Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bobby Singer is sitting in his library when it happens. Earthquakes are rare in South Dakota, and although Bobby has only been here for a short while, he figures they should be just as rare in his Heavenly version of South Dakota. The house groans around him, the furniture shifting as wooden legs scrape across the floor. Bobby jumps out of his chair, dodging a stack of books the quake sends careening at him, scattering them along the surface of his desk. He can hear dishes shattering in the kitchen, the cupboard doors banging like someone is slamming them over and over again.

He staggers across the room and grabs out a shotgun hidden behind a bookcase. He tries to keep his feet under him as he glances around, ready to take on whatever comes. He doubts the shotgun will do him any good. Sure it’s loaded, but this is Heaven. What constitutes real is a relative thing here and what is real doesn't tend to be bothered much by salt rounds.

The ear piercing screech comes out of nowhere. Wincing, Bobby stays upright for as long as he can, shotgun at the ready, until the sound drives him to his knees. He drops the gun as he sinks down to lie flat on the floor. He clutches at his ears, trying in vain to muffle the noise. When the blinding white light starts to fill the room, Bobby scrunches his eyes shut. It lasts so long he begins to wonder if this is what his eternity is going to be from here on out.

“Pull yourself together, Bobby. You’re embarrassing us.”

Confused, Bobby opens an eye to see Rufus’ ugly mug looming over him. He realizes a beat too late that the noise and earthquake have stopped, at least for now.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?”

“Not exactly in your house, chief,” Ash says.

Bobby glares at him, but one glance around tells him that Heaven’s resident IT guy is telling the truth. Rufus offers Bobby a hand, helping him to his feet. They are in some kind of city. It’s a mismatch of different eras. Buildings that wouldn’t have been out of place during Roman times sit next to modern looking skyscrapers, everything as pristine as if they had all been built the same day. 

“Where are we?”

“Good question,” Rufus says, eying the crowd around him.

Wherever they are, it’s packed. People line the roadways and sidewalks, milling around one another, all with shocked looks on their faces.

“I’ve never seen this place, and I’ve covered a lot of ground,” Ash says.

“Looks like everyone’s starting to move out.”

Bobby tries to get a look around the crowd in front of them, but can’t see where they're heading. The people surrounding them make their way down the street, those nearby jostling the three hunters as they fall into step with the herd. 

“When in Rome. Literally,” Bobby says, as they stroll by the Pantheon, sat between a red brick high rise and a cafe that looks like it came straight off a postcard from Paris. 

Everyone is filtering into a huge open air stadium situated in the middle of the city. Passing under large stone archways, the crowd files down flights of stairs, each finding a seat along one of the many rows of limestone benches.

“I feel like we’re being dragged to a school assembly,” Ash says, fidgeting as he takes his seat, “Did you see anyone else on the way in? Ellen or Jo?”

Rufus shakes his head, “Too many people. I thought I spotted Pam on our way through those arches, but it wasn’t her.”

“You don’t think this is all of Heaven, do you?” Bobby asks.

“It’s starting to look that way,” Ash says, motioning towards the top of the stadium.

It's like the stadium has expanded to accommodate the never ending line of people. There are at least thirty more rows above them than there were when they had first walked in. His eyes wander around the stadium, searching for familiar faces, but he doesn’t find any. It takes some time, but as the last few people trickle in, the crowd stills as they fall silent. Glancing at the raised stage in the middle of the arena, Bobby realizes why.

A man stands in the middle of what had been an empty stage, staring out over the gathered masses. He is a short, dumpy looking man, with scraggly brown hair and a graying goatee. He’s not familiar to Bobby and a shared look between Ash and Rufus confirms that they don’t recognize him either. The man smiles, hands disappearing into the pockets of his cardigan sweater.

“Hello! I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’ve been summoned here. First, let me introduce myself. My name is Metatron.”

“As in the voice of God, Metatron?” Rufus asks in a whisper.

"Got to be," Bobby says, "I doubt that's the 'John Smith' of angel names." 

“As I’m sure you are all aware, we experienced a small disturbance today that interrupted your personal Edens.”

Rufus snorts, “That’s a small disturbance? Hate to see a full blown problem.”

“Heaven has undergone some... Restructuring. From this moment forward, this city will be your new home.”

The crowd begins to murmur to each other which, with billions of souls all crammed into one spot, turns into a thunderous roar. The angel holds up his hands, requesting silence. After a few minutes, he gets it.

“There is ample room for all of you. Each of you has been assigned a new living space and I assure you, there are plenty of pleasant ways to pass the time here within the walls of the city. I’m sure you all have many more questions, and answers will be provided to you soon. For now, I ask for your patience. If you could, please exit in an orderly fashion. You will each be directed towards your assigned spaces as your leave. Thank you for your cooperation!” 

With that, Metatron vanishes and the top rows, which Bobby can barely see now, begin to make their way out. 

“Okay, that was weird,” Ash says.

“Shouldn’t there be more angels hanging around here?” Rufus asks, scanning the stadium.

“I’m not so sure the angels haven’t left the building. Some of them anyways.”

Rufus raises an eyebrow, “What’s that supposed to mean, Bobby?”

“When Dean was airlifted out of Hell, this shrieking sound kept following him around. It broke in windows, shattered mirrors, and left the boy with blood running out of his ears.”

“You talking about that noise we heard?”

Bobby nods, “We found out later that was Castiel trying to talk to Dean without a vessel.”

“Angel-ese wasn’t made for human ears, that’s for sure,” Ash says, as he stands up. Their row begins to filter out and up the long flight of stairs, “Can’t say I’ve ever seen it shake whole areas before though.”

“But, if one angel trying to have a conversation can do that much damage,” Rufus says, looking back at Bobby, “what could they have been doing to rock all of Heaven? Angel karaoke?”

Bobby sighs, “I got a bad feeling what we heard was angels screaming.”

**********

“Kevin, give me a hand,” Dean shouts as he slams open the door to the Bunker, half dragging Sam inside.

Kevin runs up the stairs towards them, “What happened? Did you close the gates?”

“No," Dean grunts as he shifts Sam's weight, "Help me get him to bed and I’ll fill you in.”

They make it to Sam’s room, running into a couple chairs along the way. Sam tries to carry some of his weight, but he's too weak to be of much help. 

“How’s the pain?” Dean asks as he swings Sam's legs up on the bed and starts taking his shoes off.

“I'm fine," Sam says through a grimace, not even trying to make his lie convincing, "I just need to sleep.”

“Good idea. Sleep’s good,” Dean mumbles as he grabs a blanket from the nearby closet and throws it over Sam, “Yell if you need something, okay? ...Okay?”

Sam grunts in affirmation, already half passed out. Dean had dug out some painkillers from the emergency kit in the Impala before heading back to the Bunker. He had made Sam take them and he hoped they would kick in enough to at least let the kid sleep. Dean would rather be pulling up a chair and staying right where he is, but there are too many loose ends needing his attention. He walks out of Sam’s room and heads back towards the door.

“Now where are you going?” Kevin asks, chasing after him.

“Crowley’s in the trunk.”

Kevin blanches, “Are you freaking kidding me?”

“I had to get Sam back here, and I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“I’m pretty sure you could have.”

Dean sighs, leaning over the railing to look back down at Kevin, “Look, I get it. But he’s cured or half cured or who the hell even knows, and besides, we might need him.”

Kevin looks disgruntled, but doesn’t argue further. Instead he plops down in a chair, glaring at Dean as he turns to walk out the door. Dean, for his part, isn’t any happier about having Crowley for a sleepover than Kevin is, but Sam had insisted. The trunk of the Impala opens with a familiar creak. Dean reaches in and grabs Crowley’s cuffed hands. He had blindfolded him, flat out refusing to take the demon anywhere close to their home without it. With their luck, they would show Crowley exactly where their super secret rebel base is only for him to not be cured at all and sick a legion of hell spawn on their asses. 

“Come on,” Dean says, helping Crowley climb out of the back. 

Crowley goes without a fuss, allowing Dean to lead him through the Bunker. He doesn't say a word. It’s disconcerting how docile the demon is being and Dean has to admit he can almost feel the change in the guy next to him.

He doesn’t take the blindfold off until he has Crowley chained in what Dean has affectionately named ‘the dungeon’. Crowley blinks up at him as his eyes adjust to the light, looking around the room for a moment, before his gaze falls to his cuffed hands in his lap. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say Crowley seems lost. Maybe even broken. It’s a bad look on him. 

“You uh, you need anything?”

Crowley shakes his head. No sarcastic remarks. No threatening monologue. This is close to being the freakiest thing Dean has seen all night, which is saying something.

“I’ll check on you later.”

Crowley nods once, his eyes still downcast. Dean leaves, closing the doors behind him. He makes his way back out to the main room, dropping into the seat across from Kevin. 

“Well, that was weird.”

“What?”

“He was just so... Not Crowley.”

Kevin shrugs, “Could be an act.”

“Crowley’s not that good of an actor,” Dean says, rubbing at his eyes. 

It has been a long night. He glances around the room and notices Kevin’s backpack laying next to the stairs. He jerks his head towards it.

“Going somewhere?”

“I thought about it,” Kevin sighs, “Actually, I was almost out the door when all these alarms started going off and red dots started popping up all over the map.”

“Must have been the angels falling.”

“Excuse me?”

Dean tells Kevin everything that happened. He tells him how he had stopped Sam before he could finish the last trial after Dean found out that it would kill him. He talks about Cass flapping off back to Heaven to shut the pearly gates, but clearly something had went wrong on that front as well. Not for the first time tonight, Dean wonders where Cass ended up. He pulls out his phone every few minutes to check for missed calls. There's nothing. He tries not to think of all the possible reasons why he hasn’t got a call yet.

“So basically, Hell’s still open for business, Sam’s suffering from God’s version of buyer’s remorse, Crowley’s who knows what, Cass is MIA, and the angels are down for the count."

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Is this how all your plans turn out?”

"Welcome to the world of hunting, kid.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Kevin says, “Do you mind if I crash in one of the bedrooms? I feel like I haven’t slept in years.”

“The hell kind of question is that? You're family, dude. Pick one. It’s yours for as long as you want it.”

“Thanks,” Kevin stands, giving Dean a small smile before he starts to head down the hall. He pauses and turns back towards Dean, “Tomorrow I can look over the demon tablet again. Maybe there's something on it that might help Sam.”

“That’d be awesome man, thanks.”

Kevin shuffles down the hall, leaving Dean alone in the library. Without much left for him to do tonight, Dean heads back to Sam’s room. He scoots a chair over to the bed, toes off his boots, and props his feet up on the edge of Sam’s mattress. His little brother seems to be resting in relative peace for now, which eases Dean’s anxiety a little bit. After checking his phone one last time, Dean crosses his arms and settles in for the night.

**********

Noon rolls around and Sam is still asleep, which is the best curative he's got going right now. Kevin starts on the tablet after breakfast, but doesn’t find much. Dean decides it’s worth a shot to see if Crowley knows anything. He finds the ex-King of Hell asleep on the floor.

“Didn’t know demons sleep.”

"They don't," Crowley groans as he sits up, trying to stretch his neck, “How’s Moose?”

“How’d you know I was here about Sam?”

“When aren’t you? Besides, he looked a bit worse for wear last night.”

“Still is. You wouldn’t have any ideas on how to fix him, would you?”

Crowley shakes his head, “I was trying to get the Cliffsnotes version of the trials out of our enterprising young prophet. My only concern was finding out what they were. I didn’t particularly care how they might affect my would-be jailor.”

Dean leans against the doorway, “Yeah, I figured.”

“Any idea if or when you might be letting me out of here?”

“We’ve got to figure out what you are first.”

“No rush."

"Really?"

"I’m safer here than I am out there right now, Squirrel.”

Dean stares at Crowley for a moment, “You know, it’s really freaking me out you being so... Nice.”

“Imagine how I feel.”

“Need anything?”

“Something to eat and drink would be lovely.”

Dean turns to leave, “I’ll see what I can do.”

The doorway closes behind Dean, leaving Crowley alone to his thoughts, which is not what he wants right now. Crowley is terrified, not that he’d ever admit that to himself, let alone Dean Winchester. It has been such a long time since he hasn’t been in control of himself and the world around him. He had tried so hard to forget what it's like, but the longer he stays in this almost human state, Crowley finds that those memories bubbling just below the surface.

He had buried his human life under centuries of pain. He had drowned his humanity in the years of torture he had suffered by others' hands and that which he had dished out. After a while there comes this sense of immunity. A numbness to it all. Hell dismantled what Crowley used to be, burning him out. The shell that had walked away was forged from all his rage and fear. Demons are creatures made up of all their worst parts. Whatever good they had in life is left smoldering in the ashes of the human they used to be. Or so he had always thought. The truth, Crowley is learning, is far more complicated. Those other parts remain. As time passes in this isolated room, the tiny shards of his humanity dig into the tender spots of his almost cleansed soul and the weight of it is unbearable. 

**********

“Fergus, this is not what it looks like.”

“It looks an awful lot like you in bed with another man.” 

“It’s not as though you don’t share your life with another.”

“With my wife! A woman I'm bound to by law, but never in my heart. That was reserved for someone else, as I thought I was in theirs.”

Somehow Fergus MacLeod manages to spit the sentence out without wavering, but it’s a close call. Heart pounding, he turns and all but runs out of the small cottage, slamming the wood door closed behind him. He is halfway to his horse when he hears William follow him outside.

“Fergus --”

“What? What could you possibly have to say?” Fergus demands, rounding on William.

The man comes up short, one hand holding up the trousers he’d threw on in his haste.

“You can't truly be surprised by this,” William says, dragging a hand through his short brown hair, “It’s not as though either of us were faithful.”

“Bloody hell, I don’t even sleep in the same room as the woman! I haven’t in years, and you know that. You knew where we stood. What we could have together. I thought you were happy with that.”

“I am. You seem to be the one taking issue with it. Never once did we speak about faithfulness. You spend half your time play-acting as a family man, you should have assumed that I -”

“Don’t,” Fergus snarls, “Don’t you dare turn this around on me! Do you have any idea what I’ve given up for you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were lying there, dying -"

William at least has the decency to look uncomfortable, “Yes, and you got me the proper help.”

Fergus stares past him, continuing on as though he’d not heard William speak, “And I’d remembered something my mother had told me, a long time ago. The wretched woman probably knew then. Knew I’d be stupid enough to...”

“To what?”

Fergus’ eyes snap back to the man before him, assessing him as though it is the first time he has seen William. He realizes he had not only allowed an idiot to make a fool of him, he had been happy to go along with it, like a lamb to the slaughter. It makes Fergus laugh. The sound echos through the balmy summer night.

“Quiet yourself, you madman!”

“Why? Are you worried a neighbor will hear? Or that your current companion might think twice before climbing on top of you again?” 

Still chuckling, Fergus mounts his horse and readies himself to leave.

“Fergus, please...”

“Don’t come calling on me again, William. Enjoy what’s left of your life, you miserable bastard, though I hope you don’t last more than nine years.”

Fergus turns his horse towards the road and begins the long ride home. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” William calls after him.

“That’s all the time I have left,” Fergus murmurs to himself.

Chapter Text

Sam stumbles out into the library just in time to see Dean disappear down one of the Bunker's many halls. Spotting Kevin, Sam makes his way over to the table and collapses into the closest chair with a grunt.

“It’s called beauty sleep, Sam. I think you’re doing it wrong.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Hard to say,” Sam says as he runs a hand through his mussed up hair, “I feel better than I did yesterday, so I guess that’s a start. What’s Dean doing?”

Kevin frowns, “Checking on Crowley I guess.”

“Look man, I know this doesn't help much, but I really think Crowley’s not... Well, not Crowley anymore. I don't think he's cured completely and I'm not saying we trust him, but --”

“Yeah, I know. He might be useful. Dean already gave me this speech.”

Deciding it might be better to let the subject go for now, Sam gestures towards the tablet in front of Kevin, “Guess Dean roped you into looking the demon tablet over for some kind of cure?”

“He didn’t rope me into anything, I volunteered,” Kevin says, shrugging a little, “I might as well be useful. I get the feeling I’m going stuck doing this kind of thing for the foreseeable future.”

Sam wants to argue with him. He wants to tell Kevin there is a way out and everything will be all right in the end. He wants to, but right now, it’d be a lie to say that any kind of end is in sight. To be honest, Sam isn't sure there has ever been an end on the horizon. Sometimes he wonders if it's a fairy tale he made up to help him get to sleep at night, because the thought of none of them ever being able to live a normal life after all these years of fighting just to keep their heads above water is not something Sam wants to consider.

“Yeah, I know that feeling, but we’ll get there,” Sam says, sounding lame even to his own ears. Kevin doesn’t comment as he returns to reading the tablet in front of him, “Have you found anything?”

“I’ve already been through the demon tablet. I don’t remember seeing anything about trial related illness before, so I kind of skimmed through it again and found nothing. I figured I might as well move on to the angel tablet.”

Kevin and Sam stop talking as they look up. Dean walks through, making a beeline towards the kitchen. He doesn’t spare them a glance or even notice that Sam is up, lost in thought. 

“Do you think he got something out of Crowley?”

Sam shakes his head. From the look on Dean’s face, he didn't learn anything useful, and is now entering full-on blaming himself for everything mode. If he knows his brother at all, Dean will have already found a way to blame himself for not only whatever is ailing Sam, but also for Kevin’s mess of a life, and the angels falling. Then there's Castiel.

