unsure of his surroundings. He remembers the day with a start, and sits up, rubbing a hand over his face and looking at his brother. Dean feels grimy and unclean, the metallic taste of blood still in his mouth right beneath the taste of whiskey.

“How long have I been gone?” Dean asks, his jaw working furiously.

“You left at noon yesterday, Monday.” He pauses. “It’s just past six, Tuesday morning, Dean.” Sam makes bitchface #47, in which he is simultaneously scared for and pissed at his brother.

The elder Winchester looks up at Sam, his green eyes shining with unshed tears.  

“It’s Cas. He’s dead, Sammy.”

Sam sucks in a breath.

“Shit, Dean. What happened? Are you okay?” his voice is shakey, and Dean isn’t surprised to see Sam’s eyes go glossy and red, but he doesn’t cry. Instead, Sam pulls the him close and then Dean Winchester is enveloped by his little brother’s massive arms, and he loses it. Sam is quiet, letting his brother weep for Cas while he strategizes deals and spells and ways they might resurrect the angel one more time. Dean shakes in his arms but Sam only looks through a crack in the curtains out the first story window, into the lot outside until Dean stops convulsing. He smells like whiskey, but Sam doesn’t say anything except, “Where is he?”

“I paid for a room. Stashed his body next door. You weren't here then, either, so I left. Got a drink.” Dean sits up and sniffles, and tries to laugh at himself, but to Sam, the smile looks broken and the laugh, rueful and sad. “He died. In my fucking arms. We were almost to the Impala and--” Dean’s voice breaks and he stops. Sam frowns but does not speak. He puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and simply waits for his brother to continue.

“As soon as we crossed the angel wards, he started coughing up blood and convulsing, and then…” Dean stops, wincing in physical pain, tears falling, unbidden. He rubs his hand over his chin, his teeth clenching.

“His body’s in the tub, for chrissakes. There’s gotta be a spell or summoning or something we can do, Sammy. I can’t…”

“I know.”

“Those motherfucking Shaman did something to his blood,” Dean growls, wiping his eyes and looking directly at his brother. “They called what killed him a blood bond with one of the sisters and the wards outside affected his grace. I think crossing the wards on the property line broke the bond. Maybe if we take his body back,” Dean trails off. The hunter is not sure there is anything they can do. Or even if they should. He quiets and stares at his hands. Dean knows he sounds desperate but he can’t find it in him to care.

“So, you finally figured it out with Cas, then, huh?”

Dean doesn’t look up, just nods miserably at the floor.

“We were almost there,” Dean says. “To the Impala. I never got the chance....”

Sam stares at his the back of his brother, shaking with emotion, and tears began to well up in his own eyes. It’s not fair. He’s wondered now for years if his emotionally-stunted big brother might ever be able to find companionship in the unique relationship he obviously shares with Castiel. The angel’s made mistakes, but he cares about Dean and he has become a real friend to Sam. Hell, Cas is part of the family and has been for a long time. And now, finally, they figure it out and, well, one of them has to go and fucking die.  

“First we start with Wovoka and, what did you say about angel wards?” Sam asks. He stands, disentangling himself from Dean, who huffs self-consciously.

“What, you done cuddling with me?” Dean asks, smirking. Sam rolls his eyes and then watches as Dean reaches into his pocket and dumps out onto the bed 4 small bones.

“Sammy, meet Wovoka.”

"Huh." Sam shakes his head. "What else do you know about these Shaman?”

“Well, they are sisters named Nina and Winona Blood. Both a little off, but I fucking hate witches, anyhow. Definitely had a vendetta out for the two vics, even though the guys turned out to be douche bags and probably deserved it. The younger sister let me escape. She seemed to be connected to Cas in some way. The older one is who we have to watch out for,” Dean says, walking to the sink and mirror to wash his face. “She won’t go down easy.” 

His bones ache, and they have to get on the road, but first, research. The murders just show how far the sisters are willing to go. The Shaman are still out there and Dean knows that Cas wouldn’t want them running into the compound without a plan, when the Shaman have already killed to accomplish their goals. It makes Dean ache to think of what Cas would want. Cas didn’t want to die. Not as a human, taken down by a couple of small town witches. He does know Cas would want them to take care of business before they mourn. He would want them to finish the job. Dean sits down at the small, round table under the window and turns on his tablet. Sam takes the cue and grabs his laptop from the side of the bed.

“I met a woman at the library yesterday, Dean, who might be able to help us. She seemed to know a lot about the Wovoka and the local tribe. I’m supposed to meet her at seven for breakfast at a diner down Highway near the Walker River.” Sam looks down at his hands. “I tried to call you a few times when I got back last night, but, well...I ended up falling asleep and then went for a run this morning before I called back because I figured, I dunno, you were with Cas and maybe you might wanna have some time to, er, talk and...” Sam trails off as he looks up at Dean. Dean stares at the wall. At anywhere but Sam.

“Some time to do what?” Dean snaps at his brother, and then sighs. “Look, can we just focus on the case?” Dean says as his tablet flashes to life. “And we were walkin’ into a goddamn trap, Sam, we weren’t playin’ tonsil hockey.”

“He was my friend, too, Dean.”

“He’s more than a friend to me.”

Sam winces, but doesn’t say anything as he plugs the names into his search engine and 30 seconds later, has the address and arrest record of one Winona June Blood, 32, sister of Nina Rae Blood, 27, both currently considered unofficial local tribe Shaman. It seems when she was 20, Nina accused the two vics of rape. One was a cop. The case never went to trial and Nina turned to drugs and prostitution until she found religion a couple of years ago. The Blood sisters took over the reservation elementary school back in August of last year and, apparently, started digging up dead guys and trying to recreate the apocalypse. Sam tells this to Dean, who does not react, except to say,

“They want to level the town, Sam.” Dean runs a hand up his face and through his hair. “It’s a time for settling scores, she said. Whatever that means.”

Fucking witches.

THEN

Dean felt the cold earth underneath him as he slowly came to. He didn’t want to let his captor know he was awake. Not yet. First, he needed to assess the situation. He lay on his side with his wrists tied behind his back, bound with rope. He felt tape over his mouth and his ankles seemed to be bound together, as well. Fuck. He still had his boots on, which was a good thing, but he couldn’t feel the cold metal of his machete tucked against bare skin, down the back of his pants, and he figured that meant his guns were gone, too. Double fuck. Dean peaked through his eyelashes and saw a woman sitting at a desk in the opposite side of an otherwise empty room. Where the hell was Cas? While the woman had her back to him, Dean stretched his legs out as far as they could go and proceeded to knock his feet right into a fucking tin bucket that sat in front of him. So much for being quiet.

The woman looked over at the sound, stood up and stalked to him, grabbing roughly at the silver duct tape and yanking it off his face in one calculated movement.  

“Shit!” Dean hissed, blood from his nose running over the raw skin, into his mouth. “Lady, this is not how you get a guy to dance with you,” Dean groaned as he straightened up, feet sticking awkwardly out in front of him, arms tight and uncomfortable behind his back, his head pounding.

“It is unfortunate things ended up this way for you and your friend, but so close to our goal, we cannot take any chances. I must protect my family, Mr. Winchester. You understand that, don’t you?”

Dean snapped his head up to look at the woman. She towered over him, almost as tall as Sam, dressed in a white cotton frock that touched the floor, Dean noticed stains of red on her sleeves and grimaced inwardly.

“Where is he?”

The woman kneeled down in front of Dean, dress billowing out around her. She put her hand on his shoulder and he flinched away from the touch. She did not acknowledge his actions, only looked directly into his eyes. Hers were dark and cold.  

“That man cares about you very much. I am sorry to take from you that which you have never even known.”

Dean flinched.

She paused, a smile creeping onto her otherwise unreadable face. She spoke in a reverent whisper.

“But he is no man, is he, Dean? He is an angel. I never thought I would see one. Grandfather spoke of them, but I never thought one would manifest, not after the Prophet’s death. Your friend is a sign that the apocalypse is upon us. He gives me hope that we can eradicate this town for the Paiute and start over.”  

“Newsflash. We’re the guys who stopped the first apocalypse, lady. And we can do it again. Now, where the fuck is he, you crazy bitch?” he growled, straining against the knots on his wrists and the ache in his skull. The woman shook her head and stood. Dean didn’t know how the hell she knew so much about him and Cas. He needed to get out of this room and find his friend. “Lady,” Dean said evenly. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“My name is Winona Blood,” she revealed, dusting off the dirt clinging to the thick cotton dress and walked to the door. She opened it and Dean could see that it was dark outside. Light from the full moon shone faintly orange through the cracks in the rafters, and Dean realized he and Cas must have been separated for at least six hours, for the moon to be so high in the sky.

“And it seems, Mr. Winchester, we are already dancing.” She pulled the door shut behind her, as Dean yelled obscenities at the dark, empty room.

***

In a small building on the banks of the West Walker River, Castiel slept. Unbeknownst to the angel, his hands and feet were bound, and he lay on a mattress in an old, abandoned classroom. He had not yet regained consciousness, so he felt no pain when Winona sliced into his wrist for the blood. In fact, although strength slowly seeped from the vessel he had long claimed as his own, Castiel lay motionless, eyes moving swiftly behind lids, quiet and content.

“The angel dreams of the other one,” Nina murmured, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She sat, rifle in hand, outside of the room which held Castiel. Winona stood in the doorway, back to the angel, and watched her younger sister, Nina, reach above her head and stretch into the dark ether of night.

“The ghosts of our ancestors are smiling on us, Nina. We were meant to find him,” Winona spoke quietly. Even though she knew the angel would not rise at the sound of her voice, she could not bring herself to speak at full volume near the creature. He vibrated with a powerful energy. Regardless if Grandfather’s symbols had weakened him, the creature was not to be discounted.

“Grandfather spoke with the angels. He warded our land against those who would seek to undo the Prophet’s original design.” Winona turned to look at Castiel. His head lolled onto his shoulder, wrapped in gauze from the earlier blow while his hair clung to the sweat on his forehead. The dream fever warmed the body to scorching temperatures, and so his shirt was off and the door propped open, to cool his skin.

“The angel should not die here, sister,” Nina said suddenly, eyes shining with renewed fear. Winona recognized that haunted look, after years of seeing it behind her sister’s eyes, but it was something she never got used to.

“He will not die. We need him alive,” Winona explained. She reached out, sleeve bloody but hand clean, and stroked her sister’s long, black hair.

“Grandfather would not like it. We are healers. In that one’s world, he and his friends are hunters of evil. If we kill him, we become the evil they search out and destroy,” Nina too spoke in a whisper. “He believes we are witches,” Nina finished and stood to move inside. She pulled her chair behind her silently. She placed it close to him and sat down, carefully reaching out to check the bandages around his head and on his wrist. Winona grimaced at the thought that her sister might be losing focus.