Sam hasn't been in the best cognitive state in the last day, so it hits him like a bolt of lightning. The angels fell, which means Castiel fell too. And, since he’s not seeing any sign of the angel around the Bunker, he must still be out there somewhere. Or at least Sam hopes he’s out there. Sam doesn’t want to think about the state Dean would be in if Castiel didn't survive whatever went down in Heaven last night. It occurs to him, however, that even if Castiel made it out, he might not be anywhere close to being the same angel they’ve known these last few years. 

Dean picks that moment to reemerge, a glass of milk and a plate with a turkey sandwich on it in hand. Crowley must have requested some food. Sam, who knows that turkey has been in the fridge long enough to be questionable, figures it must have passed the Dean Winchester sniff test, and feels a little sorry for what Crowley might be about to experience.

He watches his brother as he walks back towards the dungeon. Dean looks exhausted. Whatever sleep he did manage to get last night must have been sporadic at best, probably too distracted by questions and worry over everyone else to be concerned with himself. As Dean disappears once again, Sam settles into his chair and looks back at Kevin.

“Does it say anything about fallen angels?”

**********

After taking Crowley his lunch, which he’d not only graciously accepted, but also thanked Dean for, he closes up the dungeon doors. Dean had meant to help Kevin do some more research, but his body had different ideas. As he walks by his bedroom door, his legs change course and Dean finds himself with a face full of pillow. He tries to get back up, but in the end figures it isn't worth the fight. Besides, Kevin is awake and would come get him if he found anything major or if something happened with Sam. An hour won't kill him. Dean passes out soon after and sleeps right up until the nightmare starts. 

Everything is a blur of blood and screaming. Dean tears through darkened streets. He can hear people crying behind closed doors. Screams fill the air and all Dean knows is he needs to get out of here. It’s like something is chasing him down, but when he looks around, he doesn’t see anything. There’s nothing there except the knowledge that regardless of what his eyes are telling him, something is lurking in the shadows and if it catches him, it will devour him. 

Dean jerks awake, sprawled half on the floor and heart hammering against his ribs. His pillow is in the corner on the opposite side of his room and his legs have somehow gotten caught up in the blanket he had fallen asleep on. He glances around, listening to make sure there isn’t some kind of emergency happening. The Bunker is silent, except for the sound of his blood thundering in his ears as he tries to calm himself down. According to the clock lying upside down on the floor next to his nightstand, Dean has been asleep for about six hours. He had slept the afternoon and part of the evening away. With a huff, he lets his head thump back down against the floor. He racks his brain, trying to remember what he had been dreaming about, but it’s already fading, leaving only the vague feeling of being hunted in its wake. 

**********

When Dean didn’t return, Sam had gone looking for him only to find his brother passed out on his bed. He had been glad Dean was getting some rest, but as he emerges hours later, Dean somehow looks worse for wear.

“You look awful.”

“Pot, kettle,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck as he joins Sam and Kevin, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not cured or anything, but it’s at least manageable right now.”

Dean studies him a moment longer before nodding, “That’s good. Maybe it just takes time.”

Sam shrugs, glancing away. He doesn’t want to burst Dean’s bubble, but he doubts his recovery from pushing the abort button on the trials will in any way resemble getting over the flu. Time, rest, and plenty of fluids aren’t going to cut it with this one. He's grateful when Kevin changes the subject.

“We haven’t found anything on that front yet, but we have some stuff on the angels.”

Dean frowns, “There's stuff in the tablets about what went down last night?”

“Not specifically, but it looks like there are a number of different ways angels can fall.”

“Don’t they just, I don’t know, become human?”

“Yes, and no,” Sam says, shifting some of the notes he had been writing around, “It depends on the reason the angel is falling. Like in Anna’s case, she ripped her own grace out and restarted her existence as a human baby.”

“So you’re telling me Cass could literally be a baby in a trench coat?” Dean asks, raking a hand through his hair in frustration.

“I don’t think so. Anna was one angel and, so far as we know, she fell when she wasn’t occupying a vessel. We saw a massive amount of angels falling last night and it looked like they were still in their vessels. Or at least some of them were.”

“Which we think is because what happened isn’t just angels falling,” Kevin says, grabbing his notebook, “It’s something I heard Naomi say over the phone when she was talking to you and Castiel.”

“You’re going to have to narrow that down.”

“She said Metatron wanted to expel the angels.”

“Doesn’t that all come down to the same thing?”

“It’s a subtle difference. In this case, it looks like the angels were ejected from Heaven and sent into exile. Yeah, you guys saw them fall, but we’re really not sure what happened to their grace.”

“I kind of figured it burned up in the crash landing," Dean says, "I mean, it looked like their wings were Kentucky Fried extra crispy on the way down.”

Dean remembers the angel hitting the water near were he and his brother had been hunkered down next to the Impala. The guy had bobbed up out of the water moments later, dragging himself to shore before promptly passing out. Dean hadn't gone to check on him since he'd had his hands full, but it had looked like the guy was still breathing. It had been one hell of a fall. Maybe an angel would have to have at least a little mojo left to survive it.

“It might have, but there’s no concrete proof that their grace completely burnt up either,” Kevin says as he drags the angel tablet back in front of him, “It’s weird. Everything on these tablets is described in excruciating detail, but when it mentions expelling the angels from Heaven, it’s like an afterthought.” 

“Metatron helped God write these,” Sam says, “maybe he left a few things out in case he needed some leverage.”

Sam watches his brother. He can’t get a read on what emotion keeps flickering across Dean’s face as they talk. It almost looks like he’s lost. It’s gone in a flash, but there’s something about it that doesn’t sit right with Sam. It's out of place on Dean. He shakes the feeling off. He imagines it’s because Dean likes to put on a smile and his 'fake it ‘til you make it' attitude. With everything that has gone down in the last 24 hours and all the pieces they’re going to have to try to pick up, it must be wearing on Dean so much he can’t hide it anymore.

“I did find something else. It’s another random blurb on the angel tablet,” Kevin says, interrupting Sam’s thoughts, "It says when an angel is expelled, they fall where they originated at, which makes zero sense. Unless angels are born somewhere other than Heaven.”

Sam isn't listening to Kevin as he talks. Dean’s eyes have glazed over, his expression blank. It’s like he’s not even there.

“Dean?”

He’s a second away from snapping his fingers in front of his brother’s face when Dean bolts up out of his chair. He grabs his jacket and his keys as he runs up the steps towards the door.

“Where the hell are you going?”

Dean doesn’t even look back as he yanks the door open, “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

With that, the door slams shut behind him, leaving Sam and Kevin to blink at each other.

“Does he do that a lot?”

“Not really.”

“Will he be back soon?”

“I have no idea,” Sam says, still staring at the door in shock.

“All right,” Kevin says, standing and stretching, “Well, I’m calling not it on Crowley duty while Dean’s AWOL.”

**********

It’s the crying of the humans that pains him the most. He watches as his brothers enter dwelling after dwelling, going about their business, their movements methodical. Castiel doesn't know what the humans are able to see of the angels, if anything, but the wailing that follows each visit tells him they are more than capable of seeing their work.

“Castiel, get a move on,” one of his superiors barks at him as they brush past him.

Castiel moves down one of the smaller stone streets. It’s silent, and as he passes, he is grateful to find these houses appear to be deserted. Relief fills him, as he prepares to make his way back out of the dead end road, when he notices the last home. Not only is it is occupied, but there is a blatant lack of lamb's blood on the doorway.

He stands in front of the door for a few moments, staring at the wood as if that would be enough to make the required splatters of blood appear. With a heavy heart, the angel enters the small home. The room is dark, except for a few candles scattered throughout. For a moment, Castiel hopes he was wrong and that the house is empty, but as he begins to move through the room, the wail of an infant breaks the silence.

He finds them huddled in a corner, a baby and a young boy with dark, curly hair. The child rocks the baby in his arms, trying to quiet her cries.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The baby stops crying as Castiel moves towards them. He gets the distinct feeling she knows he's there. It is a possibility. Smaller humans can usually perceive that which adults and older children cannot. Castiel is only a few feet away when the boy jumps. He scoots as far into the corner as he can, wide eyes darting around the room.

“W-who’s there?” the boy stammers.

The answer is tumbling out before Castiel has a chance to think about it, “I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Oh?” the boy’s eyes somehow manage to go even wider and a relieved smile breaks across his young face, “You must be here to help us!”

That could not be further from the truth. He cannot bring himself to tell this small child how wrong he is, let alone complete the mission Castiel has been sent here for. It feels like an eternity passes as the angel stands there, unsure of what to do.

“You can hear me?” Castiel asks, putting off the inevitable for a moment longer.

“Yes, should I not be able to?”

“Children your age are usually unable to hear or see our true forms.”

The boy appears to be at least ten years old and well beyond the normal age a child stops experiencing such things. It is probable the boy belongs to a designated lineage of possible angel vessels. 

“Oh.”

The screams and crying from outside the house fill the air, closer than before. The boy stares at the door as he listens to the horror moving nearer to his home. If only he knew it was already in the house with him. 

“Where are your parents, little one?”

The boy drags his eyes back toward the middle of the room, but from the direction of his gaze, Castiel can tell the child cannot see him.

“Papa went to his friend Jacob’s to get some lamb’s blood. We couldn’t get any of our own in time, but Jacob had extra and told Papa he could use it. He left me in charge until he gets back.”

The boy raises his chin, proud of himself as he tells the angel of the responsibility he has been given, but he deflates as he continues, “I thought he would be back by now.”

Castiel wonders if the boy’s father is also the first born of his family. He is about to ask about the boy’s mother, but doesn’t get the chance. A loud crash causes the boy to jump. It sounds as though it came from just up the street. 

“What’s going to happen to us, angel?” the boy asks, his voice calm, even though Castiel can see the terror lurking in his dark brown eyes.

The angel comes very close to cursing his Father. Not for the first time, he wonders how these orders could be right. He feels, deep in his grace, that something is profoundly wrong here.

In that moment, staring down at these small human children, Castiel makes a decision.

“Nothing, little one. I want you to stay here and be as quiet as you can. I will return.”

As he makes his way out of the home, he hears the boy whisper, “Thank you, angel.”

Castiel flies over the town, avoiding his brothers as much as possible. His first thought is to usher the children to a nearby house whose doorway is smeared with blood, but there are angels stationed a street away. He’d never be able to get them out in time and without being seen. 

Instead, Castiel searches for lamb’s blood. He finally finds a small bucket abandoned outside one of the doors. Grabbing it, he careens back toward the boy and his sister. He lands outside their door when the wail of an inconsolable baby pierces the night. 

Castiel is too late.

He stands frozen on the spot, listening to the child’s sobs. He doesn’t even move when the archangel Raphael exits the house. 

“Castiel,” the archangel says in greeting, but upon looking at his brother further, must realize there is something off about the younger angel, “Castiel, what were you intending to do with that?”

Castiel drops the bucket, blood splattering everywhere. He flees, making his way through the city chased by the cries and shrieks of the mourning. He dodges his brothers as he flies, the word ‘wrong’ echoing over and over in his head. Not only has he failed to follow the orders given to him, but now he has ran from a superior. From an archangel, no less. He checks to see if anyone is following him, knowing full well that they are. There is no hiding from the eyes of Heaven. 

He cannot begin to imagine what kind of punishment lies in wait for him. He cannot even begin to fathom why he did what he did. The only thing the angel knows for sure as he tries to disappear across the far flung lands of the Earth, is his failure to live up to the boy’s trust in him is by far and way the worst crime Castiel has ever committed. The winds whip around him, and he imagines them whispering the words that will haunt him for the rest of his existence.

“Thank you, angel.”

**********

Castiel wakes screaming, his eyes flying open. He tries to get air in and out of his lungs, but is having trouble getting them to respond. His heart races and his head pounds as pain shoots through his vessel. He supposes he should start thinking of it as his body now. He sits up and leans back against a nearby tree, shutting his eyes as he tries to steady his breathing and his heart rate. He never thought he would miss the fall he had experienced during the Apocalypse. Back then he had eased into humanity like slowly dipping a toe, then a foot, and so on into a pool of water. While that slow slide had not made his transition any more graceful, it was small portions of trauma spread out over time.

This, on the other hand, is pure torture. When Metatron stole his grace and cast him out of Heaven, he’d also sent Castiel spiraling back into humanity with no stops on the way down. At least he has experience. He can’t imagine what his brothers and sisters are dealing with right now.

The thought of the other angels, now exiled from their home, causes a tightness in Castiel's throat he struggles to swallow around. Pain and suffering has been visited upon the citizens of Heaven and once again it is because of Castiel’s infinite stupidity. Tears fall from his closed eyes as he tries to ride out the wave of emotions he can't give names to right now, let alone deal with. 

An indeterminable amount of time passes before Castiel feels able to open his eyes and assess his current situation. It’s dark again in the forest he had found himself in after his dealings with Metatron, though daylight is fast approaching. Without his powers, he is unsure where he landed. It hasn’t mattered thus far, as Castiel has yet to move. He had watched as his brothers and sisters fell from the sky. He had stood long after the lights from the angels grew dim and the stars were once more visible in the inky black sky.

The sun had already risen high above him before Castiel had moved, his body giving into its exhaustion as it sent him crashing to his knees and into blessed oblivion. He doesn’t remember anything after that until he had come screaming back into consciousness. He isn't unaccustomed to dreams and nightmares. Castiel had his share of both in the months before Sam trapped Michael and Lucifer back in the cage during the Apocalypse. This dream, however, felt so very unlike all those he had experienced back then. 

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Naomi had told him his memories had been erased and she had reset him multiple times. Too many times. She spoke of him as if he were a damaged product, and he supposes she was more right than he would like to admit or that she could have even guessed. Regardless, he feels like he can no longer trust what lingers in his mind. For all he knows, memories could be dreams and dreams could be memories. He feels so lost in so many ways, the feeling is almost overwhelming.

Castiel decides to push these things to the side for now. He knows he has been out in the wilderness for much more than 24 hours at this point. He needs to get moving. He groans as he stands, his limbs and joints registering their protest. He uses the tree he’d been leaning against as support as he tries to get himself steady. The trees spin around him as his stomach sloshes. Castiel needs to find some kind of civilization soon otherwise he'll be dead of dehydration or exposure in a few days, if not something else. 

“I was alive for less than three days and died of a bear attack, you ass,” he imagines telling Metatron as he re-enters Heaven, “How’s that for a damn story?"

It takes Castiel a few stumbling steps through the woods before he is able to find a more stable stride, the morning light filtering through the trees by the time he is able to take steady steps. He puts the sun behind him, heading towards the west. He hopes it’s a good choice. He hasn’t been walking long, when Castiel comes to a clearing. He stops, glancing around. The clearing appears to be a perfect circle, which seems unusual in what he thought was the middle of the woods. 

He doesn’t see anything threatening, as he eases out of the tree line and makes his way to the center. It’s odd, but he feels a sense of calm come over him. It’s the first good emotion he has experienced since becoming human again. He stops in the middle of the clearing, unable to continue on for fear that he’ll lose this unexpected sense of tranquility. Still wobbly on his feet, he closes his eyes and stands there content to breathe and exist for a moment.

He’s so lost in the feeling that he doesn’t hear it at first, and then when he does, he can’t quite believe that it’s real. Castiel opens his eyes, keeping them trained on the woods in front of him.

“Cass?” Dean calls out as he breaks through the trees, eyes searching the clearing.

Castiel stares at him, unable to move or think as Dean finds him. He is so sure this has to be some kind of hallucination his mind has conjured up to torture him with. Dean smiles as he jogs towards him.

“Knew you’d make it out alive, you son of a bitch. Not gonna lie though, you had me worried,” Dean says as he comes to a stop in front of Castiel.

He can only blink at the hunter, still unable to get his brain or his body respond. The smile on Dean’s face falters at the lack of response from Castiel.

“C’mon man, talk to me,” Dean says, reaching out.

He tries so hard to shake his head, move his mouth, or at the very least twitch a finger, but he can’t. Everything stops, and it isn't a surprise to Castiel when his legs collapse out from underneath him. For a second time, Castiel is falling, but at least this time there’s someone here to catch him.

Chapter Text

Bobby isn't a stranger to ridiculous situations. He could spend a good part of eternity listing all the dumb stuff he had been apart of, both on accident and of his own accord. Still, clinging to the side of a building 50 or so stories up has to come in near the top of his list. He glances down as he slides his feet along the small, brick ledge, checking to see if anyone has spotted him. The street below is as empty as it has been since the human souls of Heaven had been relocated to their new digs a few days ago. Days, like everything else, being a relative term here. He makes his way past yet another window, grateful that he doesn’t have to worry about falling. He can’t exactly kill himself again. At least he hopes not.

When he finally makes it to the fifteenth window away from his, he taps on the glass pane and waits. He had counted the number of rooms between his and Rufus' when they'd been sent to their respective quarters. When he doesn’t get an answer, Bobby taps harder. He keeps tapping, pausing a few seconds after each round. He shifts, trying to find the most stable position he can, though he suspects there isn’t one when you’re playing Spiderman without the luxury of any actual powers. Flannel had always looked better on him than red and blue spandex anyways.

He stands there, balanced on the thin bit of ledge for more minutes than he cares to count. Shaking his head and cursing under his breath, Bobby takes his elbow and smashes part of the window, careful not to overbalance. Reaching in, he fiddles with a rusty latch until he is able to slide the window up and make his way into the room. 

“This damn thing! Hey,” a shaggy haired, twenty-something kid says, looking up at Bobby as he enters, “you wouldn’t happen to know how to get this thing going again, would you?”

Bobby readjusts his ball cap as he raises an eyebrow at the kid, “Aren’t you even a little bit concerned there’s a stranger standing in your living room? A stranger that came in through your window?”

The kid looks at the window, then back at Bobby.

“Everybody’s different, man. I once had a friend come in through a laundry chute in this old apartment I was living in. It was crazy! He was -”

“Did you say something needs fixing?” Bobby asks, interrupting what is sure to be a long winded story he doesn't have time to hear.

“It’s this busted up record player. It won’t play.”

Bobby decides against pointing out the obvious and telling the kid that, considering this is Heaven and all, he should be able to conjure up a brand new record player out of the blue. That fact isn't a state secret, so he figures the kid likes things this way. It turns out the record just needed cleaned up a bit and soon the sounds of Pink Floyd fills the dingy apartment.

“Thanks, man!” the kid says, beaming up at Bobby from his position in front of the player. 

“Don't mention it.”

“I was going to try syncing up ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ with the ‘Wizard of Oz.’ You want to pop a squat and join me?”

“Uh, tempting as that sounds, I’m looking for a buddy of mine. Maybe you've seen him. He’s on the tall side, with a goofy looking mustache and --”

“Surly with a side of attitude?”  

“Yeah, that’d be him.”

“Next place over,” the kid says as he turns back towards the record player, “Can you tell him to keep it down? It’s hard to get in a good groove with the racket going over there, if you know what I mean.”

“Uh, sure. Thanks.”

Bobby makes his way back outside. At least he only has to climb one window over this time. He side steps, the ledge only big enough to accommodate the toes of his boots. He keeps a tight grip on the other ledge above him as he goes. He comes to a halt in front of what he hopes is the right window. He starts banging on the glass with his fist. He peers in, trying to see anything through the sheer curtains covering the window. The distraction costs him. As Bobby goes to knock again, the brick under his right foot starts to give way, a brick coming loose. 

Bobby grabs at the good part of the ledge as he falls, somehow managing to hold on. His body slams against the side of the building, the contact jarring.

“Balls!”

“Bobby, what are you doing dangling off my ledge?”

He looks up. Rufus is leaning out the window, considering Bobby with only mild concern.

“I’m communing with the pigeons! The hell does it look like I’m doing? I’ve been trying to get to you, you idjit, now help me up!”

Rufus reaches down and grabs his arms. Together, they manage to haul Bobby through the window. 

“You sure do know how to make an entrance.”

“It wasn’t my first choice,” Bobby says, dusting himself off as he takes a seat on Rufus’ old leather couch, “but seeing as how they’ve got us on lockdown...”

“Yeah, yeah. Guess they figured no one would be fool enough to try a little B and E this high up. Why didn’t you bring a rope or something?”

Bobby glares at him, “What would I have tied it to? They didn't build convenient hooks into the side of this thing.”

Rufus just shrugs. He grabs a bottle of whiskey from a nearby table, pours out two glasses, and hands one to Bobby as he settles into a high back red chair that has seen better days. Rufus downs what’s in his glass, refilling it as he puts his feet up on the coffee table in front of them. It wobbles under the weight. 

“I met your neighbor. He asked me to tell you to keep the noise down. You decide to have a party while the parents are out of town?”

“When I realized I couldn’t get out through the front door, I thought maybe I could go through one of the walls.”

“Like ghost go through or -?”

“Both. Either. Hell, I don't know, but when the ghost thing didn’t pan out, I started hacking at the drywall with an ax.”

“How’d that go?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Rufus says, “I barely got down to the studs. Whenever I turned away, even for a second, the wall would just magically reappear, good as new.”

Bobby doesn’t bother to ask Rufus why he never tried the window. His old partner had always had a thing for heights. 

“Any ideas what’s going on here?”

“Damned if I know,” Bobby says, as he takes a drink, “Been keeping an eye out. Haven’t seen anyone on the streets since we all got reassigned. I don’t think there’s been anyone patrolling the hallway either.”

“Who’d need to? There’s no going through these doors. No going anywhere unless whatever is keeping us here is wants you to.”

Rufus stares at him over the rim of his glass. Bobby has to stop himself from fidgeting. The thought occurred to him when he had found he was able to open his window. That would be one hell of an oversight for something powerful enough to put all of Heaven in a forced timeout.

“Any new leads on this Metatron guy?”

“Not much. Oddly enough, all the books I have on angels have disappeared.”

Bobby’s new little slice of Heaven is the first floor of his old house in Sioux Falls, crammed inside the square footage of your average sized apartment. He had combed through every book he owned, but couldn’t find anything on Heaven or angels. Someone had made a point to censor part of his library after the move.

“Really?” Rufus asks, pausing in mid-drink, “Well, that’s...”

“Yeah,” Bobby says, as he downs the rest of his.

“So basically what you’re saying is, we’ve got nothing to fight with and, even if we did, we’ve got nothing to go on.”

“Pretty much.”

Rufus refills their glasses, holds his up, and grins, “It’s good to be back in business.”

They clink their glasses together, then down their whiskey in one go.

**********

Fergus spends the majority of his final years on God’s good Earth getting as drunk as possible. He's a tailor by trade, and he managed to drag himself to work often enough to pay for his unsavory habits, if not enough to support his family. His wife passed away three years after he’d made his deal to save William’s life, which he would have counted as a blessing had that not left him saddled with raising their twelve-year old son, Gavin, on his own.

The care of his mother had fallen to Gavin during her illness. Fergus for his part, was barely aware the woman was sick. He had been far too busy drowning himself in drink and bedding anyone he could find to be bothered with any domestic concerns. As a result, Gavin despised his father, and learned to loathe him more with each passing day even after his mother’s passing.  This suited Fergus as he had hated the little bastard from the moment he’d first laid eyes on him. The child was just another chain shackling Fergus to a life he'd never wanted. For the first few years of his son's life, Fergus had tried his best to convince himself that Gavin wasn’t his, but the damned child didn't have decency to look like his mother’s side of the family. He couldn’t even give his father the peace of mind of a hard sought delusion.

They had spent the remainder of Gavin’s childhood in the quiet solitude of their mutual contempt for one another. They would often go weeks without speaking until the silent tension that was their constant companion in the small, dilapidated house would become too much to hold in and full blown war would break out. It was a rare occasion when fists were exchanged, but by morning both sides would be left battered and bruised from an onslaught of harsh words. Both of them left adrift in the wreckage of broken things and shattered dreams.

Yes, Fergus hated Gavin. He hated him for so many reasons, the vast majority of which consisted of trumped up grievances Fergus created in his own mind. Most of all, Fergus hated that Gavin saw him. He could see his father as the weak, sniveling bastard that he was. 

And, it hurt. 

No matter how much Fergus wanted to deny it or how often he’d used the boy as a scapegoat for his own failings, Gavin was still his son. Fergus looked into those dark brown eyes, his dark brown eyes, and saw the same hatred directed towards him that Fergus had felt for himself for most of his life. It was a deep seated sense of self-loathing that had been passed down to him by the hand of his deranged mother, who was as abusive as she was neglectful. His father had run off on them when Fergus was still an infant. He takes comfort in the fact that he hadn't left Gavin or his mother to complete squalor. At least he had never been that much of a sleaze.

But none of that matters now, because this is Fergus’ last call, and by God he is going to make it count. He had been stockpiling the finest liquor he could get his hands on over the last few years for this auspicious occasion. He started seeing the faces of the people he passed in the streets of his hometown distort into something not of his world a few days ago. People he'd known all his life contorted into monsters right before his eyes. The hallucination would be gone in a fraction of a second and for a while he had almost convinced himself that it was the drink. Then the distant, bloodcurdling howls had started. It sounded like wolves, but he knew in his heart they were of far more sinister stock.

Today was the day, and Fergus had been celebrating since the night before. Or perhaps it was the one before that. It was getting hard to remember at this point. He lounges in his favorite chair, legs slung over the arms as a half empty bottle of something dark, brown, and delicious dangles between his fingers. He hums to himself, eyes staring up at the ceiling, content to wait out his last hours in peace. Which is, of course, when Gavin decides to interrupt.

His son emerges from his room, scowling at his drunken slob of a father, “You’ve started early.”

“It’s never early if you don't actually stop.”

His son glares at him as he makes his way into the kitchen. Fergus cranes his neck to watch as Gavin begins packing up some food.

“Where the hell are you off to so early in the morning?”

“The sun's been up for a few hours now. It’s hardly early.”

“Has it?” Fergus asks, intrigued. 

He had thought it was still the dead of night outside and is surprised to find golden rays streaming in through their smeary windows.

“Yes, it has. I’m off to work. Try not to drink yourself to death before I get back, but don’t try too hard.”

Gavin is almost to the door. Fergus thinks he should just let him go. He knows that his son will find him dead when he comes back. If he comes back. It would not surprise Fergus if the boy took off one day on one of those ships he works on in the shipyard. Off to find greener pastures on distant shores. Why burden him with the troubles of a man he despises? If it would be a burden at all. Gavin will be relieved to be rid of him and Fergus can't hold that against him. 

A better man would have let the boy walk out the door, but Fergus has never been and will never be that better man.

“Off to play sailor again, are we?” Fergus taunts, slurring most of his words, “You’ll never make it out of here. You’ll die on this plot of godforsaken land, same as the rest of us.”

“You're wrong.”

Fergus continues on as if he hasn’t heard Gavin, “Go out and have your fun. Just leave your father here to die alone.”

Gavin pauses at the door, hand on the handle. He stays like that for almost a full minute, before heaving a weary sigh and turning back towards Fergus.

“What are you on about?”

“I’m dying.  No... No, that’s not right. I’m already dead.”

“Clearly not, as I’m not out dancing on your grave.”

Fergus laughs at that, because his son dancing a jig over top of his rotting bones might be the only real gift he’ll ever give the boy. Not to mention, it would be the best time either of them has ever spent in the other's presence.

“In a day or two you will.”

“What?”

Fergus had not told one soul about his deal. He’d thought it better to suffer in silence. A poor imitation of a martyr. Now that he was staring down the gates of Hell, however, it's a different story. Somewhere deep down, Fergus is afraid. Afraid and alone. This is his last chance. He can feel them coming for him and he tells himself he just wants someone to know. 

He sits up straight, looking Gavin in the eye, “I won’t see sunset today.”

“No, I’d imagine you’ll have long since passed out by then.”

“Listen! I’m trying --” Fergus says, but cuts himself off. Taking a deep breath he starts again, “I sold my soul to a devil ten years ago and my debt is coming due. Today.”

Silence fills the room. Gavin blinks at him and Fergus has no idea what his son is thinking. He isn't sure what he wants from the boy. He doesn’t know if he was hoping for forgiveness or understanding or simply for Gavin to stay so he wouldn’t be alone. What he gets is laughter.

“You sold your soul? For what?” Gavin asks as he chuckles, "It can't have been riches or finery with the state of this place. I'm surprised it's still standing."

Fergus wants to tell him the truth. He wants to say he did it for love, or for what he had thought was love at the time. But, the truth is, his mother and William and even Gavin had all been right in the end. He doesn’t deserve love. He never has and never will. He has, in fact, gone out of his way to prove that time and again. He can go so far as to sell his eternal soul to try to grasp it, and still never get close. Alone is all he'll ever get. 

In the end, Fergus lies.

“I sold it for three more inches below the belt. Wanted to hit double digits,” Fergus says, with a well practiced smirk.

“God, you are vile,” Gavin says, rolling his eyes as he walks out the door, the sound of howling filling the silence left in his wake.

The last thing Fergus remembers is the pain as invisible claws tear flesh and muscle from his bones. The first thing he is aware of upon awaking in his new home is the pain of the hooks piercing his skin and the cold bite of chains drawn too tight, everything holding him in place. It’s the most comfortable Fergus will be for centuries.

**********

Sam pauses on his way down the hallway. He wouldn’t call it collapsing even as he finds himself slumping against the wall as he sits down on one of the few steps interrupting the long corridors of the Bunker. He doesn't call it that, but it would be closer to the truth. Taking deep, steadying breaths, Sam closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on something else besides the pain. It has been getting harder to do as the morning wears on. 

He had felt better yesterday when he had first woke up, but whatever had caused that brief reprieve is wearing off. Sam hadn’t slept as well as he had the previous night either. Nightmares plagued him. Rubbing at his eyes and blinking at the yellow artificial light of the hallway, Sam pushes himself up off the step and continues down the corridor. When he pulls open the shelves that double as doors and enters the dungeon, Sam finds Crowley still chained and leaning against the wall, reading one of the books he’d given him earlier to pass the time.

“I started my life off as a demon in chains,” Crowley says, without looking up, “I suppose it’s fitting that I rejoin humanity in much the same fashion.”

“With your track record, it's better safe than sorry.”

“Hello to you too, Moose,” Crowley says, chuckling as he looks up, “So, tell me, what’s the verdict?”

“There are a couple more tests we want to run." 

Crowley raises a questioning eyebrow, “Just a couple?”

“Kevin wanted more. I had to talk him down.”

“Bit on the torturous side of things were they?”

Sam shifts, looking away from Crowley. After Dean had tore off to points unknown, Sam and Kevin had discussed what to do with former King of Hell. For the most part, Sam had advocated on Crowley’s behalf, being the only one who had seen the transformation the demon had underwent. Kevin, at the beginning, had been all for killing him and leaving it at that. 

In the end, they had agreed on testing him to see how much demon was still left. Sam had read part of a few different exorcisms and tried different applications of salt, but nothing happened. Thus far, holy water was the only thing that seemed to bother Crowley anymore with what had looked like a mild sunburn. As far as Sam can tell, Crowley is almost human.

“Like I said, I talked him down.”

Crowley smirks as he marks the page in his book and sets it aside. He looks back up at Sam, considering the hunter.

“If I’ve learned anything after all these centuries it’s that it doesn’t take much to push a human to indulge in their... Let's say, their more demonic tendencies.”

“You killed his mom, Crowley.”

“I'm not saying I don't understand where our young Mr. Tran is coming from. I’m simply pointing out you don’t have demons without humans and all that you bring to the table when you wind up in Hell. I suppose I should start saying, ‘we’ now, shouldn’t I? Team spirit and all that.”

Sam snorts, “Sounds more like rationalizations than understanding to me. I was wondering if we’d see the douchey version of Crowley again.”

“What can I say? I was blessed with this sparkling personality even when I was human.”

“I guess it was too much to hope we’d cured that too.”

“There’s no curing the human condition, Sam.”

“Keep going on like this and we’ll have to do something with you. Maybe add some Miss Manners reading to your rehab schedule.”

“I thought you said there wouldn’t be any torture.”

Sam laughs at that, Crowley along with him. He would be lying if he said it wasn’t weird to be having an amiable conversation with Crowley, but he has to admit, it's almost enjoyable. It feels like forever since he’d been involved in a conversation bordering on lighthearted. At least what counted as lighthearted for them.

“Sam?”

He turns to see Kevin standing behind him. Kevin glares at Crowley, who simply blinks back at the kid. They stay that way for a few seconds. It’s awkward, to say the least.

Sam clears his throat, “What’s up, Kevin?”

“It’s Dean. He’s on the phone,” Kevin says, tearing his eyes away from Crowley. 

Sam straightens, “I’ll be right there.”

Kevin nods as he turns to make his way out of the room.

“Perhaps Miss Manners wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Though, if I might suggest, I think they could benefit a few other people around here.”

Sam rolls his eyes, “Seriously?”

“What? I was talking about your brother,” Crowley says, with a grin, “I hear his table manners are atrocious.”

Sam pauses at the door, then shrugs because he can’t argue with the ex-demon. Sometimes watching Dean eat is torture in and of itself. 

“I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

**********

“Dean?”

“Hey --”

“What the hell?”

“I --”

“Where are you?”

“I’m --”

“I mean, you just ran out of here and you wouldn’t even answer your phone! What if you needed back up or something? You --”

“Sam!” Dean shouts at his phone. He pinches the bridge of his nose, lowering his voice as he continues, “Damn, you suck at twenty questions. Are you going to let me answer anytime soon?”

He’s met with silence. Dean can almost feel the scowl on his brother’s face through the phone. He sighs. Yeah, Sam has a legitimate gripe, but he needs to calm the hell down. It's not like this is Dean’s fault. Well, it kind of is, but not really. At least, he doesn’t think so. In all honesty, he doesn't know what’s going on and now that he’s got Sam’s undivided attention, he's having trouble finding a place to start. In the end, Dean decides the where he is part is probably the easiest question to answer.

“I’m in Pontiac, Illinois.”

“Am I allowed to ask why?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. His little brother can be such a bitch sometimes.

“Cass.”

“Cass?” Sam asks, more confused and intrigued at this point than pissed, “Is he all right?”

“Well, he’s sleeping right now. I think he was dehydrated when I found him. He woke up a few times and I've got him to drink some. He’ll be fine, but I figured we ought to stay in one place for a day or so. Let him recover some before we head out. Should be back by tomorrow night at the latest.” 

“Pontiac. Why would he be...? Oh. It’s what Kevin said yesterday, about the angels falling back to where they came from.”

“Yeah.”

“Cass is from Illinois?” 

“I'm guessing it says, ‘Heaven’ on Cass’ birth certificate. Jimmy Novak on the other hand --”

“-- is from Pontiac. Makes sense.”

Dean neglects to tell Sam he found Castiel just outside Pontiac, wandering around a clearing in the woods. While it was missing a ton of fallen trees this time around, Dean recognized that particular piece of land as soon as he stepped foot there. It was the same place Sam and Bobby had buried him after that hellhound had finished making Dean his new chew toy. And it was the same place Dean clawed his way out of after Castiel, angel of the freaking Lord, had finished dragging his ass out of Hell.