“Nina, we are lovers of the land and women of the great Paiute legacy. Grandfather sacrificed everything for this family. He gave us his death to bring life to our people. He believed the angel blood would bring us power and, eventually, peace.” Winona placed a hand on Nina's shoulder. The tribe needed leadership, commitment and justice, all things Winona wanted to give. The Paiute did not thrive in Yerington. They barely survived. If they were to build the tribe back to what it once had been, sacrifices needed to be made. Nina needed to be made to understand. “Only when the new moon rises, after the darkest part of the night is over, will the light truly shine.” She paused and watched the hairs on her sister’s arm stand straight up under the goosebumps that had risen. Winona hoped Nina could understand the importance of the continuing with the plan. “We will not be using grandfather’s bones in the ceremony. We have the angel blood now, we do not need bones.” Winona’s voice was firm and gruff. “Do you not want retribution for what has been done to our ancestors on this land for hundreds of years? Did you not want vengeance for the horrors done to you by those men?” Nina remained silent and Winona sighed, removing her hand from her sister. “No harm will come to him here. We do not take enough blood to kill him, only for our purposes.” She stopped and gazed out into the darkness. The moon hid, a coy mistress of the dark, night clouds. “The angel cannot return through the warding until the spell is complete. If he tries to escape before the we dance, the blood bond will kill him.” Winona turned on her heels and exited the room, the white cotton frock billowing behind her, dragging in the dust below. The door slammed shut and Nina looked at Castiel. He mumbled, “Dean”, but Nina could not be sure, with his voice already vibrating in her head.

***

While Nina dozed, her dreams belonged to Castiel. Thoughts of peace and home, grace and Dean ran through her mind. Although Winona drained his blood, it was the younger sister who spoke the angelic words of Grandfather’s spell. Her spirit sought out the creature's and entered his consciousness through weakened grace. Nina’s soul soothed Castiel into the fevered state of the shared dream, and so the younger Shaman explored his memories, which were filled with images of Heaven and Hell, hunters and demons. And, of course, Dean Winchester, who touched so many of the creature’s recollections. From the moment Castiel volunteered to travel to Hell, begging his Father to let him save the Righteous Man, to the Thursday afternoon the angels healed an almost-demon of his Mark, Dean remained an integral part of Cas’ existence. Castiel cherished mornings in the bunker spent watching Star Trek and eating pancakes with the Winchester brothers as much as he valued fighting the forces of evil with all the fury of the heavenly Host, with the Winchesters at his side. Nina felt his struggles with faith and selfishness, self-worth and sanity. She saw his attachment to Dean and all the sweat, blood and tears the pair shed together and for each other. And so she sent his mind to a place where he and Dean could have everything they both ever wanted but never had the sense to ask for.

Even as she slept, the younger sister prayed that Wovoka might use her to guide the endeavors of the tribe. Winona promised to make those men pay, and they had died with Nina’s name on their lips. For as long as Nina lived, she would not regret cursing her rapists with the dream sickness. They took everything from her, and deserved to die. It was Winona who wanted to bury the town, though, and Nina would do anything for her sister. The thought of condemning innocents terrified Nina, but she had continued to hope, along with her strength and Wovoka’s benevolence, they might come to another solution. Unfortunately, they had.

When Castiel stepped across the angel wards, the entire valley began to vibrate with energy. At first, Winona thought, it was because she brought the materials for Grandfather’s spell together for the first time. Her sister claimed that the gods moved the mountains in celebration of this small victory. She had danced and whooped with joy, until one of the tribesmen reported two men crossing the river.

It had been the presence of an angel that caused the earth to move.

It would have been better if Castiel had never come to the Walker River, Nina thought, as she shifted in the chair beneath her, echoes of the creature’s subconscious rattling around inside her head. Winona swore for many years that angels did not exist. No person alive had ever witnessed the phenomenon, and the stories died along with Grandfather. Castiel had been a gift, Winona swore, as they dragged the unconscious bodies of the two men to the compound. They would not waste Grandfather’s precious offering. Nina shivered. In such proximity to the angel, she should have been able to feel his body heat, elevated because of the dream fever spell. Adversely, the air around Castiel felt like ice. In the light of the moon, Nina watched as the hairs on her uncovered arms began to stand at attention, goose bumps running up to her shoulder, where Winona had touched her earlier. Nina felt the cold seep into her bones. The black mountains that surrounded her seemed unnaturally still, and Nina couldn’t help the fleeting hope that somehow, Wovoka might save her family from the evils of the world. She also could not help but shudder to think that she and her sister might just be the evil the Paiute needed saving from.

Chapter Text

NOW

Dean and Sam arrive at the diner on Highway 208 to meet Leah Stone, the woman from the library, at 6:45am. Dean immediately orders bacon, eggs, a piece of hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream and, “can you bring that first, ma’am?” all green eyes and grins. Sam, on the other hand, orders a bowl of granola and a side of fruit, with orange juice.

“What?” Dean asks Sam as he stuffs a large bite of warm pie into his mouth, moaning around it.  “I eat when I’m stressed, Sammy, you know that.”

Sam swallows a smart-ass retort and the urge to roll his eyes at his brother, because he actually does know that Dean eats when he’s stressed and also, making fun of one’s brother after he loses his almost-but-not-really angel boyfriend doesn’t seem right.

“Agent Durden.” A tall, thirtysomething Native woman with short, dark hair slides into the booth next to Sam before Dean can so much as get his hand on his gun.

“The pie obviously distracted you,” Sam teases Dean before the woman slides into the booth next to him. He clears his throat. “Miss Stone, thank you so much for meeting me. This is my partner, Agent Paulson,” he says.

The woman smirks. “Look, I shouldn’t even ask. I mean, the first rule of Fight Club…” she trails off.

Sam rubs a hand over his face and blushes. Dean just kicks his brother underneath the table and continues eating his pie as he mumbles, “Good one, Agent.”

The woman grins at Dean and grabs at a blueberry off of Sam’s fruit bowl, popping it in her mouth before she continues.

“Your partner and I spent almost six hours at the library yesterday, researching. Tyler sought me out in the Department of Native Studies at Western Nevada College and convinced me to help him find information on the local Paiute land and a possible connection to the murders of that cop Jones, and his buddy, Bruce Buchanan.”

The woman opens a tan folder on the diner table filled with photocopied images from textbooks and pictures of the Paiute Reservation on the Walker River. She raises an eyebrow at Sam as she slides the file over to the taller man. He looks up a Dean, sheepish under long, brown hair. His brother shrugs, stuffs a bite of pie into his mouth and Sam takes a deep breath.

“Look, the truth is, my name is Sam Winchester and this is my brother, Dean. He and his partner, I mean, our friend,” Sam stumbles over the words but continues on. “He and our friend, Castiel, visited the compound yesterday to investigate the murders of those two men. When they got there, they were attacked.” He chooses his words carefully, waiting for Dean to fill in the blanks. The elder Winchester stares long and hard at Leah, then moves his head to the middle of the table. He beckons her to do the same. When their foreheads are almost touching, Dean begins.

“I don’t have time to bullshit you. We need your help, because you know what? The monsters your parents always promised weren’t hiding under the bed, well they’re real. Witches, vampires, ghosts, werewolves, you name it, we’ve killed it. My friend Castiel, he’s an angel and the Shaman from the reservation kidnapped him and killed him for his grace. We need to figure out how to stop the Blood sisters from destroying Yerington, bringing about a second Apocalypse--yes I said second--and, if possible, we’re going to resurrect Cas from the dead, again, so that I can ask him to be my angel boyfriend.” Dean leans back into the bench seat. “We’re the Winchesters, sweetheart. Monsters hide under the bed from us,” he finishes as he scrapes the last bites of ice cream and pie off his plate. Sam looks at his brother, jaw slack and eyes wide. He can’t believe it. Dean shrugs at him, a mirthless grin tugging at the side of his mouth. It’s only then Sam recovers, slamming his jaw back in place and glancing to check on Leah, who sits stock still, eyes glued to Dean’s as she takes slow, shallow breaths through her nose.

“So you’re telling me,” she starts. “You’re telling me that monsters are real? That those stories about ghosts, goblins, fairies…”

“I fucking hate fairies,” Dean grumbles.

“Are all true?” she finishes, breathless.

“I’m sorry I lied, Leah, but I didn’t want to scare you. I promise, we’re the good guys.” Sam flashes the patented puppy dog eyes at her and places a hand over Leah’s on the table, seeking out any sign of fear or apprehension. He sees none. In fact, she visibly relaxes and she begins to shake her head in disbelief, a smile forming on her lips.

“I knew ghosts were real! I’ve been studying tribal possession and Wovoka’s translations for years. Your Shaman practices the same ancient magic as Grandfather Wovoka,” Leah absently thumbs open the file folder on the table. “As I told you yesterday, the Blood sisters are powerful and not to be taken lightly, but I never thought they would kill anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah, you told Sam. Now, how the hell can we stop these witches?”

“Well, taking into consideration that every mythological thing I’ve ever studied is probably historically factual, we are going to need some powerful magic to counteract this so-called apocalypse you say the Shaman want to start.”

“Dean got away with Wovoka’s bones. Will that help?”

Leah looks at Dean, impressed.

“Yeah, that’ll help.” Leah shuffles through the papers in her file until she comes across the one she is looking for. She pulls out a single slip of paper and hands it to Sam. “I found this in a Paiute worship book in my own, personal collection. Last night was a full moon and tonight is a very rare lunar eclipse."

“The Blood Moon,” Sam says, finally understanding. “Why didn’t I think of that?”  Sam looks at the photocopied sheet, brow furrowed. He hands the paper to Dean, who mumbles under his breath the long list of elements and a jumble of ancient words necessary to harness the powerful spirit of the Shaman, Wovoka.

“Some of this is Enochian.”

Sam lets out a low whistle. “Shit.”

“Wovoka was a man of harmony,” Leah begins. “It is written that his spirit will guide the Paiute to a perfect peace. The ingredients of the spell call for the sacrifice of an angel to bring purity to the land.” She shakes her head, amazed. “Grandfather swore he talked to angels, and it seems he was telling the truth. Tonight, the lunar cycle is at its most powerful. Taking your friend’s essence…”

“His grace,” Dean interrupts.

“Taking his grace and blood was only the first part of the spell. They need to complete the ritual at midnight, when the sun shadows the moon and turns the sky red. It is then that the blood moon will wash away the impurities of the land, the text says. Only Wovoka can counteract this ritual. If we have his bones, we may be able to channel his energy to break the power of the sacred moon.”

Dean sits up straight, alert.

“You’re the expert in Native American studies,” he admits as he signals the waitress for another cup of coffee. And maybe another slice of pie. “Do you think it can counteract the spell?”

What Dean doesn’t ask is if it can bring Cas back.

“I honestly don’t know,” Leah admits. “But it’s probably our best bet. I’ve never done anything like this before. Have you?”

As the waitress sets in front of Dean his bacon and egg, the Winchester brothers look at each other and burst into uneasy laughter. When she leaves, Dean looks at Leah and deadpans, “I think we can figure it out. We can’t let the Blood sisters get one over on the Winchesters, can we?” Dean half-smiles at his brother over his food, at which Leah sniffs, shakes her head and snatches a slice of bacon off Dean’s plate. With Sam’s fork, no less.