“How are you holding up?” Dean asks, hoping to sideline the topic for now.

“Fine. Not as good as I was yesterday, but I just need some rest.”

Dean gets the feeling that, ‘fine’ might be a bit on the optimistic side. He opens to mouth to question Sam further, but his little brother beats him to it.

“So you got all that from listening to Kevin?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean says. So much for changing the topic.

“Because, you seemed kind of...”

“Kind of what?”

“I don’t know. You were out of it for a minute and then you were tearing out of here like the place was on fire.”

“What do you want me to say? I just knew, okay?” 

Even Dean can hear the defensiveness in his voice, so he knows Sam picked up on it. Damn it. He doesn't know what his problem is. He doesn't have anything to be defensive about. Dean rubs at his forehead, frustrated.

“Sure.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sam,” Dean growls, beyond done with this call.

“I was just remembering a conversation we had a few years back. About there being something between you and Cass. Something like a --”

“If this sentence ends with either ‘profound’ or ‘bond,’ I swear I will end you.”

“Would you prefer ‘intense association’?”

“I hate you.”

“How about a ‘fervent attachment’?”

“I’m hanging up now, you freaking thesaurus on legs.”

Sam laughs, “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mumbles, as he hangs up.

He tosses his phone to the side and rubs his eyes, exhausted. He looks over at Castiel, who hasn’t moved much since Dean had managed to lay him on one of the beds in the motel room. It took forever to manhandle an unconscious Castiel out of his trench coat and suit jacket. Dean had taken his dress shoes off too and threw a cover over him, hoping that would at least make Castiel a little more comfortable while he slept.

Sleep sounds good to Dean. It’s been a long couple of days, if not a long couple of years. As he closes the heavy curtains, drenching the cramped room in darkness, he figures they’ve all been long. He checks Castiel one last time. Once Dean is satisfied that he’s resting peacefully, he flops down on the second bed, asleep in minutes.

Chapter Text

The first time Castiel had "run away," it was to get a closer look at Earth. He wasn’t supposed to, but he had always been impetuous and more than a little bit curious. This new world fascinated the young angel. He touched everything he could, taking in the feel of unforgiving stone and the tickle of grass. Smells had both intrigued and confounded Castiel. One particular adventure had lead to a memorable run in with a rather disgruntled ancestor of what would become the skunk.

He had sought out new sounds, spending hours listening to tree branches scrape against each other as their leaves danced in the breeze. Water covered the vast majority of his Father’s newest creation, and the sheer amount of different sounds each created dazzled the angel. The gentle fall of rain tapping against stone. The almighty crash of a towering waterfall. The rush of a fast moving river, carving out pathways in the earth. Most of all, Castiel loved the feel of the air currents swirling around him as he soared over the new mountain formations and endless forests of lush, green trees.

Castiel enjoyed every beach he could find, delighting in the rolling of waves, so loud as they sped in, but silent as they crept back out to sea. He loved seeing the smooth sand the retreating oceans left behind, erasing the changes that had been made by creatures scurrying across the surface.  He marveled at the abrasive sand as he sat on one of the world’s many coastlines, watching the constant push and pull of the ocean. This is where one of his older brothers finds him the first time he is brought back to Heaven where he belongs. To where there is work to be done. It is also where he would later happen upon a little fish, struggling to make its way out of the water and into the unknown. 

As Castiel flees from the slaughter in Egypt, he is reminded of that happy time, so long ago. Those rolling waves had long since erased that beach, burying it deep underwater as the oceans rose higher. When one of his brothers does finally catch up with him, Castiel is not surprised. Everything gets caught in the end.

“Castiel.”

“Hello Anael. I suppose you spoke to Raphael.”

“I have. There are many out looking for you,” Anael says.

The lack of anger or reproach bewilders Castiel.

“I know.”

“They’re currently scouring beaches and forests.”

Castiel gazes around, the wind brutal as it batters the sides of the summit of the mountain they stand on. Clouds hang lower than the peak, obscuring the world below. It is beyond inhospitable, at least by human standards, but the angels are unaffected. Like the rock under them, they touch the world, but they themselves are left unmoved. 

“Why?”

“Those are your usual retreats, are they not?”

“Which is why I chose the opposite. Surely our brothers would have considered that.”

“I may have suggested they start there,” Anael says, “I wanted to find you first.”

“You wished to be the one to bring me in for punishment?”

“I wanted to ask you why you did what you did.”

“I don’t --”

“Do you think me a fool, Castiel?” Anael asks, interrupting him.

“No.”

“Then do not treat me as such. You know why.”

Castiel sighs, looking away, “We spilled innocent blood today.”

“Those were our orders.”

“Yes, but those people did not deserve to die. That boy...” 

He stops, because he can’t bring himself to think about the child right now. 

“Are you saying God is wrong?”

“No, I'm not saying that,” Castiel says. It hurts him to the core of his grace to even consider such a thing, “There must have been a better way.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

Castiel turns to look at Anael. That had not been the reaction he had expected from his brother.

“You would be the only one who thinks so.”

“Possibly,” Anael pauses a moment, “You know I cannot protect you from whatever is to come.”

“I know.”

In truth, Castiel does not want protection. He has done wrong in the eyes of Heaven and deserves to be punished. He may never admit it to another living soul on Heaven or on Earth, but he feels he deserves it for failing the child as well. It is confusing to Castiel, but his second transgression weighs far heavier on his heart, making it all the more worrisome. 

“Nothing is as easy as it once was, and I fear it will only get harder. I hope we will not make things more difficult than they need be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you do not,” Anael sighs, considering Castiel before giving him a weary smile, “You are something different, Castiel.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Different might be what we need.”

**********

Castiel stretches as he wakes, his limbs still heavy with sleep. He is grateful to find himself lying on a soft, warm bed instead of in the middle of a field. He blinks around in the darkness as he sits up, unsure of where he is. He can hear the deep, steady breathing of someone else sleeping nearby. Castiel fumbles around, searching for a light. 

He locates a small lamp next to his bed, his outstretched arm almost sending it careening to the floor as he bumps into it. Flipping it on as he steadies it, Castiel realizes he is in a motel room. It is much the same as all the other interchangeable rooms the Winchesters frequent, but this one appears to have a western theme. The light causes Dean to turn over, shying away from its intrusive glow. For a moment, Castiel considers curling back up, but the pounding in his head has him standing. He crosses the room and digs through Dean’s bag, deposited near the doorway. He knows the hunter keeps pain medication in one of the inner pockets. After Castiel locates the bottle, he fills up a cup with tap water in the bathroom, then downs some pills.

The directions on the back of the bottle recommends two pills for adults and children over twelve years of age. He is absurdly proud of the fact that he remembered look. There was a time when he would have had to down the entire bottle to get the desired affect. That had been when he still had his grace, faded though it had been. He had still been an angel. Diminished, but angelic none the less. This time, he couldn’t be farther from Heaven if he tried. He can feel the lack of grace like a physical ache deep in his chest. Castiel considers everything that absence will mean from here on out. As he remembers from last time, there is so much more to think about as a human. He will have to do more than just read instructions. He will have to remember to eat. To bathe. To not let things shoot, stab, or otherwise maim him if at all possible. 

He should learn how to stitch up wounds. 

After tossing the bottle back in Dean’s bag and refilling his cup, he contemplates returning to bed. Instead, he sits on one of the rickety wooden chairs with horseshoes branded into the backs gathered around an equally rickety looking table. Castiel stares at the mussed back of his former charge’s head. He stays like that for what feels like a long time. 

He can remember sitting in rooms just like this one for hours, watching over the Winchesters as they slept. Those nights had passed by quick for the angel. Considering how many millennia old Castiel is, a few hours used to mean nothing to him. Now, when he glances at the clock on the nightstand, fourty-seven minutes feels like an eternity. He stays where he is, unsure of what else there is to do besides wait. The newly fallen angel is still looking at the hunter, his thoughts wandering, when Dean turns over, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. He blinks in the light for a few seconds, before he sees Castiel.

“The staring thing is creepy for humans too, Cass,” Dean says through a yawn. 

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says, out of habit.

“What time is it?”

“It’s early. The sun hasn’t risen yet.”

Dean grabs at the clock on the nightstand. He looks at the time, groans, and falls back onto the mattress.

“I haven’t slept that many hours in a row in years.”

Castiel watches the hunter stretch from his fingers to his toes, the hem of his dark green t-shirt rising up as he goes. Dean lets his arms fall back down to the bed a moment later, and appears to be content to just lie there. Enough time passes that Castiel is sure he went back to sleep, but Dean sits up with a sigh as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Guess we oughta head out soon. I told Sam we’d be back today. I’m going to grab a shower. We’ll get out of Pontiac and stop somewhere for breakfast. You’ve gotta be starving.”

“Pontiac?”

“Yeah, Cass. Pontiac, Illinois. You -- you didn’t know where you were?”

Castiel shakes his head. 

“Oh,” Dean says. He blinks at Castiel for a few awkward seconds before getting to his feet, “I’ll just... Go get ready.”

“All right.”

Dean grabs some clothes out of his bag and heads towards the bathroom. When the door closes, Castiel lets out the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. He doesn't know what to say to Dean, and it's clear the hunter feels the same way. Part of him hopes they won't talk about everything that has happened over the course of the last few days. He and Dean could set it aside for now and revisit it later, but that's a bad idea. Castiel has watched the Winchesters do that too many times. Leaving things unsaid never ends well. Truth be told, he has been guilty of that himself, on more than one occasion, in these past few years. So much so, Castiel is at a loss for where either of them can begin. 

“You want to take a shower or anything before we go? I have some spare clothes you could borrow.”

Castiel looks up to see Dean, freshly showered and dressed, rubbing a towel over his wet hair.

"It's okay. I'll only be a minute," Castiel says as he stands and starts towards the bathroom. He doesn't want to waste anymore time here, but the least he can do is wash up a little.

“Wait,” Dean crouches down and reaches in his bag, pulling out a new, unopened toothbrush and tosses it to Castiel, “I always keep an extra one, just in case. Toothpaste is still in the bathroom.”

“Thank you.”

Castiel washes his face and neck before brushing his teeth. It shocks him how much better he feels having done those few simple things. He tries to do something with his hair, which is messier than usual, but besides picking out a stray twig or two there isn't much to be done with it. Castiel considers himself in the mirror for a moment. He appears tired and he is scruffier than normal, but for now, this is as good as it gets. Turning the light out as he leaves, Castiel grabs his coats. Dean is already slinging his bag over his shoulder, ready to head out the door. He puts the suit jacket back on, but notices the trench coat seems to have taken the brunt of the dirt from his wandering in the woods. He decides not to put it on, instead he folds it and puts it in the trunk of the Impala next to Dean’s bag.

They’re on the road in less than half an hour, the first rays of sunlight chasing them down the dark highway as they head west toward Kansas.

**********

Sam is sitting at the table reading when his cell phone goes off. Without taking his eyes off the page, he grabs it. After finding a good place to stop, Sam looks to see who texted him, keeping his finger in the book to mark his place.

          (1/2)

          Sam,

           Your brother asked me to send you this message. It is currently four o’clock and we are approximately forty-

           five minutes out. We will be stopping to pick

          (2/2)

          up pizza for dinner. I’m to tell you that we are not getting the kind with the sprouts, no matter how much  

          “bitching” you do, you overgrown rabbit.  

           -Castiel

 He's almost finished with the first two texts when his phone beeps again.          

          Sam,

          Apparently, I was supposed to leave the part about the rabbit out. Apologies.

          -Castiel

Sam laughs, shaking his head. Crowley, who is sitting in the seat across from him, looks up. Kevin had finally agreed to release Crowley earlier in the day. The former demon had spent part of that time moaning about how bored he was until he had come across an old stack of New York Times crosswords puzzles from the 1950s.

“You want to share with the class?”

“I got a text from Dean. Well, kind of. Cass wrote it.”

“So the angel’s up and kicking. Did he spontaneously grow a sense of humor?”

“Not exactly. Here,” Sam says, grinning as he passes his phone over to Crowley.

“Wow,” Crowley says after reading it.

“Yeah.”

“He actually spelled out the time,” Crowley says, handing the phone back to Sam, “While I’m impressed he knows what a text is, someone should teach the angel it’s not so much formal letter writing as it is caveman grunts in butchered abbreviations.”

“You volunteering?”

Sam smirks, as Crowley glares at him before returning to his crossword puzzle. He leans over to see what progress Crowley has made.

“Octads.”

“What?”

“20 across,” Sam says, pointing at the crossword as he reads, “Planets and notes in a musical scale.”

“Ah.”

Sam goes back to his book and they sit in amicable silence until Dean and Castiel arrive back at the Bunker. Dean doesn’t see Crowley until he’s halfway down the steps. When he does, he pauses mid-step. Sam can tell Dean is trying to decide if he should be throwing the pizzas to the ground so he can draw his gun.

“Sam, what the hell?”

“That was my reaction, too,” Kevin say as he emerges from the depths of the Bunker. 

He takes a seat next to Sam, angel tablet and notebook in hand. Crowley and Kevin glare at each other for a moment in what is fast becoming their normal greeting, before returning to their respective projects and leaving the Winchesters to duke it out amongst themselves.

“Dean, calm down.”

Sam gets up and moves around the table, not sure what his brother is going to do next. In hindsight, it would have been a good idea to warn Dean before he hit the state line. 

“I am calm!” Dean all but yells as he stomps down the rest of the stairs.

“Yes, you are the very picture of anger management,” Crowley says, without looking up from his puzzle.

“Crowley, shut up. Dean, it’s all right.”

“How is this all right?”

Sam takes the pizza boxes out of Dean’s hands and puts them down on the table, trying his best not to lose his patience.

“Can we talk about this somewhere else?”

Dean glares at him, fists clenched, before relenting.

“Fine. Don’t you dare touch my meat lovers,” Dean says, pointing at the former King of Hell.

Crowley looks from Dean to Castiel, then back to Dean, “That would be your favorite.”

Sam has to step in front of his brother to stop him from launching himself at Crowley, “Kitchen! Now!”

He half drags Dean down the hall and into the kitchen. Dean is seething as he paces back and forth.

“I can’t believe you let that dick out.”

“He’s about as human as he can get, Dean. We can't keep him locked up forever.”

“Just because he gave you some sob story about forgiveness doesn’t mean he --”

“It wasn't just a sob story. I was there, remember?" Sam says, irritation coloring his tone, "Look, Kevin and I ran tests on him. More than we needed to, and he passed them all. Nothing works on him anymore. Hell, holy water was the only thing that kind of affected him and that wasn’t even a big deal. Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

It’s like the wind comes out of Dean’s sails in that moment. He stops pacing and looks at Sam. 

“No, I don’t,” Dean says, sighing as he leans against one of the stainless steel counters.

“I'm not saying we trust him yet, but we can’t leave him tied up forever. It'll be easier to get him to trust us if we give him a little leeway. We've got to start somewhere, right?”

Dean looks like he is about to disagree, but shrugs, “I guess. We’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

“Definitely.”

“Kevin’s all right with it?”

“He hasn’t killed him yet.”

“I’m surprised they’re getting along that well," Dean says, eyes looking Sam up and down, "How are you holding up?”

“I’m still upright, so I guess that’s something. I’ve been better.”

He puts up with Dean's scrutinization, trying to figure out if Sam is hiding how bad he really is. The way Sam sees it, there isn't anything they can do about whatever is broken in him right now, so as long as he can function, they might as well move on. 

“How’s Cass? I guess he’s human?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?” Sam asks, when his brother fails to elaborate.

“It's not like he came with official papers or anything. I asked him, and it was a yes,” Dean mumbles the last part to his boots.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You guys drove over eight hours and didn’t talk to each other?” 

Dean almost looks embarrassed, “We talked. Just not much about anything that happened or about what’s going on with Cass.”

Sam can’t remember a time he has seen his brother this uncomfortable. It’s like the mere thought of talking to Castiel about falling and what happened in Heaven terrifies Dean. 

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’ve got to talk to him. Can you imagine what Cass is going through right now?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Dean says as he scoots a wooden spoon across the counter he's leaning against, still avoiding Sam's gaze.

“Sooner, not later,” Sam says, because he knows his brother and ‘I’ll talk to him’ could mean anything from tomorrow to next year sometime, if he thinks he can get away with it. 

“Yeah, yeah.”

“We should probably get back out there.”

“We got beer on hand?”

“In the fridge.”

“Good. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need it.”

Dean opens the refrigerator and grabs out two six packs, while Sam gets some plates. They’re about to have as close as they’re going to get to their first family dinner in the Bunker. It's bound to be tense, which Sam imagines would be normal as far as extended families go. That’s something. 

“Ready?” Sam asks, as they head towards the door.

“No, but I’m starving, so I’m going out there anyways.”

Sam half expects to walk in on a full blown fight, and is surprised to find the exact opposite. Crowley is still going over his crossword and Kevin is writing something in his notebook, both finishing off a piece of pizza. Castiel sits next to Crowley, examining one of the four boxes, apparently trying to decide which one he wants.

“Pass me another slice of pepperoni, will you?” Crowley asks Castiel.

Castiel nods and hands him a piece, taking another one out for himself. Crowley thanks him before returning to his puzzle. The Winchesters stare at each other in shock for a moment before joining the other three at the table. It’s quiet. It’s calm. Sam thinks maybe this won’t be so bad after all. 

**********

Dean isn't sure if it’s because it's been a rough couple of days or that there's been too much on his mind, but he finds himself wandering around the Bunker long after everyone else has gone to bed. Things had gone smooth tonight which was a complete shock to all involved. Though Dean would never admit it, it's kind of nice having other people besides him and his little brother rattling around the place. 

Sam, being the wannabe Martha Stewart that he is, had already given Crowley a room. It’s the one next to Sam’s, putting him between the ex-demon and everyone else. Especially Kevin, who had picked a room further down in a different hallway. The kid seemed to like having somewhere to go to get away from everything. Dean can’t blame him for that. Sam had even gotten a room ready for Castiel, putting him in the one across the hall from Dean's. There is no way Sam could have planned it, but Dean can’t help but take the placement as the not so subtle hint that he knows it is. He loves Sam, but he can be a nosy asshat sometimes.

And, if asked, when he had stopped at Castiel’s door a few hours earlier with an extra pair of sleep pants and a shirt, it was not him in anyway taking the hint to talk to the former angel. Not at all. Castiel had thanked him and they exchanged an awkward few words before Dean retreated in defeat. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to the fallen angel. Dean just doesn’t know what to say. Hell, he’s not even sure how he feels about the whole mess. 

Dean is pissed that, yet again, Castiel took off and did something stupid on his own without running it by them or at least waiting for them to help. Not only that, he is angry at himself for not helping Castiel more. Whether from this go around or from all the years they’ve both jacked everything all the hell, he isn't sure. 

Mostly, Dean is happy and relieved the guy is alive at all. He can remember how terrified he had been watching the angels fall. Some part of him had been so sure Castiel was dead. He’d been so sure this was the end and, once again, Dean had been a day late and a dollar short. That is the story of his life, after all. He had never been so grateful to be so wrong when he’d had whatever the hell that was that helped him figure out where Castiel was. An epiphany, or whatever. That episode is a can of worms Dean does not want to go anywhere near right now. Or ever. Besides, he can only deal with one damn problem at a time.  

Dean is walking by Sam’s room when a noise from inside jolts him out of his jumbled thoughts. He stops to listen, opening the door when he hears the muffled sound again. Sam is dead to world, but his hands are clutching at the blanket that’s twisted around him. He mumbles something Dean can’t hear, forehead creased in worry. Bad dreams are part of the job, but it seems like they get more than their fair share. Dean crosses over to the bed and pushes some sweaty strands of hair out of his little brother’s face. It's like the kid became allergic to haircuts after the Apocalypse.

“Sammy,” Dean says, voice low, “Hey c'mon, you’re having a nightmare.”

Dean rubs along his back like he used to when Sam was little and he’d had a bad dream or woke up in the middle of the night crying for Dad. Soon, Sam’s hands unclench as his body relaxes. Dean sighs as he pulls up a chair. He may not know what to do about Castiel yet, but nightmares he can deal with.

**********

“Dean, you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’ve never done something like this before.”

“So? I’ll be the best they’ve ever seen,” Dean says, grinning.

“It’s just... If you don’t want to, I’m sure they can find someone else.”

“I signed up and they picked me, dude. Pretty sure I’m the someone else they found.”

“Yeah, but --"

“Jeez, Sammy,” Dean sighs as he parks the Impala in the school parking lot. 

Sam grimaces, eyes finding his shoes as he fiddles with the strap on his backpack. Dean looks hurt and that is the exact opposite of what he had been going for. His older brother has been out of school for almost two years now. He’s eighteen and he shouldn’t have to be here. He should be out having fun or at the very least hunting with Dad. This isn’t Dean’s job. Sam is trying to give him an easy way out, because he has no idea why his older brother would want to waste his day doing this.

“Do you not want me to go?”

“It’s not that."

Sam looks at the three yellow buses parked out front of the tan brick two-story building that has been his school for less than a month. Sam’s grade is taking a field trip to the Cleveland Botanical Gardens today. With all the moving around, Sam has only been on a handful of field trips, most of which were in grade school. This time, however, Dean had gotten hold of his permission slip. Before Dad could say no or Sam could throw the stupid thing away, Dean had filled it out, given Sam the money he’d needed, and told him to make sure he turned it in on time or he would pound him. Sam wasn't aware that his older brother had also signed up to be a chaperone until Dean was tapped to come along.

Truth be told, Sam is thrilled to have Dean here. On the few trips he had been on, he can remember watching the kids whose parents were willing to show up for these kinds of things. Some of the kids whined about it, but the majority seemed happy just knowing someone was there for them. As for the parents, most of them got a kick out of seeing their kids horsing around with their classmates. Even the kids and parents who didn’t get along seemed to enjoy the time together, but that may have been Sam’s imagination. Either way, he would watch them all and wish he had someone there for him too. He’s happy Dean wants to come. He just doesn’t want to be a burden.

“If you’re worried I’m going to embarrass you in front of your friends, I promise to be on my best behavior.”

Sam snorts, “I’d have to have friends first.”

“Sammy --”

“It’s not a big deal, Dean,” Sam says, wishing he had done this better, “We should go. It looks like they’re getting ready to leave.” 

Sam hops out of the Impala before Dean can say anything else and leads the way over to the buses.

***

“Is he your brother?” a lanky, redheaded kid named Jacob asks.

Sam had decided to blend in with the scenery, lingering near the back of his group as they make their way through the gardens. The kid had actually waited for Sam to catch up to ask the question. Sam has maybe exchanged three or four words with Jacob since arriving in town. He looks at Dean before answering. His older brother is up front, leading the small group of boys he had been assigned to babysit like he was an actual tour guide.

"Yeah, he is," Sam says.

In Sam’s experience, most chaperones seemed content to simply usher their group from one attraction to another, maybe taking the time to read snippets from whatever signs were posted along the way. Dean’s tour has less to do with information about plants and trees than it does discussing important things, such as the age old debate over pirates verses ninjas. Specifically, who would win in a fight and who was more badass all around. Dean had kept them more than entertained all morning long, and everyone is still laughing and smiling as they make their way to where the rest of the class is meeting up for lunch.

“He’s pretty cool,” Jacob says after a moment, smiling at Sam.

The teachers and chaperones pass out the sack lunches everyone had brought and put into coolers earlier in the morning. Sam is searching for a quiet, shaded spot when Jacob pulls him over to his group of friends and introduces him. He laughs and talks with them for the next hour, enjoying the feeling of being a normal teenager. He’s so distracted that he only glances at Dean once, noticing that his older brother appears to be having a very friendly conversation with one of the younger teachers. Typical. 

The afternoon goes much the same as the morning had, only this time Sam has company in the back of the group. At two o’clock, Dean leads them over to the daily butterfly release, where they watch newly hatched butterflies take flight for the first time. It’s a little corny for their age bracket, but Sam has to admit it is kind of neat. After that, they meet up with the rest of their grade and get ready to head out. Sam sits with Jacob and his friends on the bus. It’s one of the best days he’s had in a long time.

Once they arrive back at school, everyone gathers up their stuff and starts heading out. Sam waves at Jacob, Trevor, and Andy, telling them he’ll see them tomorrow before he and Dean get into their car. From the look on his new friends' faces, the Impala is just as much of a hit as Dean had been all day. The Winchester brothers make their way back to the motel, sounds of Metallica filling the silence between them. They don’t see Dad’s truck when they pull into the lot. Dean parks the Impala and they make their way to number 32. Dean is putting the key in the lock when Sam manages to speak up.

“Dean?”

Dean turns to look at him. Sam finds himself wrapping his arms around Dean in an awkward hug. He used to hug Dean all the time when he was a kid, but it had kind of went by the wayside in the last few years, as things like that tend to when you get older. Dean is stiff for a second, surprised, before he wraps his arms around Sam, returning the hug. When Sam lets him go, Dean stares at him, bemused.

“What was that for?”

Sam shifts from side to side, “I don’t know. Just, thanks. For today.”

Dean smiles at him. It’s a genuine smile, instead of the cocky smirk he usually wears. This is the real Dean. The Dean people rarely get to see. The one his older brother hides under all the sarcasm and bravado, which sometimes seems to be his default setting. 

Still, this is Dean Winchester he’s dealing with, so of course he has to ruin the moment.

“Told you I’d be the best damn chaperone you’d ever seen.”

“You weren’t that good,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

“Please. I had those kids eating out of my hand.”

“Whatever, jerk.”

“Bitch,” he says, his tone cheerful.

Dean unlocks the door and heads inside, Sam following right behind him. 

Chapter Text

Sam's symptoms level out after a few days to something close to manageable. He is by no means cured, but not being in constant, excruciating pain is a plus. He'll take whatever win he can get with his health at this point. The timing, however, could be better. At least being sick would have been a legitimate cop-out for today's little adventure. Sam stands in the middle of yet another store looking more like a clothes rack than a human being, cursing Dean. Sam's ‘profound bond’ comment had not been bad enough to deserve this kind of punishment. After almost a week of borrowing clothes, Dean had thrown him out the door with a fallen angel and ex-demon to go clothes shopping.

As far as shopping goes, Castiel was easy once he’d gotten used to it. The worst had been suffering through a five minute long philosophical discussion on men's underwear and the merits of boxers or briefs. Castiel chose the middle ground with boxer briefs. Sam, for his part, could have lived his whole life without knowing the former angel’s underwear preferences. He is going to kill Dean. The rest had went smooth after that. Castiel found a decent pair of boots, a few pairs of jeans, some button down shirts, and a variety of long and short sleeve T-shirts. Most of them were various shades of blue, but there were some oranges, purples, and reds thrown in. The only problem they were having was finding Castiel a new coat or two. The angel refused to try on any new ones, let alone buy one. With it still being late summer, Sam conceded to Castiel's reluctance and moved on, saving the battle for a later date. 

Moving on might have been a bad idea, however. Crowley is taking his sweet time trying on the two suits he'd been willing to take a look at. Sam glances at Castiel as they wait near the fitting room area. Dean had lent him a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Sam’s stuff is way too long for the former angel. Castiel had looked like a normal guy for a minute, but refused to walk outside without his trench coat, despite the heat. The combination left something to be desired as far as fashion goes. Dean had said it was like watching Linus with his blanket, an assessment Sam had to agree with. 

The easiest buy for Cass had turned out to be a wallet. The fallen angel had taken to the task with the same amount of seriousness as someone choosing their first house. Sam fought back laughter as the angel inspected each option before picking a compact, light brown leather wallet. He didn’t have anything to put in it yet, but after they walked out of the store, Castiel had retrieved it from the bag and put it in his pocket, a small smile gracing his features. It's probably the first real personal item Castiel has ever owned. 

“How do you people wear things off the rack?”

Taking Crowley shopping, on the other hand, is an absolute nightmare. Crowley is used to custom threads, tailored for him by top designers. The idea of getting some things made for him had been nixed before they had even parked the Impala. Sam would be damned if they shelled out for that, even if the Winchesters weren’t going to be paying. A ‘Robert Fritz’ would be footing the bill for this shopping spree.

“You could get some jeans and --”

“I do not wear flannel or plaid, Moose.”

“You used to wear kilts.”

“Doesn’t count. Besides, everybody loves a man in a kilt.”

Sam rolls his eyes. Castiel already had more than half a wardrobe bought, while Crowley had jack to show for their day out on the town. 

“It’s just clothing, Crowley,” Castiel says, shifting around on the wooden bench outside the dressing room doors he had commandeered earlier, “This task shouldn’t be difficult, even for you.”

“Says the man who can’t let go of his precious coat,” Crowley calls back at them as he looks at himself in a nearby mirror.

“Sam has been kind enough to do this for us, the least you can do is try to be cooperative.”

“I’m sorry some of us aren’t content with their sweetheart’s hand-me-downs.”

Sam groans. It had been too much to hope for civility to last the whole day.

“Just pick something, you abomination,” Castiel says, through gritted teeth.

“Not anymore, angel. I’ve been mostly saved, remember?” Crowley says. He looks back at them in the mirror, hand flying to cover his mouth in mock embarrassment, “Oops! Sorry, Cass. I forgot someone plucked your feathers.”

In a flash, Castiel is on his feet and heading towards Crowley. Sam steps in front of him before he can get to the ex-demon.

“That’s enough!”

“He started it,” Crowley says.

“Castiel, sit down. Crowley, quit being such an ass and find some damn clothes.”

In the end, Crowley is able to find some suits he says he can deal with. He chooses mostly dress clothes and a couple pairs of shoes, but Sam sees the him slip in some jeans and more casual shirts as well. Somehow, everyone makes it out alive. Sam almost falls to his knees in thanks when they get back to the Bunker. 

“How’d it go?” Dean asks, without looking up at them as they enter.

Dean is sitting at the table, munching on a sandwich while he reads a book. Sam doesn’t say anything. As he walks by, one of the bags he carries hits his brother in the head, causing him to spill some beer down his shirt. Sam claims it was an accident as he follows Crowley and Castiel down the hallway, smirking all the way.

**********

Castiel watches over Dean, unseen, after Sam casts himself into the cage. He observes the first few days of the sometimes awkward transition of Dean’s slow merge into the Braeden household. He watches Dean throw a baseball around with Ben in the backyard. He sees him and Lisa sit together in the living room, watching a movie on the television. Castiel would be lying if he said he didn’t miss Dean. 

But this wasn’t the man Castiel had learned to know so well. He wasn’t the friend Castiel longed to talk to again. Dean could be standing right in front of Castiel, but he wasn’t there. Something fundamental was missing from the hunter, and that essential component was trapped with Castiel’s own fallen brothers in Hell. 

“...He brought you back. But what about Sam? What about me, huh? Where’s my grand prize? All I got is my brother in a hole!”

Castiel had blown Dean off that night, telling him this was what he had wanted and asking if he would rather have peace or freedom. Castiel had bolted after that, at a loss for what else he could do for his charge. Dean would say he had been a dick and he would be right, but there were no easy answers Castiel could give him that night. The angel still doesn’t know what God wants. He doesn’t understand why Sam, and by extension Dean, is being punished for stopping what the angels had started. He does agree with Dean, however, questioning whatever help God had given or role he had played in averting the Apocalypse. It seems when it comes to the Winchesters, all Castiel can do is question, and eventually disobey.

Which finds him here, in Lisa’s spare bedroom. It has been just over a week since Dean had arrived on her doorstep. Castiel watches the former hunter as the nightmares begin to seep into the man’s almost pleasant dreams. He presses two fingers to the back of his charge’s head, clearing away the images of his brother being tortured in Hell. Having been to Hell himself, Dean’s imagination is able to depict a vivid picture of what Sam is experiencing. It's still mild compared to what the reality is. 

Dean’s face relaxes as the angel pushes those dark thoughts aside, sending him into a deeper sleep where the hunter can find some much deserved rest. Castiel wants to tell Dean all will be well soon. He wants nothing more than to ease the man’s mind and promise Dean he will make things right. He wants to, but he stops himself. Even though he is confident he can harrow Hell alone with his new and improved powers, it is still a dangerous proposition. If something goes wrong, and Castiel doesn’t make it back, at least Dean will be none the wiser. Dean shifts in his sleep, the left sleeve of his threadbare T-shirt riding up. 

The power it had taken to raise his charge from perdition had left a scar in the shape of the angel’s hand on Dean’s arm. He had carried it with him while the seals broke and throughout the Apocalypse. Now, that arm is scar free. Castiel had always known Dean would honor Sam’s wish that he find a normal life. Dean wouldn’t want a constant reminder of that time marked forever on his skin. A mark given to him from someone whose brothers were responsible for setting in motion the events that would rip Dean’s own brother away from him. Castiel had removed the scar as he healed Dean from Lucifer’s beating. It had been the right thing to do, but the sight of that unblemished skin on Dean’s arm fills Castiel with sadness.

“You suck at goodbyes, you know that?”

He had heard the hunter mutter those words as Castiel fled from Dean’s anger and grief. Even though Dean will never know he’s here, this is Castiel’s version of a goodbye. He supposes that means he still sucks at it.

“Goodbye Dean,” Castiel whispers into the room, his voice as unheard as he is unseen.

Dean turns to face him, even as the angel starts to walk away. He pauses, studying Dean's features one last time before forcing himself to move. Something catches Castiel's eye as he turns to leave. The silver ring had been on Dean’s right hand all the time Castiel has known him. Now, it sits on a nearby dresser on top of the bracelet his charge had always wore, the band glinting in the early morning light. Hunters do not have homes. Not in the normal human sense of the word. But they do tend to collect things along the way. Little tokens that speak to them and give them comfort. Dean is no different. Castiel doesn’t know the story behind these two objects, but he had never seen Dean without them until his first night in this house. 

Dean had been restless after Lisa and Ben went to bed. Castiel had watched his charge pace like a trapped animal, chased in circles by his relentless thoughts. Halfway through that first night, Dean had tore the ring and bracelet off, leaving marks on his skin in his haste. He had held them in the palm of his hand for a few minutes, staring at them. Dean moved to the open window, the cool night air rippling through the sheer white curtains. He was going to fling them out, but stopped just before releasing his hand. Instead, Dean threw them onto the old, wooden dresser in the corner and hadn’t looked at them since. Whatever part of his old life they represented for him, Dean no longer wanted the reminder.

For Castiel, however, the ring glinting in the soft light reminded him of Dean. He sees Dean driving his beloved car, now hidden away under a tarp in the garage, singing loud and off key along with a song on the radio. He sees the three of them sitting in a diner in the middle of nowhere, the two brothers laughing and poking fun at each other, both content to have a few moments to pretend the end of the world wasn’t hanging over their heads. He sees Dean laughing at something Castiel said. He sees Dean pulling him up off the ground after being knocked down during a hunt when the angel’s powers were all but gone.