THEN

As soon as the witch left the room, Dean began to move his bound hands slowly down his backside, past his ass, behind his knees, to his calves. He heard his shoulders pop from the unnatural angle, but continued walking his fingers down his ankles to the steel-toed boots he wore on his feet. Reaching his fingers into black, wool socks, he hissed a sigh of relief when he felt the small gambler’s dagger tucked into his left shoe.

They never looked in the boot.

Dean wiggled his feet first, through the space between his arms and chest, then his knees, cradling the blade gently in his palm. Last thing he needed was to chop off a finger before he could get to Cas. With his arms in front of him, Dean began moving the sharp metal against rope, swift and accurate. When it fell away, the hunter quickly began sawing at the rope around his ankles, never looking away from the door. When his appendages were free, Dean stood and surveyed the room. He was in the reservation school house. Or, rather, a sort of module classroom. He stuck his ear against the aluminum door. Nothing. Dean took a deep breath and opened the door, defensive stance ready. A lone guard stood watch outside his door, seated and staring into the desert.

“Hasta la vista, baby.”

The man looked up, startled. Dean grabbed him by the throat, hooking one arm into his, and squeezed.

“Where’s my partner?”

The man dropped his gun and Dean kicked it up into his hand while never letting go of his grip on the stranger’s soft, warm throat. He was just a kid, no more than Kevin’s age, but Dean didn’t care. Not tonight.

“I will fucking kill you.” Dean bared his teeth and sneered at the man. The hunter’s eyes shone almost black, even with the moonlight shining above. The tribesman shuddered.

“He’s near the river, in a building like this one, but you’re too late. The Blood sisters have started the spell.” he spoke in a reverent tone. “The land will give us everything we need.” The young man looked around, at the dark hills towering above the river. “The sisters will lead us to freedom. We will finally have the power. All our great Healers needed was a small sacrifice.”

“What did they do to him?” Dean growled, grip tightening. The man began to struggle; to cough and wiggle under Dean’s grasp. Dean didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink as he felt fingernails scrape against the skin of his hands, both of them around the tribesman’s throat now. But Cas is alive. His grip relaxed and the man fell to the ground, sputtering and gasping for breath. Dean raised the rifle over his shoulders and brought it down on the guy’s head. “Sweet dreams.”

The young man crumpled and Dean checked him for extra rounds before pulling him inside the classroom, shutting the door behind him. He sprinted across the grounds, toward the river. In the full moon, he could see the outline of another module. A woman, with an assault rifle like the one in his hands, sat in a chair outside of the building. Through the open door behind her, Dean could just make out a mattress on the floor with a half-stripped body on it.

Cas.

Dean fought against the urge to just run up to the front door, shooting. The school yard seemed to be abandoned. So far, the hunter had only encountered the one guard, but he made out at least three more canvassing the perimeter, plus the lone figure in the shadows of the tin building and the crazy witch lady. That made six, total.

He could take six.

Dean began moving across the desert like a snake, hiding in the shadows, silent and efficient. When he was only a few feet away, the woman looked up, out into the darkness.

“Hello, Dean.”

The man stiffened but did not move. How did these women know him? He didn’t carry any sort of identification with his real name on it, neither did Cas. But the first one, she knew his full name and how the fuck did these people know Cas was an angel? Had they tortured him? Dean wondered all these things in the three second it took for him to step out of the shadows, rifle aimed at the woman’s head.

“Drop your weapon.”

The woman looked up at Dean, eyes wide. “He knew you were coming,” she declared as she lay her weapon on the ground and stood, arms raised above her head.

“Shut up.”

Dean nudged her into the door with the butt of his rifle, and closed it behind them. He strode to the foot of the bed, gently touching Cas’ ankle before bending over to grab a loose rope off the floor. It had blood on it.

“What did you do to him? I swear to God, if you hurt him…” Dean grabbed Nina and wrapped her wrists with the rope, leaving no room to move. He tied her to the wall above the mattress. “You scream, I fucking shoot you, you hear me?”

She didn’t respond. Rather, she dropped her head and seemed to heave her shoulders in a heavy sigh. When the woman was secure, Dean stood near the door and looked out into the vast desert. He scanned the horizon and could just make out, passed the two modules, a lone structure, about fifty yards away.

“How many people here got guns and will shoot me on sight?” He asked as he slid down onto the mattress, hands roaming over Cas’ limp body all at once. “Cas. Castiel. Hey buddy, wake up,” he whispered. Even when Dean shook him with considerable force, the angel did not rise. Dean took in what he could. Cas’ forehead was hot. He was not tied up but had been. He was sleeping but didn’t seem able to wake up. He knew Dean was coming. “Why’d you say that? That he knew I was coming? And how do you know who we are?”

“Dean,” Nina began. “I did not begin this endeavor with the wish to bring harm to anyone but the guilty, but somehow we are here.”

“Damn straight, which means I’ve got the gun, you’ve got the answers. Stop bullshitting me and tell me what you did to Cas.”

Nina looked up at him, her head tilted so much like Castiel, Dean had to take in a sharp breath and close his eyes against the similarities. “The angel dreams of you, Dean Winchester.”

He didn’t have time for this shit. He needed to get Cas out of there. Dean picked up the gun and leveled it at her chest, hands steady and true. “Why won’t Cas wake up?”

***

Nina knew Dean Winchester would kill her, if he had to, and not just for Castiel. Death was part of his job. She watched him move; fluid, sure of himself and his mission. He knew nothing of her demons, or the curses on this land. Nothing of the pain and ache of unfulfilled promises that stiffened the bones of her family, causing the tribe to remain stagnant, stuck in the anger of the past. Nina began this endeavor because she wanted vengeance, but that all changed when her soul intertwined with Castiel’s grace. At first connection, she felt the hate dissipating, leaving room for the pure peace of angelic essence. It had latched onto the last bit of light she held down deep in her soul and she felt changed. Nina knew the connection was so much more profound for Dean Winchester.

“You should not be here, yet you cannot leave. Break the blood bond and the angel will live.”

Dean looked at Nina, eyes slim and unforgiving.

“How do I break this blood bond?” He asked, gathering Cas over his shoulder and smudging the angel wards near the mattress.

“You must invoke Wovoka on Paiute land.” The woman nodded her head in the direction of a small, clay bowl on the floor near Castiel. It held blood covered bones, small and moist. Dean grabbed them with his free hand, shoved them in his pocket and stood, Castiel hanging off of his shoulders. At the jolt of movement, the angel groaned but did not open his eyes.

“Dean.” Cas barely whispered the word, his head lolling on Dean’s shoulder. She watched as he moved to set Cas back down gently on the mattress, holding onto the creature’s shoulder so he did not fall over.

“Cas,” Dean exhaled. “Can you walk, buddy? We gotta get out of here.” Dean wrapped Castiel’s arm tight around his neck and pulled the angel to a standing position. Nina watched them move toward the door, Dean bearing most of Cas’ weight, the creature’s feet dragging on the floor. She knew it was not safe for them outside of this land. She needed to make them understand. Nina began to mumble an incantation under her breath but stopped when Dean steadied his rifle at her head with one arm, Castiel on the other.

“Shut the fuck up.” He punctuated each word as he pointed at her with the gun and Nina trembled.

“Angel.” The word was no more than a whisper, but Castiel heard it. Lifted his head and looked in her direction, eyes glazed and unfocused. She sagged against her restraints as she watched him limp into the night without a word. When the men were out of sight, moving through the darkness to what they hoped would be their salvation, Nina Blood started to pray. She softly chanted an incantation to the sun and the moon, the river and the sky. She prayed for life and for justice and for peace among the people of the valley. With only a limited amount of time until Castiel crossed the property line and broke the blood bond completely, Nina prayed for restoration and salvation not for herself, but for the angel.

***

Dean felt the heat emanating off Cas as they crossed the property, arms entangled. They moved slow but steady through the desert, a team, just like they’d always been. Cas remained quiet and Dean focused on traversing the valley floor without breaking an ankle or dropping Cas. The angel coughed and Dean whipped his head around to look at his friend; glared at him in the dark with worried eyes and then slowed down, moving closer to support Cas with both arms. The Shaman claimed to have taken Cas’ blood for a spell powerful enough to flatten the town of Yerington. A spell that the younger one said would kill the angel. The problem was, Dean had no idea how to fix it. He didn’t have his fucking phone so he couldn’t call Sammy. What he did know was that they couldn’t stay at the river. With one guard down and the younger witch tied up, no doubt the hag in white would be looking for Dean and Castiel. They needed to get to the Impala. To safety. Then Dean could figure out their next move. “Cas, buddy. How ya feeling?”

“Am I dreaming?” Cas gasped, trying to catch his breath as Dean moved them across the rough desert terrain.  

“Naw, man.” The hairs on the back of his head began to stand at attention, but Dean kept moving; pushing rocks and sticks out of Cas’ way with his feet, maneuvering them across the rocks in the water near the front of the property line. “We need to get the hell outta here, though.” He continued to press them forward, but the further they traveled from the compound, the more disoriented Castiel became. Yards from the Impala, with keys in one hand and Castiel in the other, Dean felt the angel start to convulse in his arms. And then Cas was on his knees, hands in the dirt, hacking and spitting blood into the sand.

Dean fell down to his knees beside the other man, body pressed firmly into Castiel’s. “What’s going on, Cas? Are you okay? Cas?”  

The angel’s eyes rolled back in his head and then he was on his side, blood spilling from the wound in his head, the slices on his arms, his mouth and nose. The blood bond. Dean’s hands moved to put pressure on the wounds, but there were too many. The thick liquid flowed hot, spilling out, over and through his fingers. The angel began to seize and Dean gathered him close to his chest, mess be damned. Blood and tears mingled on Dean Winchester’s face as he rocked Cas back and forth in his arms, muttering the angel’s name over and over again until he felt the body in his arms stop moving. No, no, no. A wave of panic washed over him followed by a very real desire to throw up. Not Cas. No. Cas was an angel. He didn’t deserve to die like this. Like a human. Dirty and unconscious, tied up and tortured by a couple of crazy witches. Cas had been alone and graceless and Dean wasn’t there to help him, not when it counted.

Cas.

Dean barely heard the guttural moan escape his lips as he sat there on the desert floor clutching his best friend to his chest. He knew they needed to move, but his body felt like lead and he couldn’t get his feet to work. The Impala sat less than ten yards away and Dean looked around at where Cas had fallen. An unfamiliar Enochian symbol was etched into both rocks on either side of them. The property line. Dean gazed at the shape, memorizing the image to draw later, meticulously for Sam back at the motel, before rising and lifting Cas’ lifeless body in his arms. They couldn’t stay here. Not on the side of the road. Not like this. He needed to get to Sam.  

Chapter Text

NOW

Dean feels numb. The sharp buzzing in his head that had him knocking back booze at the bar only a few hours before has been replaced by a dull ache, constant and pounding right behind his eyes. He goes over the plan in his head as he sits in the passenger seat of Leah’s Corolla, Sam following close behind in his veggie car. To reverse the blood curse the sisters started, they have to first get on the other side of the angel wards with the ingredients from Leah’s book and the vessel from whence the essence came. Dean doesn’t mention out loud the option of draining the rest of Cas’ blood so that they don’t have to take his body because fuck that. Harnessing the bond will transfer the power of the rejuvenation spell and break whatever influence the sisters have over the blood moon. A bonus, Dean thinks, would be gutting the witch who sliced up Cas.

They turn into a small establishment Leah swears will have all the items they need with Sam close behind. He parks next to Dean and Leah, in one of the small parking spaces behind a nondescript shop with the words Wakan Tanka etched into the window in large, simple letters.

“What’s it mean?” Dean asks Leah, nodding toward the store front.

“In the Lakota language, the term Wakan Tanka refers to spirituality. The simple translation means, ‘the great mystery’. Many Native tribes are not monotheistic. We worship multiple gods. This place is where believers from all tribes can find information and goods according to those spiritual needs.”

“Well, you’ve impressed Sam.” Dean points a thumb at his brother, who stands staring at Leah with a half-dazed look on his face. “He loves it when girls spout geeky knowledge. It’s kind of his thing.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says as he begins to walk toward the entrance, but not before he gives Dean bitchface #2, an early version of the “Dean, you cock-block” look.  

“Let’s go. Not a word about the Blood sisters, both of you,” Sam grumbles.

“Yes, Agent Durden. The first rule…”

“I said, shut up, Dean.”

Sam strides through the door and heads straight to the herb section and Dean shakes his head and sighs. Right about now is when Cas would tell Dean to stop teasing his brother or give him a look that means the same thing. Dean feels sadness weigh on him, sit on his chest, take his breath away. Cas. The angel would also tell Dean to focus and not to worry about him. Dean, he’d start. I am an ancient being made up of celestial intent, I have been on this planet for thousands of years and died three times since we met. I am always with you. Dean blinks back the tears behind his eyes and coughs. He has a plan and can’t afford to wallow in the despair. He’s got to get all the ingredients on the list and get Cas’ body back on the other side of those wards. What’s next, well, that is the great mystery right there. He understands in his head that the time for mourning is later, but his heart doesn’t seem to want to comply.

He watches Sam grumble to himself and place a few sprigs of hemlock and arnica root in separate bags before looking up. Sam’s face softens when he sees Dean standing and staring out into nothing, an unopened book in his hands.

“Dean,” Sam says quietly, moving toward his brother. “Are you okay?”

Dean doesn’t answer, just looks down at his feet, glad Leah is occupied and out of range to over hear this major chick flick moment.

“Winchesters are like Goonies, Dean. We never say die.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “You’re not usually one for pop culture references, Sammy. This lady friend’s got your head all scrambled.” He sets the book down and Sam ducks his head and looks about twelve years old, which amuses Dean enough to get him smiling briefly at his brother. He fights the urge to tussle up Sam’s hair like he used to when they were kids. “I just...I know it’s selfish but I wasn’t ready to let him go. I never told him how I felt. I don’t even know what this is.” Dean waves his hand in the air. “But if the spell doesn’t work the way we think it will?” It is phrased like a question. Dean’s eyes search Sam’s for the answer. Instead, he sees only uncertainty.

“Dean,” Sam starts. “Maybe it’s better if we don’t. You know? Try to bring him back.” Dean stares long and hard at Sam but doesn’t speak. He can see Sam waiting for the reprimand. The bargaining. Neither come. He watches Sam as sighs and when he puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, Dean doesn't pull away. “We’ll do what we always do. We’ll get through it together. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Thanks, Sammy.”

“Hey, Sam. Dean.”

The Winchesters look over to Leah.

“Wildflower says…”

“Wildflower?” Dean looks at the girl behind the counter, takes in the bohemian style hemp clothing plus flower crown and dirty sandals. He smirks. “Of course she is.”

Leah glares at Dean but continues.

“She says to make sure no one ingests the potion. Some of the herbs are poisonous if eaten. Which means we mix the ingredients, and then what?”

Dean and Sam look at each other and say simultaneously, “Burn it.”

***

Dean draws the line at Sam bringing his new girlfriend along on the hunt.

“Dude, she needs to stay in the room or go home or something.”

“She can translate the spell, Dean.”

”Guys…”

“So get her to write it down. Wouldn’t be the first time we didn’t have a perfect translation.”

“But if we mess up linguistically, she can help translate on the spot. Why won’t you let us use her skills, Dean?”

”Guys…”

“No way I’m taking a inexperienced girl, no offense sweetheart, on a hunt with a bunch of witches who managed to knock me out and kill Cas all in one day. I’m not going to be responsible for another death here, Sammy.”

“God, why are you always so goddamn stubborn?”

“Guys!!”

Dean and Sam turn to stare at Leah, eyebrows raised in such a similar fashion, it is almost comical.

“I can make my own goddamn decisions, thank you very much. I’m going. Not just to translate, but because these are my people. They need to understand Winona Blood is nuts and I need to make sure you give them that chance.” She narrows her eyes. “Plus, I know the lay of the land and there’s a back road we can take to get the other side of the river. That’s where the tribe will perform the ritual and we need to be near it for our spell, too.” Leah stands, placing her hands on her hips, frowning slightly. “You guys are fucking chauvinist pigs, you know that, right?”

Sam huffs a surprised laugh, but smiles and shakes his head.

Dean grunts what sounds like, “Sorry,” not enunciated well enough to be called an apology, then speaks in a gruff voice that leaves no room for argument. “Yeah well, the sun sets in an hour. On the road in five.”

THEN

When the angel and the hunter left Paiute land, Nina felt the unnatural break in the bond turn her blood to ice. Her skin felt cold to the touch and she had no strength to move her limbs. Breaking the bond that united their lifelines before the spell was complete meant certain death for both of them. Still, she felt no fear. The confusion that suffocated her for so long evaporated into the ether and for that, she blessed the light of Castiel’s divinity. Even though Nina knew he considered his grace to be tenuous, dreaming with Castiel felt like flying through space and time, it tasted like fire and passion and ozone. His capacity for love and praise surpassed all understanding. His capability of righteous fury terrified her. Even in his weakened state, the nature of the angel was unfathomable. After knowing him, Nina’s mind felt clear from the haze of anger and uncertainty that had inhabited it for so very long. The freedom from hatred felt like oxygen in her lungs. Behind her lids, images of motel rooms across the country with ratty beds, the inextinguishable fires of Hell, and the glorious simplicity of an eternal Tuesday afternoon flashed behind her eyes. The memories were not hers, but it warmed Nina to know the prayers of Dean Winchester; sometimes fervent, sometimes angry or desperate, always quiet, consistent and full of promise. As her essence dissipated on the same tattered mattress where she’d helped drain an angel’s life, Nina continued to intone her prayer to Wovoka, for the sake of the angel. She understood that the path that led to this precise moment stretched out behind her, completely unchangeable. She also knew that the future did not have to bring with it death and destruction at the hands of her or her sister. The angel deserved to live. If any being might reap the powers of Wovoka, she hoped with all her might it would be Castiel. With her last living breath, Nina Blood prayed for her sister to fail.

***

The guards who came to Winona, bloody and bruised and blaming Dean Winchester, watched as the eldest Blood sister took off running, white gown trailing behind her like smoke in the sky. On the threshold of the module, Winona looked around, desperate, feeling the absence of energy that defined the angel’s presence. Winona Blood pushed the door open and leapt over the threshold, bounding toward her sister who lay on her side, fettered and motionless.

“Nina! Nina wake up. Nina!” The elder sister gathered Nina’s lifeless body into her arms, a wail escaping her lips as tears streamed down her face. “No...Nina, no, please...wake up, please, darling, wake up,” Winona muttered against her sister’s skin. “Sister, sister, please.” Winona rocked the body back and forth, as she often had when Nina had a nightmare and could not sleep. Now it was Winona who felt the darkness of fear and solitude wash over her. Without Nina to care for and nurture, what did Winona have left? Only the tribe. The tribe. A family who looked up to her. Whose children she taught. Clarity and purpose washed over the her. With the blood of the angel and the sacred words of Wovoka, Winona would reclaim the land for her people and give them divine hope. She would liberate the Paiute, like Grandfather never could.  

“I will drown this town for you, my darling,” she whispered the promise into the night air and looked up to see her captains gathered around, waiting for instruction. Death and loss for the family had not been part of the plan. Winona knew if she did not assure them, the faithful would begin to doubt. They needed to understand that all her choices were meant to strengthen the family. “When the moon shines red we will dance. We will take the land back that was stolen from our people. The angel is dead. The ritual has already begun. We must finish what our ancestors could not.” Winona Blood kissed her sister’s forehead and laid her down gently. When the time was right, Nina would get a proper Paiute burial. Winona shivered slightly at the thought that her sister had died because of the creature. The bond the angel shared with Nina destroyed them both, of that, Winona was sure. What she was not sure of was Dean Winchester. “The hunter may return to seek vengeance and wreak havoc upon our land. He has become a liability. We cannot show them mercy. This is where Wovoka failed.” Winona stood. The man came to her land, uninvited. He stole the tribe’s most precious gift. He killed her sister. Dean Winchester deserved the wrath of all the gods; of earth and wind, rain and sun and of the blood moon.  “This is a time of settling scores. It is a time for the letting of blood. Dean Winchester must die.”

***

The non-believers had gone. Only the faithful remained; those who shared a vision of a future that began with wiping Yerington clean of all the unworthy. As the sun began to shine overhead on the afternoon of the blood moon, the dedicated gathered in traditional garb, mixing herbs and items necessary for the ritual. Then, they began to dance. On the banks of the Walker River, the faithful danced for prosperity, the valley, the river, united by passion and purpose. It was not the Ghost Dance of years ago. No, this dance sharpened the senses, did not dull the mind or confuse the heart. Rather than falling out of the circle, exhausted and senseless as they had with the Ghost Dance, her people remained strong. Vigilant. The Dance of the Blood Moon meant resurrection. No more sacrifices. The time had come for retribution. On the rocks of the Walker River, Winona Blood writhed and twisted her body to the rhythm of drums. The beat thrummed through her skin, blood pumping in time with the low rattle of voices and the high hum of flutes that echoed against the mountainside. Around and around the dancers moved and turned, knees bent, faces flung to the sky. They lifted hands in fervor, chanting the incantation--the Blessing of the Moon.

Ancient healer, oh Blood Moon!

Sanctify this holy ichor we give unto your light.

We are your children, hear our cry!

Pour forth your blessing on us.

The desert blossomed with color as daylight receded and the desert sky began to turn pink and orange. Those not dancing or drumming lit fires and sang. The flames cast shadows across the hills as dusk turned to night, while the waters of the Walker River seemed to fade into black. Winona had no doubt that the cries of her brothers and sisters could be heard throughout the valley, she did not fear. Let them come. Slowly, the rain began to fall and the waters rise, extinguishing the first fire and the circle continued to move north, toward the hills. The angel blood held much more power than Grandfather’s sacrifice ever did and Winona had faith her sister’s death would not be in vain. A small, niggling voice reminded Winona that Nina never wanted to hurt the angel or any other innocent. Those men harmed Nina and they were monsters who deserved to die. On the long list of those damaged by the Sheriff Jones and Bruce Buchanan, Nina was not the first nor was she last. But what her sister did not understand was that invoking the dream sickness on the two men had only been the beginning. Nina had been selfish with her rage. She only wanted vengeance on the men who raped her, never thought of the needs of the family. Revenge and power for the tribe was all Winona cared for. And so, she ignored the voice pulling at her conscious, instead, raising her own louder, to drown out any doubt on what the future might hold. The river would rise and the faithful, survive. Winona danced as the moon moved across the sky slowly; methodic and pure.