The ring finds its way into the pocket of his trench coat, and is with him as he pulls most of Sam out of the cage. It’s with Castiel later when he stands watching Dean rake leaves, in desperate need of help as Raphael closes in, even though he had promised himself he wouldn’t drag his charge back into this life. It’s there from the time he makes the deal with Crowley to the moment the Leviathans overtake him. Beyond all reason, the ring is still in his coat pocket when Dean gives it back to him the night his memory is restored and they rescue Sam. He feels its reassuring weight in his hand one more time before he chooses to take on Sam’s memories from Hell, exchanging his sanity for Sam’s insanity. 

He fiddles with the ring periodically during his time in the asylum, despite his mind being lost and no longer knowing what the ring means. Meg asks about it, but Castiel never answers. The demon chalks it up to madness. It’s still in the pocket of his trench coat when Dean and Castiel find themselves in Purgatory. Castiel feels the cool metal of the little circle heavy in his clenched fist every night spent there as he listens to Dean’s prayers, reminding him why he must not answer. After all this time and everything they’ve been through, it’s still there, in the pocket of the coat the fallen angel still wears, unable to let it go.

**********

“Are we going to talk about what’s going on?” 

Dean looks up at his brother, startled. Apparently he had dozed off. He's lounged in one of the high back, green velvet chairs with his feet propped up on a matching footstool, the fireplace warm nearby. They had gathered around an ancient television after dinner in the first living room Dean has been able to call his own since he was four. It used to be hard for him to think of the Bunker as home. For the first few months, he half expected to be dragged out and told that this had all been a horrible mistake. It had been so long since he’d had a home that he belonged in, but now he couldn’t imagine not coming back to this place. Hell, he’s comfortable enough to fall asleep where he sits, without having to worry about something nasty busting in through a thin motel room door. Even so, he has never been one to sleep anywhere at anytime and it's been happening more often. The sitting up to watch over Sam every other night must be taking a toll. Besides, this room is too warm and cozy not to be sleep inducing. 

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, sitting up straighter.

Sam, stretched out on the soft, brown leather couch, doesn’t look at him. He’s scowling at the flickering flames in the red brick fireplace like it insulted him. 

“Out there.”

“I don’t know, Sam, do we have something to talk about?”

“We’ve got angels running loose doing who knows what, and you don’t think that’s a problem?”

“It’s not like they’ve got powers or anything.” 

“You don’t know that.”

Sam does have a point. All they have to go off of right now is Castiel, who had trouble opening a pickle jar at lunch. Their resident fallen angel isn’t up to snuff, but Castiel has always been different. Maybe it isn't the same for the rest of the angels.

“Fine, you got me, but they’ve got to be running on fumes. How much damage can they do?”

The truth of the matter is, Dean is concerned about it, but not as much as he’s concerned about his brother or Castiel or Kevin. Hell, he’s even concerned about Crowley, though Dean’s worry there is that the "saved" demon is waiting for the right time to kill them all in their sleep. Why can’t they take a little time and gather themselves? Would that be so bad?

“They can do plenty of damage,” Castiel pipes up from an identical green chair seated next to Dean.

That would be a negative on the whole taking care of what’s damaged closer to home idea then. Dean glares at the back of the newspaper Castiel is hiding behind. The former angel had taken up reading all the newspapers he could get his hands on, even looking at the online versions when he couldn’t find print. He’s surprised to see Castiel awake, considering the way the guy is all kicked back with his newspaper resting over his eyes. He must have been playing possum, the sneaky bastard.

“Like what, jaywalking? Parking in front of a fire hydrant?”

Castiel removes the newspaper, the movement slow and calculated. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes boring into Dean like he’s trying to burn a hole through his skull. Or explode it. In fairness, there was a time Castiel might have been able to. It’s the first time they’ve really looked at each other in days. They had talked, kind of, but neither of them met the other's eyes for too long. Sam’s face has been stuck in a permanent frown anytime he is in the room to witness them trying and failing at another small talk session. Dean wouldn't put it past Sam to have the dungeon on standby in case he has to lock them in together.

“It’s not just the angels down here, Dean,” Sam says, turning towards him, “What about Metatron?”

“The dick got what he wanted,” Dean says, shrugging as gives up on his staring match with Castiel to look at Sam, “He’s got the penthouse suite all to himself.”

“And you think he’s just sitting up there twiddling his thumbs?”

“To say nothing of what Abaddon will be up to in Hell,” Crowley says from behind them.

Dean turns to see the demon walking in with Kevin. 

“Are you two BFFs now or something?”

“No, but he does have a point,” Kevin says, “Besides, weren’t you the one that said we couldn’t kill him because he could be useful?”

“Charming,” Crowley says, smiling at Dean.

Dean rolls his eyes. He had hoped to wiggle his way out of this conversation, or at least hold it off for another day or two. With Kevin and Crowley on his case too, he's got zero chance of that happening. And damn it, he hates it when people throw his own words back at him. Dean only ever had to deal with Sam pulling this kind of stuff on a regular basis. He can handle his little brother, but if the other three are going to start getting in on the action, he isn't sure he’s going to survive this whole frat house, extended sleep over thing they’ve got going.

“What is it, Crowley?” Sam asks, leaning to look over the back of the couch at the allegedly ex-demon and Kevin.

“Nothing much. Just that, back in the church, while you were out taking a siesta during my master cleanse, Abaddon was making overtures to me about a regime change in Hell.”

“You’re just mentioning this now?” Dean asks.

“We’ve been a bit busy of late, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Whatever. That's not new news. There's always been demons moving up and down Hell’s corporate ladder. Same old, same old, just with a new flavor of Hell bitch at the top.”

“Please tell me you're joking,” Crowley says as he looks around the room and is met with blank stares, “You don’t know who you’re dealing with do you? I’ve got to say, I’m concerned I’ve hitched my little black wagon to the wrong traveling circus.”

Dean is about five seconds from killing Crowley, maybe human or not, on the grounds of him being an annoying dick. No jury would convict him.

“I swear, if you don’t --”

“Abaddon isn’t only a knight of Hell,” Kevin says, “She was one of the first demons."

"Trained and commanded by the lords of Hell. Our side's top brass, other than Lucifer himself.”

“The what?”

“The other angels that fell with Lucifer, moron,” Crowley says, as he takes a seat next to Sam on the couch as he sits up, Kevin following suit, "The lords of Hell each owned their own faction of the Pit, with the knights acting as their own personal armies."

“You think Abaddon will want to spring Lucifer again? What are we on, the third or fourth apocalypse now?” Dean asks, rubbing at his temple. His head is starting to pound.

“Third,” Sam says. 

“I doubt her endgame will involve Lucifer. He brings along too much baggage.”

“They weren’t involved before where they?”

“Not that I’m aware, and I would have been aware of something like that. Every demon would have.” 

“Well, where were they, then?” Dean asks.

“No one knows what happened to all of them. Until Abaddon, no one had seen hide nor hair of any of the mongrels in a dark age. I assume most of the original fallen were buried in the Pit or couldn’t suffer being cut off from daddy and faded away. Those angels who could became the lords of Hell and made due with the hand they'd been dealt. They adapted, and became something else. Something new.” 

"Like some kind of angelic demon?" Dean asks, the pounding getting louder.

“No idea. I’m not a scholar of all things winged and haloed. You’d have to ask someone more knowledgeable on the inner workings of Heaven,” Crowley says, looking at Castiel, “But I am telling you what I know to be fact.”

“Is this ringing any bells, Cass?” Dean asks, looking over his shoulder.

Castiel looks stunned, which is disconcerting on its own, but it’s worse when he turns wide, confused eyes to Dean.

“I-I don’t --”

“Please, this is the stuff they teach in demon primary school, surely it’s Angel 101."

Castiel doesn’t answer, knuckles white from gripping the overstuffed arms of his chair too tight. His eyes dart back and forth, like he’s scanning his brain for the information, but coming back with an error message. Dean can hear his breathing falter. At the very least, Castiel is on the verge of hyperventilating, if not teetering on the edge of a full blown panic attack. Dean is reaching out a hand towards Castiel before he realizes what he's doing.

“Cass?” 

Dean says the name in a soft voice, but it could have been a gun going off right next to Castiel’s ear. He flinches, wild eyes focusing on Dean, before he bolts out of the room. 

“I think our resident angel hadn’t heard that particular bedtime story before,” Crowley says.

“Dean, go after him.”

He tears his eyes away from the door Castiel disappeared through to look at his little brother and is surprised to find that he is already on his feet. Without another word, Dean is out the door.

***

Dean makes a quick round of the Bunker. When Castiel doesn’t turn up anywhere, he heads outside. There's no moon. The stars twinkle bright over head against the vast blackness as a cool summer breeze slides through the long grass. Dean’s eyes search the area, expecting to see Castiel leaning against a tree or doubled up near the stairs. Instead he finds the former angel sitting in the backseat of the Impala. He opens one of the back doors and looks in. Castiel is plastered to the other side of the car like he’s trying to become one with it, his eyes staring straight ahead, his arms crossed tight around him. 

“Cass? Are you all right?”

It’s a stupid question, but Dean is out of his depth here. The angel doesn’t acknowledge him. 

“You, uh, mind if I join you?”

A long few seconds pass before he gets the slightest head shake out of Castiel. Dean slides into the backseat, closing the door behind him. The interior lights go out and they’re left to the dark, empty silence of the night. It stays like that for a few minutes, before Dean can’t stand it anymore. He pulls the keys out of his pocket and puts it into the ignition, twisting it so he can get the radio to come on, turning the volume down before settling back in. The sounds of the soft rock station he had left it on earlier fills the empty spaces between them. He feels a little less on edge with the background noise.

“You want to talk about what happened back there?”

“Do you?”

Dean has to admit it’s a fair question, considering the universal answer for him is always no. 

“It’s not my favorite pastime, but yeah, if you want.”

“I make you uncomfortable.”

Dean fidgets as if on cue. He had signed up to talk about the angel thing, not the crap ton of issues between them. 

“You’ve always made me uncomfortable, man,” Dean says, with a slight grin, defaulting to his usual joking manner when things hit too close to home.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because...”  

Because what? Because Castiel is a friend? Because he’s family? What is it that tethers them together still? Dean is no longer sure what it is. There are too many hurt feelings and disappointments covering over whatever it is that’s always been there, hiding under the surface of everything they’ve said and done to and for each other.

“Because you’re Cass,” Dean says, hoping that maybe the former angel can get what he means.

Castiel looks at him. They stay that way, sitting there listening to the music as it plays. Dean notices Castiel isn’t trying to disappear in the corner anymore, instead he's sitting upright, hands folded in his lap.

“I don’t remember any of what Crowley was talking about,” Castiel says as he stares out the windshield.

“You don’t remember Lucifer falling?”

“No, I remember Michael casting Lucifer out of Heaven and into Hell. I can picture it clearly. It’s... It’s the other angels falling. What happened to them after. I don’t --” Castiel stops, looking down at his hands.

Dean’s stomach drops, “Maybe Crowley lied. Wouldn't be the first time. If not... Well, you’ve lived a long time, Cass. Maybe you, I don’t know, forgot?”

It sounds lame even to Dean’s ears, but something about it hits a chord with Castiel. The fallen angel chuckles, the tone bitter as he shakes his head.

“I didn’t forget.”

“Then what --”

“Naomi.”

“I thought she was controlling you, not --”

“She was. This time.”

It’s like the world decides to tilt sideways on him and forgets to give Dean the memo. He can’t tell if he wants to scream, cry, or gank something. If Naomi had been controlling Castiel before, then when did it start? How much of what had happened in the last few years had been Castiel? Dean assumes the whole ditching Heaven for Team Free Will during the Apocalypse wasn’t planned, but what about Castiel going all Emperor Palpatine and wreaking havoc upstairs and down afterwards? Why would they let that happen if they had an off switch installed the whole time? Hell, was Castiel even Castiel when Dean first met him? No wonder the fallen angel is freaking out, Dean is freaking the hell out. 

“You’re telling me that bitch did this before?”

“I don’t know if she has controlled my actions before, but it’s something Naomi said when they found me while I was protecting the angel tablet...” 

Dean sees the ghost of a grimace on Castiel’s face before he continues, because yeah, there’s another landmine between them.

“She told me the angels had been in my head too many times to be safe. That there were things I don’t remember. Things I guess they erased for reasons they felt were justified at the time. Naomi said I came off the assembly line with a broken chassis. Apparently, I have always been a problem.”

“I’ll kill her.”

“I believe Metatron beat you to it.”

“Then I’ll kill him for getting there first.”

Castiel gives Dean a small smile. He tries to give him one back, but he doesn’t quite manage it. 

“I can’t trust my memories, Dean. Any of them could have been tampered with or could be entirely false. I’m not sure what’s real.”

Dean won’t have that. He won’t stand for it. While some of what’s gone down might not have been all Castiel, there’s too much stuff that couldn’t be faked. Dean taking the angel to try to rid him of his virginity the night before they trapped Raphael, which had only resulted in a hilarious and hasty escape. They had went bowling after instead, which Castiel had been decent at. The mini-popcorn fight Sam, Castiel, and he had had in the back of what was Castiel’s first movie in a theater. The angel had made them pick up the mess before they left so the ushers didn’t have to later. Puppets controlled by winged douchebags don’t do or care about stuff like that. Even if he wasn’t in total control all the time, Castiel was still in there, fighting to get out like he did when Naomi ordered him to kill Dean.

In that moment, Dean decides he needs to let go of everything that’s happened and everything they’ve done to each other. Neither one of them is innocent, and they’ve both been jerked around by forces stronger than them more times than either can count. Even so, when it matters most, they’ve always come through for each other. Nobody’s perfect, least of all Dean. Yeah, Castiel broke the world and broke Heaven, but so has Dean and Sam. If he can learn how to forgive Sam, he sure as hell can for Castiel too. 

“I’m not even sure who I am anymore,” Castiel says, his voice so soft Dean almost doesn’t hear it.

“You’re Cass.”

It’s as simple, and complicated as that. 

**********

Sam is going about his routine when he notices Dean and Castiel never made it back to their rooms last night. He finds them in the backseat of the Impala, the first rays of morning glinting off the black paint as the sun peaks over the horizon. A kind, generous brother would just say they fell asleep, but Sam likes to think of it more as cuddling. 

Being the good brother he is, Sam opens the front door, wincing when it creaks. He removes the keys from the ignition, so Dean won't have to complain about changing a dead battery later. He rolls down the front windows too, letting some of the fresh morning air in. He’s getting ready to leave when his phone somehow ends up in his hand with the camera ready to go. His payback for the shopping trip secure, Sam closes the door and heads back inside. After a long workout and an even longer shower, because Dean was right the showers are kind of amazing here, Sam heads into the kitchen to grab some breakfast.

“Dude, we seriously have to get you back to sleeping like a normal human being.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Kevin says from his bent position over the angel tablet, scribbling words down on his notepad.

“It’s kind of impossible if you don’t try, Kevin,” Sam says, walking to the fridge to get himself and the exhausted prophet some juice, “Seriously, man you look awful.”

Sam sets two glasses of juice on the table, pushing one of them towards Kevin. He grabs two bowls, two spoons, a box of Cheerios, and the milk. He sets them all on the table and glares at Kevin until the kid takes the hint and starts making himself a bowl.

“I know, Sam. It’s just kind of hard to get out of the schedule I’ve been keeping for months.”

“Maybe taking a break from translating would help.”

“Maybe,” Kevin says, as he pokes at his cereal.

Sam sighs, but leaves Kevin be for now. They eat in silence, Sam somehow managing not to yell when Kevin starts reading over whatever notes he had been taking. 

“I found some names on the angel tablet,” Kevin says, handing his notebook to Sam, “It sounds like tons of angels fell with Lucifer.” 

“How many?”

“From what I’m getting, like a third of the Host.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. There are way too many for this to be all the names, but I think it’s a short list.”

“Like the A-List of fallen angels?” Sam asks, as he starts reading.

“Something like that.”

Sam is halfway through it when he hits one particular name. He stops, eyes wide and mouth gaping open. He hears Kevin talking to him and asking if he’s all right, but he can’t respond. He can’t even move. 

**********

When Castiel wakes, he isn't sure where he is, but it feels comfortable. Transitioning from sleep to being awake is still a strange feeling for him. Everything seems hazy and relaxed in those first few moments. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. He yawns, nuzzling back into the soft, warmth as he almost drifts back to sleep. When he realizes whatever he’s lying against is breathing, however, Castiel’s eyes snap open in shock.

Dean shifts under him, jostled by Castiel’s sudden movements. The former angel stills long enough for the hunter to settle back in, his breathing deep and steady. The last thing he remembers is them talking late into the night. They must have fallen sleep before they could make it back to their respective rooms. Castiel’s arm is wrapped around Dean’s waist, his head resting close to the hunter’s shoulder. Dean has one arm slung around him, his head turned so that every breath he lets out ghosts through Castiel’s hair. He glances up at Dean and notices that the green button up shirt the hunter had been wearing over his black T-shirt is now balled up behind Dean’s head. He must have woke up long enough to do that during the night.

Castiel doesn't know how they’d ended up in this position and he should be working on extricating himself from Dean. This is breaking every personal space rule the hunter has ever tried to teach him, but he can’t bring himself to move. It’s the most relaxed and comfortable Castiel has felt in a long time. He can’t remember the last time he felt this content, even when he was still an angel. He doesn’t want to give it up yet, so he doesn’t. Castiel closes his eyes and lets himself drift again. 

Sleep claims him once more. It's impossible to tell how much time passes before Dean starts to stir. He feels the hunter move under him, the weight of his arm lifting as Dean stretches out as much as the backseat of the Impala will allow. Dean lets his breath out in a rush of air and Castiel is surprised when Dean returns his arm to it’s original position resting around Castiel.