Chapter Text

NOW

The Winchesters and Leah Stone arrive on the border of tribal land, a full, white orb high above the hills. The sun will not color the moon red for at least an hour, so they have time to set up. The group does not travel the main road, as Dean had with Cas. Instead, they drive across a small bridge over the Walker River, parking the Impala near the banks and taking a path created for foot travel.

“And horse travel, apparently,” Dean grumbles as he wipes the shit from off the bottom of his boot into the sand. Even a mile up the river, they can hear the chants echoing off the valley walls. The soft, constant drone of noise guides the threesome through the dark, until they find a clearing. Sam lays the ingredients out on the desert floor and leans back on his haunches to gaze up at his brother.

“Do you really think we should bring Cas all the way out here?” It’s his way of offering up the options without poking too hard at Dean.

“Look man, I’m going back for him. If the spell is gonna work, he needs to be here on the land, right? It won’t take me more than fifteen minutes. You two set up the tableau.” Dean turns to go, but Sam stops him with a hand in the air. He made Dean swear to talk out his shit and promised not to hide behind his hair and speak up if the lines between them and the monsters became too blurred (Dean’s exact words that he forced Sam to repeat, holding his fingers up in the Boy Scout code of honor, even though neither one of them had ever been a Boy Scout).

“Dean, it might not work.” He doesn’t have to articulate what he means. Sam desperately wants to remind his brother that Cas is packed in ice, under a stasis spell so he doesn’t rot away in Baby’s trunk, which isn’t very sanitary, by the way. He wants to say that sometimes, it’s better to let people die than to hold on to someone who’s already gone. He almost lets slip that it is Dean’s co-dependent fear of letting go that allowed the First Blade, Gadreel, Crowley, and a dozen other monsters to manipulate him and that the fear is his own, personal brand of Kryptonite. Instead, he looks blankly at his brother, trying to formulate the words that hurt the least. Luckily, Leah does it for him.

“The spell is one of resurrection, yes, but it is meant to bring abundance to the land,” Leah interjects, looking between the brothers. “A prayer of hope for earth and sky to unite in one purpose. To bring wealth to the land. Winona Blood means to manipulate the elements by using your friend’s holy sacrifice. Even if we reverse the spell, stop the river from overflowing as the water rises to meet the call of the blood moon, our power is not enough to bring an angel back to life,” Leah pauses, taking in the look of grief settling on Dean’s face. “I’m so sorry.”

Dean doesn’t answer her and neither does Sam. If anyone knows about Paiute lore, it’s Leah. Dean swore to Sam he will give Cas a hunter’s funeral if the spell doesn’t work, and they need the vessel of the angel’s grace with them to completely reverse the sequence of events the spell kicked off. Either that or Cas’ blood and there is no way Sam is saying that out loud. He knows he has to trust his brother, and this is Dean, pleading silently for that allowance.

Dean looks toward the Impala--Cas--and back at Sam.  “Fifteen minutes.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just nods and watches his brother start a swift jog in the opposite direction. He wonders if Dean is his personal brand of Kryptonite against better judgment. Leah turns to him, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“It isn’t fair, that a man like that would find love in such an unlikely place only to lose it.”

“You have no idea.”

***

Dean arrives at the trunk of the Impala, checks his guns, has Cas in his arms and turns back to the clearing in under seven minutes. The weight of Cas flung over his shoulder like an old carpet feels wrong but he has to move quickly. Castiel is bundled up in a dark red cotton blanket with images of a black moon and green hills embroidered onto the cloth. Leah cleaned his body when Dean could not. He broke down and sat in the Impala, sobbing, while Sam and Leah cleaned Cas’ wounds, slathering palm oil on his skin and wrapping him in a traditional Paiute mourning cloth that Leah had purchased at the Wakan Tanka. The wipe down plus the stasis spell equals a pretty clean Cas, because Dean can’t smell that old, familiar stench of death emanating from his friend.

It’s strange, because Dean swears he can smell honey.

Dean never knew dead former angels smelled like honey, but he thinks perhaps it isn’t all of those dicks with wings. Just Cas. Cas always enjoyed watching the bees. Dean remembers, the day he told Cas about the honey bees Cain kept on his land, the angel fixated on the idea of owning his own hives one day. When we’re off the road, Dean. It would be nice to have something, Cas confessed the afternoon Dean taught him to make cornbread in the bunker kitchen. On a lazy Saturday, when the group was in between cases, the angel decided he wanted to learn to bake. Dean suggested they start with something a little easier than apple pie, which Cas originally requested. So, after debating the merits of a yeast-based bread versus cornbread, they agree on the latter. Dean likes his cornbread with honey and Cas remembered, of course. It shouldn’t have surprised Dean that Cas knew his eating habits but it did anyway. A shocked smile registered on his face when Cas ducked his head into the refrigerator and pulled out a Mason jar full of honey. I know you like honey, too, Dean. It’s organic. Shipped from Slovenia. The best in the world, Cas assured him as they stood shoulder to shoulder, mixing cornmeal and flour in the kitchen.  Our own bees would be nice, Cas, Dean told the angel, his confession whispered, as if in prayer. The kitchen was warm and smelled faintly sweet and Dean felt content.

Then it hit him.

He remembers looking into those deep blue eyes and feeling not lost any longer, but found. Sitting at the table, slathering organic Slovenian honey on fresh baked cornbread, with Star Trek playing on mute, the desire to kiss Cas overwhelmed him. Of course, Dean didn't know how to deal with an attraction to his best friend, who happened to be an Angel of the Lord, so he started drinking again. Just enough to keep him from spilling his guts about Cas to Sam or coming on to a friggen angel, but he did it in secret.

He’s so damned tired.

Where had all that stubbornness gotten him? Cas is gone; their time together slipping away like grains of sand through his fingers. Dean would sell his soul for a second chance, hell, he’s done it before, but he knows it’s not what Cas would have wanted for him or for Sam. He isn’t sure when he fell in love with the angel, but Dean knows he would happily cultivate bees for the rest of his life, if he could do it with Cas. He chokes back tears at the memory and tightens his grip around the body. As desperate as Dean feels, he decides this is it. If the reversal spell doesn’t work, he’s done. Cas will rest in peace. No more spells. No more deals. He tugs at the cloth swaddling Castiel and pats his body gently. Cas is gone and Dean, well, Dean supposes he should just take the pain that comes with loss and hope that it gets easier to manage with time.

“I don’t know how this resurrection spell is gonna work, buddy and I ain’t got anyone left to pray to, with you gone.” Dean pushes through the trees concealing Baby and onto the path, arms firm around Castiel, much like the last time they had been on the reservation together. Except this time, Cas isn’t bleeding from every known orifice, dying. No, this time, he’s already dead. “If it doesn’t, well, if you don’t…” he sputters. “You’re gonna get a real hunter’s funeral, Cas. You deserve it. You’ve done a lot of good. Hell, you saved me in more ways than you’ll ever know and I wish I would’ve told you,” Dean’s voice breaks and he feels as if his heart might break along with it. He waited too long. He should have said something. Done something. And now he’s lost the chance. He moves his head so his mouth kisses the cloth. Dean feels the dry cotton shifting against his lips as they move along the path. He whispers, “You deserved better than me, man, I’m a coward. I’ve loved you for a while now, I think, but I was too scared, too damn stubborn, to say. It never seemed like the right time anyhow, and now,” Dean tapers off the excuse and stands completely still. The clearing is close. “Cas,” Dean begins, voice quiet but firm. “I’m gonna do right by you, I promise. And Winchesters always keep their promises. Even if that means letting you stay dead.” Dean lets the side of his mouth rise in a slight smile. “I think this is me acting as a rational adult, according to Sammy. But don’t tell him I said so, alright?” It is then that Dean let the tears fall. They are on his cheek as he walks back into the clearing, and only gone for thirteen minutes, he gloats weakly to Sam after setting Cas down gently and wiping his face with his sleeve. Sam doesn’t ask Dean if he’s okay, because they all know he’s not. Instead, he claps his brother on the shoulder, bringing him into a half hug and looking at Dean with large, sad eyes that make Dean’s chest hurt. He can’t bring himself to hug Sam back, and so he stands, arms at his sides, willing the ache to stop long enough for him to get the job done.  

“So, what’s plan B with Cas?” Sam asks quietly, so that Leah cannot hear.

“There is none. If it doesn’t work, he gets a hunter’s funeral. Right here, right now.”

Sam frowns and tilts his head in a movement that he must have learned from Cas, and Dean smiles. He knows his brother thinks he’s lying. Dean places his hand on top of Sam’s, which still rests on his shoulder. He squeezes and Sam sighs.

“I promise.”

“Dean, don’t lie to me. I’m gonna do whatever you need me to do, but you have to tell me the truth.”

“No more deals, no bargains, this is it. I owe it to Cas.” He bends over and picks up a couple of twigs at his feet then stops and looks up at Sam. “It’s what I should have done with you.”

Sam nods slowly at the admission and watches as Dean begins to gather brush and sticks from around the clearing into his arms. A real hunter’s funeral with a real funeral pyre. It’s what they did for Dad and Bobby and even Kevin. They need to do the same for Cas. Without a word, Sam grabs the bundle from Dean’s arms and proceeds to form the skeleton of a structure. Small enough to fit in the circle where the ritual will take place but large enough for a full grown man’s body to lie on. Dean hoists up Castiel’s body onto the pyre, gently placing the angel onto the wooden structure.

“So we’re really going to do this then?” Sam asks. Before Dean can reply, Leah walks over and rests her hand on the eldest Winchester’s shoulder, feather light.

“We have only an hour until midnight. We should get started,” she says softly. Dean looks at the space Cas occupies, surrounded by dead wood and debris and he closes his eyes against the finality of it before moving to his brother's side. He will do right by Cas, no matter how much it hurts. Dean makes the promise silently, and then moves in sync with Sam to begin the ceremony.

***

A mile down the river, the night darkens as the moon begins to disappear, while the faithful undulate beneath the blackening sky. Each man and woman moves this way and that, like water down a rock, the ultimate goal not resolution, but progression.

Ancient healer, oh Blood Moon!

Sanctify this holy ichor we give unto your light.

We are your children hear our cry!

Ancient deliverer, Oh Great River!

Pour forth your blessing on us.

We, the Faithful, burn like fire,

Shining with the glory of the Blood Moon.

Purify us! Deliver us! Bless us with your ultimate power!

When the lunar eclipse is almost upon them, Winona Blood steps to the middle of the circle. She stares up at the sky, arms high above her head, voice booming over the rushing water and hum of night.

“The gods will hear our cry! We will resurrect the tradition of our people through the sacrifice of the unfaithful and reclaim our land. Brothers and sisters, the river will rise. The creature’s blood blesses our tribe. We stand above the valley as Yerington drowns in filth and mistakes. If the Winchesters return, the power of the Blood Moon will guide us. No stranger will be allowed to jeopardize that which Wovoka the Prophet, Grandfather of the Paiute, Watcher of the River, Healer of the Valley has blessed us to take.”

The remaining tribe members whoop and cheer in delight. When her words finish, the rain is pounding into the desert floor, rustling up dust and causing the river to slosh against the banks. The sky above is black and then, very slowly, begins to shine orange. Each dancer wears a crown made of feathers, dipped in the gore of the angel. As the rain falls, the vital fluid moves down their faces, each one now covered in the blood of the angel, Castiel.

Ancient healer, oh Blood Moon!

Sanctify this holy ichor we give unto your light.

We are your children hear our cry!

Purify us! Deliver us! Bless us with your ultimate power!

The rain consecrates. The blood moon will deliver and bless. The time has come for reckoning. The clouds that bring rain burn like fire, reflecting the strange color of the moon above. The faithful continue to move and sing, the night glowing as red as their faces. The river churns violently now, threatening to overtake the boundaries of the bank at any moment. Suddenly, the air is full of electricity. White bolts of lightning snake from the ground up to the sky, clawing at the heavens. A mighty clap of thunder shakes the valley, and Winona tilts her head to the sky, savoring the rush of water on her face. The dance becomes frantic, but the faithful do not stop. Around and around, unwavering even in the barrage of the storm, they do not stop. Mud forms at their feet, and the red sky burns with the fire of the gods, who claw at the heavens, demanding justice and mercy. The blood of the angel is a gift given unto them, but not even Winona can comprehend the divine power held within the creature.  

***

“Cas.” The angel looks up, a book of Enochian symbolism on his lap. Dean is standing over Sam, who sits at one of the bunker study tables, books and papers strewn out all around him. The younger Winchester’s eyes are soft, his tone, gentle. Castiel realizes, even if this is not necessarily his reality, the details are quite striking. “Cas, I think I found something,” Sam says and Dean does not look directly at Castiel, which makes the hairs on the back of Castiel’s neck prickle.

“What is it?”

“Well, Sam here seems to think this is all a dream, brought on by some spell your dick brothers gave the Paiute leaders back in the day,” Dean blurts.

Sam glares at his brother and then turns his attention back to Castiel, who places the book he was reading on the side table. He rises and moves to Dean’s side. The hunter interlaces his fingers with the angel’s and squeezes, nodding his head at Sam to continue.

“I found reference to a dream spell that allows a powerful Shaman to place any human into a subdued sleep state which gives her access to enter and manipulate the subconscious.”

“But I’m not human.”

“Right. Well…” Sam takes a deep breath. “We think those Enochian symbols on the property plus the connection with the Shaman didn’t just drain your grace temporarily. By the time you, uh, got here, your grace had to have been completely gone. Which means you turned human, or became human or whatever.” Sam falters as he watches Cas’ face fall.

“But get this. Combined with the Enochian symbols and the dream spell, which would be enough to screw you over royally, it’s the bones that are the real clue. The mention of Wovoka got me thinking and, well, you’re not going to like this.” Sam points at a page in the tome, and Castiel recognizes the Enochian symbols for “rebirth” and “divine essence.” He shudders.

“This is an original spell, supposedly given to Wovoka during a self-induced unconscious state. Over the years, it has been interpreted to refer to the bones of the holy Wovoka…”

“But here, it clearly means the blood of an angel,” Castiel finishes, understanding burning behind his eyes. “They are draining me.” He looks at Sam. “Would I even know if I died? What if I’m dead?”

“Honestly Cas, I have no idea. If this means we aren’t real, then I don’t know where to go from here. I mean, what about all the good we’ve done? Does that not count for anything?”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Samantha,” Dean interrupts.

“What about all the monsters we’ve killed?”

“Come on man, we need to focus here, for Cas.”

“Even in a fake alternate dream universe, the Winchesters get the shit end of the stick.”

“Sam!” Dean bangs his fist on the table in front of his brother, frustration lighting up his face.

“Geez, Dean, sorry,” Sam says as he proceeds to give Dean a look that says he dislikes living his life in an alternate universe but plans to soldiers on, anyway. He looks at his friend. “Sorry, Cas.”

“So,” Dean begins. “We’re in your head. Which means you and that witch out there are controlling the show...Cas?”

Castiel moves back onto the couch, and sits with his head between his hands. His head is spinning. Not real. Human. Dying. The angel knows it’s the truth as soon as the thoughts form in his head. He feels the heart that once belonged to Jimmy Novak pounding in his chest and suddenly, Dean’s voice sounds as if it is traveling across a vast space, far away and distant. He looks up, and the room is empty. The Winchesters are gone and he is alone.

“No.” He chokes on the word, and he feels hot tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t even known he was crying. “No, Dean. No.” Castiel is human. Castiel is dreaming. His body is on that reservation and they are bleeding him. The thought that he might actually be dead terrifies him. Dead. Before he has the chance...

“No.” He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, willing the hunters to materialize. When he opens them, he is still the only person in the bunker library and a sob escapes his lips. Castiel thinks this is how Dean must have felt when he prayed after the angels fell. When Cas could not hear him. All the hope, the fear, the promise of a future slowly slipping away. Cas knows how much that must have hurt because right now, he feels truly alone. He realizes that he is, as Dean would say, totally fucked. The realization burns from the inside, out. Castiel feels actual heat building in him and he wonders if this is his true end. When Lucifer killed him in Stull, he felt nothing. Not even a twinge. This feels like flame, lava, a nuclear explosion burning under his skin. Castiel cannot see anything but white heat behind his eyelids. He can feel nothing but fire. He cannot even hear his own voice as he screams.  

***

“Castiel.”

Cas opens his eyes and sees white all around him. The bunker is gone, replaced by a vast, colorless space.

“You, my friend, are quite unexpected.”

“Where am I?” Castiel does not speak the words. He doesn’t have to. The voice is in his mind.

“Your brothers did not account for you, did they?” the voice asks. The brightness of the white space around him blinds Castiel and he has to shut his eyes again. When he dares to open them, he is back in the bunker, at his spot in the library. Across from him sits a small but formidable man, dressed in slacks and a dark vest. His long white hair falls gently onto the back of the a worn wool coat. The man’s eyes are kind and vast and Castiel feels divine power pulsing through the stranger.

“I need to get back to the Winchesters.”

“You have so much passion, Castiel, but your grace is weak. It is almost gone.”

“Aren’t I human now?”

“Would you like to be? Without some remnant of divinity, we would not be here.” The man rises from his seat and beckons Castiel to do the same. Suddenly, they stand on the banks of the Walker River, moon high over head. “With an archangel to protect me, I was tasked to the teach the ghost dance to the tribes in the Northwest. The prophecy was meant to help my people but I think the angels wanted us to destroy each other. Your brothers believed vengeance to be unquenchable. Revenge, the most powerful emotion. But we know that is not true, don’t we, Castiel?”

“You are Wovoka.”

The man nods. “I am a prophet of the Lord. The youngest sister called on me before she died. She wanted me to save you.”

“She sent me to this place.” Castiel sucks in a breath. “Am I dead?”

“For now.”

“And Dean?”

Wovoka smiles. “Ah yes, your companion.”

“He is my friend.”

Wovoka nods, sobers. “The Winchesters are fighting evil. Dean is fighting for you. Winona has manipulated my people to suit her purposes. The precarious nature of the spell allowed for your grace to be twisted. The ancient blessing of abundance has been turned into a deadly curse.”

“Can I go back?”

“This is your choice. The Winchesters have the ingredients and the incantation to reverse the spell. If you desire to return, you may.” The man faces Castiel and they lock eyes, then they are back in the bunker.

“Are you God?” Castiel asks the question because he must.

“I’m sorry Castiel, I am only a prophet. You may stay here, in what you call heaven, or you may go.” He pauses, reaches for Castiel’s shoulder and gazes directly at him as he says, “Your Father has a plan for you, He always has. That purpose is not yet fulfilled.”

Castiel remains silent, contemplating for minutes, hours, weeks.

“I must return.”

“So be it.”

***

Dean looks up at the sky above Wilson Canyon. The moon is completely black, eclipsed by the sun. Slowly, an orange tint begins to form, moving across the orb and turning the sky the color of blood. Patches of dark clouds have gathered in the space overhead, leaking a soft, constant rain. Dean hears drum rhythms under the noise of storm and briefly wonders what the fuck is gonna happen if they accomplish their goals and reverse the spell. He hands the large, ceramic bowl to Leah and, as Sam begins to recite the spell, Dean tosses in hemlock, arnica root and a lit match. In seconds, the dried herbs flare up and burn out. The smoke rises and twirls above their heads and the rain turns harsh and unrelenting. Above them, bolts of lightning flash white, rising from the ground like fingers reaching toward the atmosphere and Dean cannot be sure where the streaks generate from; heaven or earth. For a split second, the valley is silent and then a burst of white heat generating from the circle where Castiel lies shakes the ground underfoot, lighting up the sky. Dean stands near the structure, gaping at the sky and back at the pyre, wondering if he might be witnessing an actual miracle.

“Get to the trees, Sammy!” Dean cries as he moves back but not away from the body of his friend. The burial cloths are charred and falling away from the angel’s naked skin, which is glowing. Cas emits a blinding luminescence that causes Dean to shield his eyes. “Don’t stop,” Dean yells over the roar of the rain, the chanting still echoing off the valley walls. “It’s working. Keep going!” Sam recites the final words of the ancient spell, voice booming.

Oh Blood Moon!

Pour forth your blessing on us.

Let the faithful burn like fire,

Consumed by your favor and holy glory!

The Winchesters and Leah Stone raise their hands, protecting delicate retinas from the gleaming light illuminating the clearing. Castiel’s body burns white hot fire from every orifice that, earlier, leaked lifeblood, though his flesh does not singe. Dean squints his eyes but cannot look away as brightness inside Castiel begins to shift and take form all around him. Huge, white wings stretch out across the valley floor, moving of their own volition, flitting above Dean’s head, his skin, but never touching him. Still, Castiel’s body does not move. Sam pushes Leah back, into the safety of the trees, where neither the pounding rain or Castiel’s wingspan might reach them.

“Dean, we need to go! We have to find Winona Blood before the eclipse is over and the moon turns!” Sam strains to yell over the clamor. He sees his brother standing with his back to the treeline, in the middle of the circle. He looks as if he has wings, but it is a trick of the shadows. The wings are gone but there is a man, who is not a man at all, standing a bit too close to Dean, sharing his personal space, a trenchcoat and crooked tie hanging off of him where before, there was none.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, as if he has not been dead for the last twenty four hours. As if they had not just witnessed angelic wings grow out of his dead body, which had, incidentally, been on fire but not burning. Dean wants to grab the other man into his arms and squeeze, to thank him for not staying dead but instead he says, “What the hell, Cas? You fucking died. You burned! I was gonna bury you.”