“Mornin',” Dean mumbles, even as he starts to snuggle back into his makeshift pillow.

“Good morning, Dean.”

Castiel half expects the hunter to stumble out of the car when he hears his voice, but Dean doesn’t move. He seems to be content with them tangled up together in the backseat. 

“I don’t remember falling asleep,” Dean says, through a yawn, “I haven’t slept back here since I was a kid.”

“I haven’t since I was human.”

Dean chuckles, “Yeah, I bet it was a lot more comfortable back then without an extra body trying to squeeze in here.”

“I believe I prefer it this way.”

Dean goes very still and Castiel knows he's said the wrong thing. Minutes pass before Dean breaks the silence.

“Cass, I --”

He never gets to hear what Dean was going to say, as he’s cut off when they both find themselves falling as the door Dean is leaning against jerks open. Dean catchs himself and Castiel before they fall out onto the ground in a heap, but it's a close thing. He rights them both, sitting up as he turns to glare at the intruder, his arm still wrapped around Castiel. 

“Sam, what the hell? Are you trying to break our necks?”

Castiel leans forward to look at the younger Winchester. Sam’s eyes are wild, his face panic stricken. 

“Dean, It’s... Kevin found something and I --” Sam sputters, unable to get out a full sentence. 

“Sammy? What’s going on?” Dean asks, switching from annoyed to concerned in the space of a second.

“The fallen angels. Kevin found names,” Sam says, handing Dean a beat-up spiral notebook, “Look.”

Dean takes the notebook, lowering it so Castiel can see it too. Some appear to be familiar, but most do not. He isn't halfway through the list when Dean’s grip tightens around Castiel. He glances at the hunter, who is staring at the notebook like he has seen a ghost.

“Dean?” Castiel ventures, but doesn’t get anything out of him.

He looks back at the list and scans further down, coming to a stop on a name he knows.

Azazel.

Chapter Text

The front door to Rufus’ apartment swings open of its own accord four bottles of whiskey and thirty bad ideas later. They approach cautiously, glancing at each other before staring down their new escape hatch. Bobby thanks God, wherever He is, for checking the hangovers at Heaven's door.

“After you,” Rufus says, eyeing the door like he expects it to attack.

“Such a gentleman.”

“Age before beauty, Bobby.”

Bobby sticks his head out, looking both ways down the hall. People are starting to flood the cooridor, making their way to the stairwells. He turns back to Rufus, shrugs, then heads out to join the crowd. The city appears to be much the same from what Bobby had glimpsed from the building, both in the apartments and his adventure dangling on the outside. It's daylight. The sun beams down on them between infrequent clouds as a gentle breeze glides between the buildings. It's perfect, in a "Better Home and Gardens" kind of way. 

“Guess this new desktop setting is permanent.”

“You think they ditched the personal Heaven thing completely?”

“Why don’t we go ask him?” Bobby asks, nodding towards a guy standing a head above the crowd surrounding him on the ledge of a stone fountain a few yards away from them.

He’s a young man, clean shaven, hair slicked back, and dressed in a black suit and tie. For a second, Bobby is sure he's an angel, but closer inspection proves him to be a human soul. The guy is a little too wide-eyed and wet around the ears to be one of Heaven's foot soldiers, despite the uniform. The space around the fountain fills up quick as the rush of people push forward. The man balances himself by holding on to one of the many cherubs that decorate the stone structure, each mini angel pouring water out of stone pots. Something about the little cutesy faces of the cherubs bothers Bobby. They’re out of place here, and couldn’t be farther away from the real deal, at least in Bobby’s experience.

“Quiet! Can I have quiet, please?” the man asks, shouting over the chorus of murmurs from the large crowd.

Bobby looks around. They’re standing in the towering shadows of four buildings, just like the one he and Rufus had exited, all situated around the cobblestone square. It looks like most of their occupants are outside, only a few stragglers still making their way over. The dull roar of those gathered dissipates as the souls settle down. The man clears his throat.

“Friends, I’ve been asked to give you a message. It has been decreed that Heaven will be a joint paradise from this point forward. No more will we be separated from our friends and family.”

That causes a stir through the crowd as people turn to each other, whispering. It seems to be a hit amongst the natives. 

“There’s gotta be a catch,” Bobby says to Rufus under his breath. 

“Who knows? Maybe this time our luck will hold and things will be gumdrops and rainbows,” Rufus says, crossing his arms as he continues to glare up at the man.

The guy holds up his hand for silence and eventually gets it. He smiles at the crowd.

“While our own pieces of Heaven have been welcome, safe havens for all of us, I’m sure we’re all excited to be reunited with our loved ones. This drastic undertaking has been done as a service to us all. A show of goodwill. As such, it is asked that the citizens of this new city help maintain our shared home. There is much work for all of us to do.”

“Work? What does that mean?” someone in the crowd asks.

“Everyone will be assigned a specific position. I ask that you return to the lobby of your building in an orderly fashion. A list is available there with each individual’s assigned post. You are to report to your designated area immediately. The specifics will be explained to you upon your arrival. Now, we have many people to get through, so if you all would form lines and make your way quickly it would be much appreciated.”

“I thought I was retired,” Rufus says.

“What was that about rainbows and gumdrops?”

They’re pushed around as everyone tries to line up. It takes less time than Bobby expects considering the amount of people, the souls of Heaven falling into place like good little tin soldiers. Maybe Heaven has the same effect on human souls as it does the angels: don’t question anything too hard, just follow your orders. Now there’s a thought that would keep Bobby up at night if he still slept. As they wait their turn, Bobby looks around for the angels, surprised that he doesn’t see any flapping around. They should be helping to get all the souls wrangled to their designated areas or at least supervising. Bobby is about to give up when he spots someone perched high up on the ledge of one of the buildings. 

“Flying mook at three o’clock.”

Rufus follows his line of sight. It’s the first angel they’ve seen since Metatron’s big speech. At least he thinks it’s an angel. The figure crouches down, watching the human souls mill about. Even from this distance, Bobby can tell the angel doesn't have the customary suit and tie on, but something else off is off about it. Something that makes Bobby want to avert his eyes.

“I’m getting a serious case of the heebie-jeebies from that one,” Rufus says, frowning as he looks at Bobby.

“You and me both.”

**********

“Dean, stop!” Sam shouts, all but wrestling his brother to the ground.

Once Dean processed Azazal's name, he flung himself out of the Impala and made a beeline for the Bunker. What his brother thought he was going to do is beyond him, but Sam figures it wouldn't be good.

“Let me go, Sam.”

“You need to calm down.”

“Calm down? You can’t show me something with that son of a bitch's name on it and expect me to be calm!”

“No, but what are you going to do? Raid the weapons room? Terrify Kevin?”

“I’ve got to do something,” Dean says, shaking Sam off.

Sam lets him go. Dean still looks like he is ready to murder the first thing he can get his hands on, but at least the crazed look has gone out of his eyes. 

“There’s no point grabbing a gun, we don’t have anything to shoot. Yet,” Sam adds, when Dean glares at him, “We don’t even know if it matters --”

“Yellow-eyes is involved, it damn well matters. This is serious, Sam.”

“I agree, but we can’t go off half-cocked. We don’t have enough information.”

“Then get some,” Dean growls.

“We will, Dean.”

Sam knows this is hard for Dean. As the rage starts to subside, he can see all the different emotions warring for control on his brother’s face. Anger, panic, fear, and an endless pain as old scars tear wide open. Sam feels it too. All of it. They can't escape the flames that engulfed Sam’s nursery all those years ago. It consumed their father as well as their mother, and it just keeps going. It will never stop. Not until Sam and Dean are added to the ashes.

“Cass, do you know anything?” Dean asks, snapping at the fallen angel Sam had forgotten was standing behind him.

Castiel leans against the Impala, watching the two brothers with his mouth hanging open. It’s clear to Sam he’s as shocked as they are, but Dean can’t see it. Sam would be surprised if Dean could see anything other than red at this point.

“I don’t --”

“Of course you don't. Why the hell would you? You can’t remember a damn thing that’d actually be useful.”

Castiel visibly shrinks as Dean turns away, walking off through the tall grass to who knows where. Sam watches his brother until he disappears, grateful he is getting himself out of range for his blow up or melt down or whatever the hell Dean is going through right now. Either way, it will minimize the collateral damage, though one look at Castiel tells Sam it's too late for that. The fallen angel walks past him without a word, disappearing into the Bunker. Sam follows after him with a sigh.

***

Sam puts Kevin to task translating more of the tablet while somehow managing to keep things under def-con 1 levels of panic. From the look Crowley gives him, the former demon is aware of how much the stakes have been raised. Sam does his own research, combing the extensive library left to them by the Men of Letters, but the day passes and he comes up with zilch. He wrestles the tablet from Kevin around dinner time, forcing the prophet to eat and relax. He fares better with the food. After they finish, he has to threaten to lock Kevin in his room if he doesn’t at least try to get some sleep. Kevin went, grumbling under his breath, but when Sam stops by a half hour later to make sure the kid is in there, he is out like a light.

As far as Sam knows, Dean hasn’t come back. He had popped his head outside earlier and saw that the Impala was gone, which was probably a good thing. Driving has always helped Dean clear his head. He hadn't seen Castiel since morning. Worry getting the better of him, Sam takes a stroll through the Bunker and finds the former angel tucked away under the stairs just past the enormous telescope Sam has been itching to take for a test drive if they ever get five freaking minutes off. Castiel doesn’t look up as Sam takes a seat next to him, his eyes flicking back and forth over a huge leather bound book cradled in his lap.

“How’s it going, Cass?”

The former angel slams the book shut, placing it on top of a small pile next to him, “I haven’t been able to find anything.”

“Me either, but that’s not what I was asking about.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel says as he pulls another book off of a different pile.

Sam sighs, “You know how Dean is when he gets like that. He didn’t mean what he said this morning.”

“I’m fine, Sam.”

“All right,” Sam says, holding his hands up in surrender, “Just... Look, if you ever need to talk about anything, like how much of a jerk my brother is, I’m here. If anyone knows how annoying Dean can be, it's me.”

It occurs to Sam that Castiel is more than acquainted with Dean’s less delightful personality traits at this point than anyone outside of Sam, but he still wants to put the offer out there. Castiel opens his book, as if he hadn’t heard Sam talking. Sam is about to leave Castiel to it, when the former angel speaks up.

“I do find it annoying that Dean leaves his dirty clothes strung throughout the bathroom every morning.”

Sam chuckles, “Just wait until you see the leftovers he leaves in the fridge. There’s been more than a few moldy cheeseburgers I thought might grow legs and walk off.”

“I think the leftover Chinese is getting close.”

“Chinese? Jeez, that’s from three weeks ago! I’m surprised we haven’t had to hunt it down.”

“Yet,” Castiel says, his lips twitching in an almost smile as he looks up. Sam laughs.

***

Dean flies down the Kansas back roads, alternating from gravel to patched asphalt with little to no warning. He hasn't passed another car in over an hour. After making loop after endless loop through the scattered, small towns surrounding Lebanon, he pulls off into an abandoned field to watch the sun go down. 

Dean is exhausted. He had spent most of his day fighting off a full blown panic attack, but had settled for a few minor ones that had sent him skidding to at halt on the shoulder of whatever road he had been on at the time. Dean thought this was all over. Azazel has been dead for years. Dean had been the one to put the bullet in the bastard’s head. They had muddled through an odyssey spanning more than two decades chasing down their mother’s killer, and they’d survived. Hell, Sam had even made it through the whole demon blood, psychic power, you’re the chosen one thing and come out the other side. 

Sammy.

The thought that this might all start again and Sam might be dragged back down by it almost sends him spiraling back into another fit. Dean can’t stand it. He trusts Sam. They’ve come through too much for him not to. He knows his little brother would fight with everything he has, but what if that isn't enough this time? What if Dean can’t protect him? He had done a craptastic job of it on the last go around. Unshed tears sting Dean’s eyes as he scrubs a hand over his face.

He sighs, eyes staring at the sunset, the yellow bleeding out into reds and purples as the light drains from the darkening sky. Sam was right. They don’t even know what’s going on yet. Dean is being an idiot, but he can’t help it. It’s a gut reaction. The only thing he can help is who he directs the fallout at, which is much of the reason he is still out wandering around instead of back at the Bunker trying to be useful. As angry as Dean had been, he'd registered the look on Castiel’s face when he had lashed out at him. They had been back on good terms which of course meant Dean had to go and screw it all up. Sometimes he thinks it's his only talent.

The sun slips below the horizon line, the last few rays glinting off the chrome of the Impala’s front end. He wants nothing more than to climb into the back of his car and go to sleep. He wants to rewind the last 24 hours and replay things from there. Pause it before Sam comes storming in with that stupid list and just stay there in that comfortable haze he had first woke up in, a mop of tousled black hair tickling his nose. Instead, Dean turns the ignition and heads back home, trying to hold out hope he'll be able to clean up yet another one of his messes.

The place is deserted when he gets back, everyone already in bed. Out of habit, Dean heads to Sam’s room to check on him. He finds his brother writhing on his bed, looking for all the world like he’s having a knock down, drag out fight with some invisible entity. Dean is getting used to the routine. He grabs at Sam's arms, holding him still until his brother stops squirming, his breathing coming in quick, shallow breaths. Dean hooks the nearby chair with his foot and drags it closer to the bed, sitting down as he brushes sweat drenched hair off of Sam’s forehead and murmurs whatever nonsense comes to him. The creases in Sam's brow and the frown fade as he calms, drifting into what Dean hopes is a more pleasant sleep. 

It’s the same damn thing every night. When Dean asks him about it in the morning, Sam never knows what he was talking about. He doesn’t seem to remember the nightmares. If he can calm Sam down enough so that he doesn’t have to deal with whatever is haunting his little brother’s dreams, that's enough of a reason for Dean to keep these nightly vigils of his going. He glances at the digital clock next to Sam’s bed. It’s only eleven. Dean sits there, hand still resting on one of  Sam’s arms as he staring off into space. He doesn't sleep when he's sitting up with Sam, even though he wants to. Dean has found if he stares long enough, his mind goes blank, the silence wrapping around him like a warm blanket. It's not sleep, but it has to be enough for now. And the silence is kind of peaceful.

Which is why it’s so disconcerting when he hears the silence calling his name.

“Dean.”

A hand rests on his shoulder, causing Dean to jerk out of his staring contest with the wall. Dazed for a moment, he blinks hard before his eyes adjust and he sees who’s standing next to him.

“Cass?” Dean asks, his voice rough like he hasn’t used it in years.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks in a whisper, “Is Sam all right?”

“Yeah, he’s...” Dean glances at the clock. It’s ten after four, “He’s good now.”

Dean releases a relieved breath as he lets go of his brother’s arm and collapses back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. It feels like he’s scratching them with sandpaper. 

“Was he not good before?”

That’s a loaded question. Who the hell knows? Have any of them ever been good? 

“I don’t know, man.”

Not wanting to wake Sam up with their talking, Dean stands, his legs protesting as his knees crack. He is trying to step around his chair, when he wobbles. Castiel steadies him before he crashes down onto the bed and what would have been a very surprised Sam. Castiel is about to ask him something else, but Dean shakes his head, motioning towards the hallway. He somehow manages to get his legs under him before they make it out of the room. Castiel stays close just in case, which Dean’s grateful for. It has been a long time since Dean has been this unsteady on his feet while sober. Hell, he isn't usually this off balanced when he’s drunk.

Once out in the corridor, Castiel shuts the door behind them as Dean leans against the wall, his head falling back with a thump as he closes his eyes.

“What was that all about?”

“Which part?” 

“Let’s start with what’s wrong with you.”

“M’fine.”

“You nearly fell to the ground. I don't believe you have been drinking," Castiel says. Dean can feel the former angel's eyes scanning him, "Have you ate today?”

“Uh...?”

Dean opens his eyes as Castiel grabs his arm and leads him down the hall toward the kitchen. Castiel pushes Dean down onto a stool at the table. He goes without a protest. Dean holds his head in his hand as he listens to Castiel rummage around through cabinets and drawers. Dean traces patterns in the wood of the table top until a plate scoots his finger out of the way. 

“You made me a BLT?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Frying bacon is not one of the world’s great mysteries, Dean,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes as he takes a seat across from him.

He stares at his meal, more breakfast than dinner at this time of night, surprised to find a glass of milk sitting in front of him as well.

“Dean," Castiel says, frustrated.

He gets the impression that it isn't the first time the former angel has said his name in the last few minutes. He picks up half of his sandwich, eying it. Castiel had split it in two, cutting the sandwich diagonally. Dean takes a bite and lets out a strangled moan. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t ate all day or maybe it’s that Castiel needs to start cooking more, but either way Dean inhales the rest of his sandwich and is already starting on the other half before Castiel takes his second bite.

“Slow down. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Mmfum Hummfmmmn.”

“That is not English, Dean.”

“I’m hungry,” Dean says, after swallowing a mouthful of sandwich and downing half his milk to help it down.

With a sigh, Castiel leans forward to put the uneaten half of his sandwich on Dean’s plate as he pops the last bite in his mouth. Dean raises his eyebrows as he chews, but Castiel waves him on. The former angel puts his plate in the sink and tops off Dean’s milk before he sits back down to stare at Dean.

“Thanks, Cass,” Dean says as he finishes the last of Castiel's sandwich.

“You’re welcome.”

“I guess I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I had a lot on my mind,” Dean says, fidgeting, “Speaking of... I’m sorry... For what I said earlier. I didn’t mean --”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have --”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“If you’re this bad at letting someone apologize to you, I’d hate to see what you’re like when someone tries to give you a compliment.”