“I assure you Dean, I am very much alive, but we need to find the Shaman and break the circle before the river overflows and decimates the town.”

Dean balks.

“Now, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is pure gravel and grit.

Sam jumps into action, grabbing the gear and Leah’s hand. “Dean, come on. You can be pissed later.”

At that, Dean blinks. He isn’t pissed. Does he sound pissed? Maybe he’s a little pissed, but Cas was recently resurrected. Again. That can put any man on edge. The hunter looks at his friend, searching for answers but Castiel does not make eye contact. He grabs Dean by the shoulder and says,

“This may sting a little.”

In half a moment Dean and Castiel move through time and space, in and out of a lighting storm, to Winona and her tribes people, dancing under the waning blood moon. Now he’s pissed.

“What the hell, man? You know I’ve got a delicate constitution,” Dean grumbles before noticing that they stand directly in the middle of the Winona Blood’s ritual dance circle.

“Well, if it ain’t my dance partner. Looks like my card is up,” Dean snarls at Winona, who stands in front of him, covered in Castiel’s blood. He moves into a defensive stance as he flashes his machete and a dark smile but Castiel steps forward, between Dean and the witch.

“Stop.” The valley is silent. Above them, the rain has stopped and the clouds have cleared enough to reveal a bright, full moon, the color of blood and autumn, love and Hell. The color reflects off the river, causing the hills to look orange in the strange halflight. Castiel narrows his eyes at Winona. “Your sister understood the ways of Wovoka better than you ever will.” He looks over her shoulder, to the faithful, cowering behind her. “Winona Blood is no healer, she only wants to destroy.” He turns his attention Winona again and lowers his voice. “Nina wanted the same peace your Grandfather did.”

“Angel,” Winona whispers. The utterance sends a ripple of energy through those who stand behind Winona. Two men nearest the discarded guns scramble to grab the firearms, just as Sam and Leah step out into the clearing, their own weapons raised.

“Everyone needs to stay calm here,” Sam says as he takes machine guns from two men in the group and hands one to Leah. She cocks it at the remaining dancers, motioning her head toward the trees.

“March.”

The tribes people move and Leah begins speaking in Paiute softly, explaining what is happening. Giving them a chance to do the right thing and go quietly.  

With that, Castiel moves toward the Shaman. He places his hand on her forehead. Dean expects to see white light burn the woman down to her core, but when Cas steps away, the woman is spotless, not a drop of blood on her or, he notices, those that stood with her.

“You are not worthy of what you ask of this valley or of these people. Vengeance clouds your soul, Winona Blood.”

“Who are you, angel, to call me unworthy? My sister told me what you dream of.” She turns to sneer at Dean.

“Eyes on the angel, bitch,” he snarls back.

“You are an abomination, sent here so that I might fulfill the destiny Wovoka never could. He was a fool!” Her eyes are on Castiel, bright with fury. “It is me who will raise this tribe up out of the depths because he was too weak. And I will do whatever it takes to fulfill my destiny,” she finishes, cold and calm. Dean looks at Cas, who nods once.

“Looks like this dance is over, lady,” Dean says evenly as he slides his blade into her heart. It isn’t the same satisfaction he used to get with the First Blade, but it feels good, just the same. This woman--this witch--who kidnapped Dean, killed Cas and planned to drown a town full of innocents in the name of family, well, that kinda shit doesn’t sit well with Dean Winchester. Family means sacrifice, not murder for the sake of power. Dean looks up at Cas, who is standing over the lifeless body of Winona Blood. “Come on, Cas. Let’s go find Sammy.” Cas finally looks at Dean, right in the eyes, and the hunter feels it like a punch in the gut. Tears well up in his eyes and he wills them to stay where they are and not fall, goddammit, because he will not cry in the middle of a job. Well, more toward the end, but, nope, he refuses to cry over a boy. What is he, twelve? “Glad you’re back, man,” his voice gruff. Fucking hell, he’s too old for this shit.

Chapter Text

NOW

The plan is simple. The wicked witch is dead, which means the flying monkeys are on their own. If they want to survive another winter in Oz, the tribe forgets the vendetta against Yerington and doesn’t try to blood spell its way into any more revolutionary movements.

“Which means, we hear of any other supernatural stuff around Yerington, we’re shooting first, asking questions later, capiche?”

Dean makes sure they burn the witch’s body, destroy the spell books, ingredients and Wovoka’s bones for good measure, before they head out. Leah is given Sam’s cell number with instructions to call if she sees anything suspicious, or, you know, just wants to say hello. Sam decides to keep the veggie car and stop by Las Vegas on his way back to the bunker, even though the last time they were there, he got married.

“I just want to spend the week out in nature, getting back to basics, Dean,” he confesses as he packs up his duffel and tosses it in the back of the Prius.

“We didn’t get enough nature back on the Manson Ranch?” The elder Winchester teases, but Sam knows better than to be in the vicinity of those two while they work through their issues, and he says as much.

“Tell him the truth.” Sam clasps his brother into a bear hug before contorting his six foot four frame into the gas efficient hybrid. “You deserve a bit of happiness. Both of you,” he says. Then Sam’s gone and it’s just Dean and Cas.

***

It’s a twenty hour drive to the Men of Letters bunker. Dean gives Cas a shirt and jeans to change into, “You smell like a campfire, dude,” and lets Cas drive to the Utah border.

“I need my four hours,” Dean says before pulling his jacket over his face and passing out. They hit Wendover at sun up, and Cas pulls the Impala off of Interstate 80, into the parking lot of a small diner advertising The Best Rhubarb Pie This Side of The Mississippi in neon letters.

In his slumber, the jacket has fallen away from Dean’s face, and Castiel spends a moment gazing at his friend, counting the freckles he so painstakingly reformed when he pulled Dean out of Hell. Freckles he’s counted a thousand times. He wonders if he had never become fully human if he would be able to recognize this emotion swelling inside of him. After falling, becoming human, and dying again, Castiel realizes that a life in the bunker, hunting monsters with the Winchesters, is exactly what he wants. He isn’t afraid of it.  In fact, the thought exhilarates him and suddenly he realizes he wants to stay. Even though he knows that Dream Dean was an aspect of his own subconscious, Castiel cherishes the idea that perhaps this Dean, his Dean, might actually want him to stick around. The desire for more bombards his senses, and Castiel decides that he needs to tell Dean the truth. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way, even if he rejects him, Castiel has faith that their friendship can endure most anything. Even unrequited love. He hums softly, pleased that he has developed a strategy. Ready to face his choice and Dean’s as well.

***

“Dean.” Castiel whispers, his voice barely audible over the gentle rumble of the Impala’s engine. It is enough to rouse the hunter. “We are near the state line. Would you like to stop for a burger and pie before resuming our travels?” Dean grunts, rubs his face, looks at Cas. When their eyes meet, Dean smiles, wide and open.

“Hey.”

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas, I…”

“Dean…”

They both huff quiet laughter.

“Where are we, anyway? Utah, already?”

Cas nods. “We have been driving for exactly 4 hours and 53 minutes. I stopped here because I thought you might be hungry.” his mouth twitches. “The name indicates your usual fare.” Dean looks at the old-fashioned neon sign, high above the restaurant, and grins.

“Dude, yes. Pie ‘N’ Burger. Sounds perfect.” Dean pushes open the door of the Impala, happy to stave off a conversation for food, but Cas reaches over him and pulls it shut before he can exit.

“Wait.” With his eyes closed, Castiel takes a deep breath and releases it slowly before turning to face him. Dean freezes. Cas is fully angeled up again. He doesn’t need to breathe. The thought knocks the wind out of him. Dean notices that Cas’ skin looks smoother. The dark circles that formed under his eyes after Metatron sliced open his trachea and stole Cas’ grace are gone. Now that he’s pumped full of grade-A mojo, Dean is suddenly afraid that Castiel is going to leave. That he will explain logically the needs of Heaven and the other angels and then fly away. Again. The idea seizes Dean and won’t let go. His heart pounds in his chest as he waits for it. The hum of the Impala’s engine or the semi-trucks whizzing passed them on the highway cannot drown out the forming doubts. You’re not good enough. It’s bad timing. He deserves more. Castiel seems to read his thoughts (although Dean has told him explicitly not to do so) and grabs ahold of his hand, like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver. Dean reaches right back.

“I’ve loved you since the moment I gripped you tight in Perdition with an army of angels behind me, following my every order to lay waste to the demons of Hell so that I might save the Righteous Man.” Castiel’s voice is soft but firm. “Although the Shaman took my grace and my life, she gave me you.” He looks up at Dean, who sits, gaping, eyes wide.  “While I slept, the younger Blood sister, Nina, placed me under a spell, which made it possible for her to enter my subconscious and access my thoughts. My desires. Did you know that angels do not normally dream?” He speaks it like a confession. Dean sucks in a breath, holds it, makes a wish. “In this place, I had you, and a life in the bunker, where I was human but happy. We were together and I think Nina Blood gave her life so that I might have a chance. To do this,” he squeezes Dean’s hand and stares at him, waiting for a response.

Dean doesn’t answer. He’s no good with words. He’s better with action. Dean moves into Cas’ personal space and runs his knuckle along the angel’s jawline. The stubble there tickles Dean’s fingers, and he thinks that maybe just because the sensation is foreign, doesn’t necessarily make it bad. Cas gasps, leaning into Dean, and, for a moment, they gaze into each other’s eyes, not speaking. Dean suddenly knows exactly what he wants. He leans in and kisses Cas, whose mouth tastes like ozone and mint and home. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean, places a palm flat against his back, and pushes his tongue into the other man’s mouth. Dean feels safe. He moans against Cas’ lips, and the angel mumbles,

“Dream you liked that, too.”

Dean chuckles and shakes his head.  

“You can’t just talk about kissing another dude when we’re, uh, makin’ out, Cas.”

“That other dude, as you say, was a construct of your personality, created entirely within my imagination, to fulfill a subconscious desire to have a more physical and emotional relationship with you, Dean.” He hesitates before adding, “No need to be jealous.”

At that, Dean falls into a fit of laughter. A doubled over, hands on his knees, snorting and wheezing kind of fit, with eventual tears running down his face as he guffaws for a good two minutes straight. Castiel squints as he watches Dean’s laughter diminish, until the hunter is simply snickering to himself, shoulders shaking every so often. He leans over, puts his hands on either side of Cas’ face and kisses him slow. When he pulls back, they are both breathing heavy, eyes glazed. Dean tilts his forehead to meet Castiel’s and whispers, “Don’t ever change.”

Over a double bacon cheeseburger, french fries and a slice of rhubarb pie, Dean tells Castiel about the hunt. He doesn’t leave out details. “Yes, I cried, you were bleeding everywhere for Chrissake,” and “The girl’s name was Wildflower, I fucking swear on the best rhubarb pie west of the Ole’ Mississip’,” while Castiel nods and smiles politely, sipping a vanilla milkshake and asking questions about the lore. He asks Dean if he thinks God brought him back and tells him about Wovoka. Dean admits he might believe in miracles now and that Wovoka was right. “You do have a purpose here, Cas. And family.” When Dean gets to the part about taking Castiel’s body back to the compound, he holds back a quiet sob. He had been prepared to give the angel a real hunter’s funeral, which meant allowing his best friend to stay dead. Castiel reaches over the table and takes Dean’s hand in his. The hunter traces the wrinkles on the back of the angel’s hand, his knuckles, the scars that Jimmy Novak had acquired in the years before he met Castiel.

“I just wanted to do right by you,” Dean says finally.

The angel smiles a tiny smile that causes the wrinkles at the side of his eyes to crease. On impulse, the hunter reaches across the table to caress their smoothness under the pad of his thumb and Castiel leans into the touch. Dean feels warmth blooming in his chest, spreading through his veins, pumping through the ventricles of his heart, all in the name of…

“Wanna get out of here?” Dean blurts out over his coffee and pie. Cas leans into Dean and signals him to move closer. Dean feels his freckles practically burning off his face, but he bends toward Castiel anyway.

“Are you suggesting we get back on the road, or that we stop somewhere to have sex?” He asks.

“Fuck, Cas!” Dean hisses, slamming into the back of the seat and bumping his skull on the partition separating the booths. He rubs his hand sheepishly on the back of his head before looking up at his friend. “You can’t just say shit like that out in public.”

“Dream Dean suggested I speak honestly in order to get what I want.”

“Are you saying?” Dean leans in and clears his throat, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Are you saying you want to have sex with me?” Dean knows he’s blushing now. Castiel frowns a little, but lowers his voice to match Dean’s.

“Well, yes, Dean, of course. Consummating the emotional connection with a physical one is a natural next step in our relationship. Besides, it’s not like we are rushing into anything. We’ve been friends for over six years. The question then becomes, do you want to have sex with me?”

Dean smirks. “Tell me more about this dream of yours.”

***

When Dean goes to pay for a room on the ground floor, he feels like he’s about to lose his virginity at prom or something. Before he thinks better of it, he dials Sam. The younger Winchester answers on the second ring.

“I told him! I’m pretty sure we are going to have sex, dude,” Dean blurts before clapping a hand over his mouth, as if he could push the words back inside. He looks at the desk clerk and mouths an apology, before grabbing the key from her hand and bolting out the door.

“Um, first of all, too much information. Second of all, I’m happy for you guys, but seriously, TMI. “

“So I guess you don’t wanna know that we totally made out in your spot in the Impala?”

“Okay, gross, man. I’m actually going to hang up now and go barf a little in my mouth, but you enjoy sexy time with your angel boyfriend.” Sam sobers. “Really, enjoy it. You two idiots deserve each other.”

“Thanks brother. Now, don’t try to make this a chick flick moment. I’m about to get laid.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

“See you back at the bunker on Friday?”

“Yup. And Dean?

“What?”

“You’re not freaking because you came out or anything, are you?”

“I’m bi, Sam, not a werewolf.”

Sam huffs a surprised laugh. “Alright then.”

“Wait.”

Sam stills, Mai Tai in hand.

“What?”

“Is that splashing I hear in the background? Are you at a pool? Where are you?” Dean asked, voice thin with suspicion. If Sam went to the casino without him.

“Uhhh, I'm losing you, Dean,” Sam stammers and Dean swears he hears him mutter, “About fucking time,” before the call goes dead. That little shit. But Dean is grinning as he walks back to the car.

“How is your brother, Dean?” Cas leans on the hood of the Impala and the sight of his angel leaning so casual on his car making Dean’s dick twitch. “I’m assuming you teased him with details of our upcoming sexual exploits, by the look on your face.”

“You, my friend, would not be wrong about that one,” Dean says as he snakes a knee in between Cas’ legs and places his body flush against the other man.

“I’m sure he appreciated that.”

“Can we not talk about my brother right now?”

Cas pulls Dean in and grazes his teeth across pink lips before plunging his tongue into Dean’s mouth, swirling and throbbing into the tight, wet space. They pull apart, panting.

“So, which room is ours?” Cas asks.

Dean grabs the dark-haired man by the hand and tugs him into their rented room, cock already straining against his jeans. They tumble over the threshold intertwined, hands moving, lips touching the entire time. Dean kicks off his boots before pulling his shirt over his head. Castiel does the same. Dean takes in the sight of Castiel looking absolutely debauched; shirtless with the short hair on top of his head standing straight up, lips swollen and glistening. The image goes straight to Dean’s dick.

“Bed. Now.”

Dean drags Cas by his belt loops to the queen-sized bed. When they fall down next to each other, Cas laughs into the the hunter’s mouth. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen the angel so happy, and he wonders at the idea that his joy could be on account of him. Before he can delve too deep into thoughts of self-worth, Cas’ hands are on him again, and Dean loses all sense of coherency. Cas squeezes Dean’s ass, just barely, and the hunter moans. He wants to give Cas everything and to take everything, in return.

“Dean, I want...I mean, I would like you to...”

Dean pulls away from the lip he has been sucking on in earnest, and looks at the angel.

“We only have to do what you’re comfortable with, man. I mean, it’s different, uh, with a dude. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Dean, I am an Angel of the Lord. My capacity for pain knows almost no bounds. Trust me, I will feel only pleasure.”

He rolls his eyes. “I love it when you talk dirty,” Dean teases. He licks his lips and pushes his jeans down over his knees, toeing them onto the floor. Castiel takes the cue and tugs off his pants and boxers in one movement. Dean chuckles.

“Not shy, are you?”

“Not with you.”

The simple reply causes Dean’s chest to swell with emotion. He closes the space between them quickly. His body is on fire and Cas is the only point of relief. Castiel drags his hands down Dean’s spine, tickling his ribs and causing Dean to buck up, looking for any kind of friction to ease his aching cock. At that, Castiel chuckles and grabs Dean’s leaking member in his cool hand, dragging his thumb through the pre-come and running it down the shaft.

“Where’d you learn that one?” Dean hisses.

“You,” Castiel sighs and Dean almost comes right then, only saving himself the embarrassment by willing the orgasm away with thoughts of Sam’s long hair clogging the shower drain in almost every motel they’d ever stayed at.   

“Jesus, Cas.”

“I also masturbate on occasion. Ever since I was human.”

“Oh my God.”

“Dean, please. Don’t blaspheme during sex.”

“Sorry, but I never thought you’d be like this.”

“Be like what, Dean?”

“So, sexually uninhibited, I guess.” Dean briefly thinks of Cas from the alternate 2014 but pushes the thought of that twisted, surreal man aside and shimmies out of his underwear, returning to the moment in time to catch the angel say,

“I did research.”

The hunter gasps and closes his eyes, a witty remark about porn not being real research dying on his lips as Cas bends down and takes Dean’s length in his mouth. He can feel Cas’ tongue twirling around the base of his member and, hell yes he did research, because that is a professional grade maneuver given by a first-time blow job practitioner. After a few moments of watching Cas bob up and down on his cock, Dean finds he’s forgotten how to use his words, but tries anyway.

“Cas.”

“Hmmmm,” The angel hums around Dean’s dick, causing precome to leak out of the tip into the angel’s mouth, who laps it up eagerly.

“Cas, mmm’gonna needja to turn over, babe.”

Cas pulls his lips off of Dean’s dick with an obscene pop that echoes softly in the quiet of the motel room. He settles down on his back and looks up at Dean. The hunter sits on his haunches, naked, green eyes dark with desire.

“Bend your knees. Mmhmm, just like that. One sec.” Castiel watches with hooded lids as Dean rummages through his duffel bag, pulls out a bottle of lubricant and whispers a triumphant, “Yes!” before settling back on the bed between the angel’s legs. He twists the cap off and generously applies the slick to his fingers.

“Even though you said I can’t hurt you, I’m still going to open you up a bit, alright?”

“I trust you, Dean.”

Dean smiles and kisses behind Cas’ knee, trailing his tongue down the inner thigh and moving his fingers toward Cas’ opening. He rubs at puckered skin and, the same fingers that slay monsters on a daily basis, never hesitating to pull the trigger, are now gentle and feather light. Dean penetrates him and Cas quickly adapts to the intrusion, rocking into the touch. He adds a second finger immediately, pushing into Cas, grazing his prostate. The angel makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat, head thrown back on the pillows, lost in sensation. Dean begins to scissor his fingers and leans over Cas, kissing him, never losing his rhythm, brushing against the other man’s prostate on each thrust.

“Mmm Dean, feels so good,” Cas slurs.

“It gets better.”

“Show me.”

Dean slowly pulls out his fingers and Cas groans at the sudden emptiness.

“Wrap your legs around me, Cas. I want to see your face.”

The angel envelops Dean with his thighs as he lines up his length with Cas’ quivering hole, breaching the entry agonizingly slow. It takes all of his will not to pound deep into Cas in one go, but Dean wants their first time together to mean something more than just sex. This has been been a long time coming. When Dean bottoms out, he closes his eyes and sighs, licking at Castiel’s mouth with his tongue.

“You okay?”

“Yes, Dean. Move.”

Never let it be said Dean Winchester does not know how to follow orders. The hunter begins to rock his hips, breath hitching in his throat as he locks their fingers together, and watches the angel fall apart underneath him. Cas has his legs wrapped loosely around Dean. He curls and uncurls his toes at every thrust, moaning in time with the movement, fingernails digging into the flesh of Dean’s shoulder, eyes shut tight. As Dean fucks into Cas, he takes note of the touches that make the angel’s eyes roll back into his head, that cause him to push back in desire, that pull desperate moans from between gritted teeth. Dean Winchester stores the information, catalogs it for the future. Because this sure as hell isn’t going to be the last time they do this.

***

Later, as the sun rises over the Singatse Mountains and he has shown the angel how to open him up, Cas rocks into Dean while tears run freely down the hunter’s face. Castiel kisses them away and murmurs promises to his lover. Promises he intends to keep.

“Love you, never leave you, always rescue you,” Cas repeats with every slow thrust. Dean does not speak, only turns his face into the bed as they make love, squeezing tears from the corners of his eyes. When Cas’ hips stutter and Dean feels the white hot liquid filling him up, he comes untouched, swollen cock spitting out in between their bodies as they both ride wave after wave of pleasure. It is only when they are sated and sweaty, ready for a shower, sleep and the road, that Dean turns to Cas, eyes clear and hopeful. Cas notes that his soul shines in a way the angel has never before seen. He wonders at the fact that the hunter’s joy could be on account of him.

“What do we do now, Dean?” Cas asks carefully.

“I watched you die. I was so scared that I would never get the chance to...to tell you...” he stutters, but only for an instant. “I love you.” Dean ends simply, moving his body back into Castiel’s space, lining up hips, tangling feet, all warmth and road, rugged and soft.

“Are you still?” Castiel asks, face buried in Dean’s shoulder. Teeth nipping at the freckles there.

“What?”

“Scared.”

“I am,” Dean admits. “A little.” He rests his cheek on Castiel’s collarbone, tracing memorized Enochian symbols over his lover’s skin. Beloved. Forever. Home. “But I never waste a second chance.”

THE END