“I was upset earlier. And angry," Castiel says, "but I know it’s because you’re worried.”

“Still, I’m sorry, Cass.”

Castiel nods and gives him a slight smile. Dean drinks the rest of his milk as Castiel studies him. The intense scrutiny should be weird, but after all these years, Dean has gotten used to it. Besides, it’s comforting to see those old mannerisms haven’t disappeared, despite the angel’s fall. Despite everything.

“What’s wrong with Sam?”

“Not sure, but I think it’s got something to do with not finishing the trials. He has these nightmares he doesn’t remember.” 

“If he doesn’t remember them, why are you so concerned?”

“They’re bad, Cass. I’m kind of afraid he might hurt himself," Dean says, as he rests his head in hand, "They seem to go away if I’m in the room with him.”

“How long have you been watching over Sam?”

“Uh, almost every night since...” Dean trails off, not wanting to say, ‘since the angels fell.’ 

Castiel must get it though because he nods, “When do you sleep?”

“I try to catch a few hours after Sam settles in. If I can get him past three in the morning, he’s good for the rest of the night.”

Dean leaves that he finds it almost impossible to sleep after watching over his brother. He doesn’t tell Castiel he is lucky if he gets an hour in before the sun is up and everyone starts milling around the Bunker, starting their respective days. Dean leaves out the part that he finds himself passed out in random places throughout the day on a regular basis. Once he woke up on one of the weight machines in the gym. Another time he fell asleep slumped against a shelf in one of the Bunker’s many storage rooms when he was supposed to be looking something up for Kevin. 

He definitely doesn’t tell Castiel that the best sleep he has gotten in the last couple weeks is last night when they had slept in the back seat of the Impala together.

“You need more than that, Dean.”

“Hunters never get any sleep, Cass. It comes with the territory. I’m used to getting less.”

“I don’t recall you ever being so tired that you forgot to eat.”

“I told you, I had a lot on my mind.”

Castiel glares at him, not buying anything Dean’s selling, but he is too tired to care. As if the emphasize the point, Dean yawns, remembering to bring his hand up to cover his mouth a few seconds too late. His eyelids are harder to pry back open after each blink as he tries to focus on Castiel.

“You’re not sleeping at the kitchen table.”

“Why not? S’comfortable enough.”

Dean can feel his head bobbing, but he can’t find the will to hold it up. Arms wrap around his chest, lifting him to a standing position. Castiel slings one of Dean’s arms around his neck, holding it there as he wraps his other arm around Dean’s waist. He leans most of his weight on the fallen angel as they make their way out of the kitchen. 

It’s a long, stumbling walk to Dean’s room, but they manage. Castiel takes his coat and belt off. Dean tries to help, stopping halfway through when he realizes he is more of a hindrance than anything in this shape. Castiel helps him down onto the bed before working on getting his boots off. Dean doesn’t pray to God, but if he did, he would be thanking him for memory foam mattresses right about now. Castiel throws a blanket over him and goes to turn off the bedside lamp the former angel must have turned on at some point. 

“You didn’t have to do this.”

Castiel chuckles, “Just returning the favor.”

“Cass...” Dean hears himself say.

He doesn't know where he was going with that. Dean can already feel himself slipping into what he hopes is a dreamless sleep. He does feel a warm hand running through his short hair as the light goes out.

“It’s all right, Dean. Just sleep.”

**********

Anael does not drag Castiel back to Heaven for his failure to follow his orders in Egypt. They sit for a long time on that desolate mountain, staring down at the world through thin air and wispy clouds. Castiel goes of his own accord, on his own time. Anael squeezes his shoulder before he takes flight, a sign of comfort or possibly apology.

One of the main functions of Castiel’s garrison is to defend the boarders between the different planes of existence. As a result, he knows the paths between Heaven and Earth like he knows the names of the prophets. He chooses a route seldom used by most of the angels and meets no one.  He makes his way through Heaven. The majority of the angels must still be out finishing their missions or searching for him as he doesn't see anyone. He heads toward the center of Heaven, knowing their superiors will be gathered in the leadership’s nerve center, positioned near the Garden. Castiel slips through undetected. Since Raphael was the one to catch him, proper protocol would be to report to him. Instead, Castiel goes in search of Michael, or if he’s lucky Gabriel. If he is already in trouble for not following orders, what’s one more infraction? To be honest, most of the angels keep their dealings with Raphael to a minimum anyways. Castiel wouldn’t be the first. 

He is surprised to find the area just as empty as the rest of Heaven, the stations assigned to the angels designated to work in intelligence and as assistants to the higher ups are abandoned. It sends a shiver through Castiel’s grace, but he tamps it down. Had a demon uprising or something truly dire occurred Anael, the leader of Castiel’s garrison, would have been made aware. He makes his way past empty chairs and desks filled with papers and files stacked in trays and baskets. Everything in order and everything in its place. He walks through rows of filing cabinets and down darkened halls, poking his head into random rooms, looking for someone who can point him in the right direction or tell him what's going on. He is about to give up when he hears muted voices further down the hall, a lone light shinning in one of the distant rooms. He can make out the quick, clipped tones, but not what they're saying. He is as quiet as possible, not wishing to interrupt something and find himself in more trouble. He is feet from the half open door when the sound of his name brings him up short.

“...Castiel is the one.”

“I’m not so sure. Have you seen his record?” a voice asks.

Castiel does not believe he has ever heard either voice, which is odd. It is unusual to come by a brother he has never met before, let alone two.  He starts forward, knowing he should announce his presence, but his curiosity gets the better of him as he comes to a stop right outside the doorway. 

“Yes.”

“I don’t think --”

“You have not been asked to think,” the second voice says, the tone causing Castiel to take an involuntary step back, “You have been told to do your job, Naomi.”

Castiel does not know the name, but he should, shouldn't he? He knows all his siblings names. 

“Yes, sir.”

He feels the urge to fly as far and as fast as his wings can carry him. It is a ridiculous thought. There is nowhere to hide in Heaven, besides who would want to? Castiel would be laughing at the very idea of running away from his home if he wasn’t too busy turning back towards the silent halls and rooms he had just came through. He manages a couple steps before he is brought up short as an angel in a female vessel appears in front of him, her hair tied back in a tight bun and a thin smile that doesn’t dare reach her eyes.

“Hello Castiel. I’m glad you made it. And of your own accord, it would seem. I’m surprised.”

“Who are you?” Castiel asks, flinching at his breech of protocol.

It does not go unnoticed. The angel he assumes is Naomi raises an unamused eyebrow at him.

“Now there’s the Castiel I know.”

“I don’t understand.”

A genuine smile creeps across the angel’s borrowed features, “That’s the general idea.”

Naomi snaps her fingers and Castiel is grabbed from behind. He panics, fighting to throw whoever is holding him off even as they wrestle him to the ground. The last thing he sees is the tips of Naomi’s black shoes before everything goes dark. 

Chapter Text

“Cass?”

“Yes,” Castiel says with a start.

“You good?” Dean asks, staring at him.

Castiel doesn't have a good answer to that question. This wasn't the first time he has zoned out today, his thoughts drawn back to the nightmare he had last night. It was the latest in a growing line of terrifying dreams. The fallen angel woke up this morning drenched in sweat. He must have been screaming as well, since Dean showed up moments after he had awoke. While it had been embarrassing, Castiel had been grateful to have someone there to help calm him down. Now, however, Dean seems to be on high alert for the slightest hint of anything being off.

Castiel gives Dean a small smile, “I’m fine, Dean.”

He doesn’t look convinced, “Let's get a move on. We've still got some stuff to do.”

Castiel gazes around the lot as they walk, taking in the rusting cars and broken hunks of metal sitting in Bobby Singer’s abandoned salvage yard. Sam had sent them on an errand to gather some of the rare books the old hunter had left buried behind one of his work sheds. Castiel suspects Sam was more interested in getting his brother out of his hair. Once the local hunts near the Bunker had run dry, Sam's attempts to keep Dean busy were becoming more and more farfetched.

His eyes linger on the burned out husk of the house Bobby had once called home. It hurts more than he would have guessed to see it. Of course he knows Bobby has passed on. Not only that, thanks to Sam, he knows the old hunter has found his way to Heaven. He is safe, and with any luck happy, or at least as happy as Bobby can be. Still something catches in Castiel’s chest as he looks over the charred beams. It wasn’t just the Winchesters who had come to consider Bobby’s place a surrogate home.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Castiel asks. They had long since located the books and had been wandering through the junkyard ever since.

“I need some backup parts for the Impala,” Dean says, as he crawls out from under a nearby car.

Castiel watches as the hunter bends forward to wipe some dirt from his knees as he straightens up. Dean steps back, considering the car before him, arms folded and his lips turned down in a frown.

“We came all this way for a few books and some spare parts?”

Dean glances at him, pausing, “Well, not exactly.”

“What else are we looking for, Dean?” Castiel asks with a sigh.

Dean kicks at the ground with the toe of his right boot, as he looks everywhere but at Castiel.

“I kind of thought you might want to, I don’t know, pick out some wheels. I mean, you’d mentioned you wanted to learn how to drive, so...” Dean trails off, his cheeks turning pink as he scratches the back of his head.

Castiel is too stunned to speak. He had once asked Dean if he could try driving the Impala. Dean shot the idea down almost before he could get the full question out. He hadn't asked again, but that had been a long time ago, when Castiel had started to fall during the Apocalypse.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dean says.

He pays the hunter little notice as he starts strolling through the rows of cars. To be honest, he has no idea what he’s looking for. Castiel knows the basics of how a car works, if only because he has watched Dean work on the Impala enough times some of it sunk in. To Castiel’s eye, none of the vehicles laid to rest in the salvage yard could still run.

“How do I know which one to pick?”

“Bobby used to say cars are like dogs, sometimes they pick the person, not the other way around,” Dean says, chuckling, “Anything jumping out at you?”

“Will any of these run?”

“Not right now,” Dean says with a shrug, “Whatever you pick is going to need work. The Men of Letters have a decent garage. I thought we could work on it.”

Castiel stops and turns, eyes catching Dean’s, “I’d like that.”

They stare at each other. Castiel is never sure how or why they always seem to find themselves locked in yet another round of what Sam calls their “epic staring contests.” He hadn’t noticed it until the younger Winchester had brought his attention to it. There is something inexplicable that holds Castiel in place. A connection neither of them seems willing to break. He used to think it was a form of challenge, each wanting to win by making the other one look away first. A human staring down one of God’s angels and making him blink. Now, he’s not so sure that was ever the case.

Dean is the first to break eye contact this time. He clears his throat as he glances away, his eyes traveling back to Castiel a moment later as he grins, bumping his shoulder with his own as he moves past him.

“Let’s find you a ride.”

They make their way around the maze of cars, Dean pointing certain ones out, explaining the pros and cons of the different vehicles as they go. He enjoys wandering through the salvage yard, listening to Dean, but nothing catches Castiel’s eye. Dean stops to inspect a pile of discarded engine parts, while Castiel moves on into the garage. It looks much the same as it always has. Castiel can remember sitting out here with Dean as he worked. He had even helped Bobby with various projects, which he had found rather enjoyable. The older hunter used to say salvage went quicker with a supped up angel on hand.

Castiel takes a tour around, hand running along the beat up metal workbench. A few wrenches lie scattered on the ground. He bends to pick them up, hanging each in their respective spots on the wall, knowing Bobby wouldn’t like his workspace being left out of order. He turns to leave, when something in the back corner of the shop catches his eyes. From behind the hydraulic lifts, the shine of chrome glints out from underneath a dusty green tarp. Castiel picks his way back through, having to move a few empty oil drums out of his way before he can reach it. He carefully removes the tarp, throwing it off to the side. He smiles, taking in the sleek lines of a black motorcycle.

“Dean, what about this one?” Castiel calls from behind the lifts.

It takes Dean a minute to make his way into the garage. He comes to a stop near Castiel, not saying a word.

“Well?”

“That’s not a car,” Dean says.

“No.”

“It’s not even a truck.”

“No, it’s not,” Castiel says, confused by Dean’s insistence on stating the obvious.

“Cass, you can’t be serious,” Dean says, awestruck.

The fallen angel sighs, unsure of how to begin. He lets his fingers trail across the cool metal of the handlebars before his hand comes to rest on the headlight.

“The Impala has its comforts, but I find being in a car confining.”

“You won’t be thinking that when it’s pouring down rain,” Dean grunts.

“I wish you could understand, Dean,” Castiel says, “I used to ride along the winds. I used to --”

Castiel stops, keeping his eyes on the rusting black of the fuel tank, unable to get anything else out around the lump in his throat. It’s the first time he has tried to talk about what he lost. It’s the little things he misses the most, like the reassuring weight of his wings tucked behind him, invisible to human eyes, but always there. He misses the constant hum of his brothers and sisters babbling in Enochian in the back of his mind. Being alone inside his own head turned out to be one of the more unsettling aspects of becoming human. It had been his first lesson in loneliness. Isolation. The feeling of being trapped.

“I don’t want to be caged in.”

Castiel refuses to look up, not wanting to see the sadness, or worse pity, in Dean’s eyes. Castiel knows how useless he is now without his powers. He doesn’t need the reminder.

“I didn’t --”

“Just forget it,” Castiel says, covering the bike back up with the heavy green tarp.

“Cass --”

“Let’s keep looking.”

“Hey, maybe we --”

“Dean, just leave it.”

He is out of the abandoned garage before Dean can catch up with him. They walk in silence, Dean staying a few steps behind him, giving Castiel space. Their task turns into more chore than treasure hunt. Castiel shuffles along yet another row of cars when his eyes find one obscured by clusters of weeds. He runs his hand along the side of it, careful to avoid the busted out glass of the driver side window. The car feels familiar somehow, but he can’t place it.

“What about this one?” Castiel asks, calling out to Dean.

Dean’s head pokes up from under the hood of a truck missing one of it’s wheels and all of it’s windows. He makes his way over to Castiel and the car, wiping grease from his hands with a rag as he goes. When he finally looks at the car Castiel is standing next to, Dean stops, a strange look on his face.

“Now what?” Castiel asks in an irritated huff.

“It’s Bobby’s Camaro.”

Of course it is. Castiel could kick himself for not recognizing it before. Only he could manage to pick the two worst choices in a yard filled with adequate vehicles.

“Oh,” Castiel says, looking back at the car, “I’m sorry. I'm not very good at this.”

“Hmm?” Dean hums, distracted. It takes him a second before he realizes what Castiel had said, “No, it’s not that. I mean, Bobby always meant to finish restoring this thing, but he never got around to it, with him being hunter central and the world almost ending one too many times. It’s kind of a shame, leaving it here to rust.”

“Do you think he would mind?” Castiel asks as Dean squats down next to the Camaro, tearing out some of the weeds from around the bumper.

“Nah, I think Bobby would like it,” Dean says, turning to give Castiel a smile, “You’re family, man.”

Castiel can’t help but smile back.

**********

Bobby is less than thrilled with his new appointment as head mechanic in a factory on the outskirts of the immense city. Rufus was stuck with filing massive amounts of data, all written in Enochian. His friend had been less than pleased at the prospect. At least Bobby is well acquainted with this kind of job, though he doesn't have a clue as to what it is they're working on. From what he can tell, the smaller projects they are given each day are designed to assemble into something far bigger than what they have seen thus far. 

No one seems to know the full extent of what it is they’re working on and what's worse is no one has questioned it. With the exception of some people grumbling about being unable to locate all their friends and family, everyone Bobby has spoken to seems content to do their time and then head out the door to enjoy their new joint Heaven. Hell, even he has caught himself drifting into a lull as he falls back into a rhythm of work, rest, work, rest. Hunting had never kept regular or sensible hours, but working in the salvage yard had. He figures this kind of thing is what the majority of people here had done on Earth in some way, shape, or form, so jumping back in the rat race isn’t hard for the souls in Heaven. At least he hopes that’s all it is. Still, he finds it disconcerting how they had all embraced Heaven’s major overhaul with open arms, even if they didn’t have much choice in the matter.

He sees less and less of Rufus as the days drag on longer. It has always been hard to tell time here, but sometimes it feels like they have been working for decades, while other times it’s like he just started. It keeps him off balance and makes it hard to pick out any patterns. When they do meet up, they compare stories, both trying to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. Except for the whole assimilating into the Borg thing, there isn't much to report. Neither of them have spotted another one of whatever that thing was Bobby had seen when they first got their marching orders. Deep down, Bobby is glad he hasn’t seen one again. There was something about it that would have set the hairs on the back of his neck on end in the real world. Here, it just filled him with a cold, sinking sense of dread.

It’s seems like a few weeks have passed in their new routines when Bobby starts to notice the guy in the blue suit. The factory Bobby works in has administration offices housed in the floor above theirs. What the pencil pushers upstairs do with all their time is still a mystery to him. It’s hard to sneak in undetected walking among people in business attire when you look like you’ve been attacked by an oil gun. Blue suit guy doesn’t seem to share the same concerns Bobby has about being stealthy.

Bobby has lost count how many times he has caught the guy staring at him through the huge windows separating them from the factory floor below. The guy reminds Bobby of Castiel in that way. It makes Bobby question if the guy is an angel in disguise, but he notices the man starts and leaves each day like the rest of the souls. Considering Bobby’s dealings with angels over the years, he figures most of them would rather die than work along side humans, so that theory gets junked fast.

There’s something about him though. The pristine blue suit, with a straight black tie and the combed back brown hair doesn’t look like he comes from the same era as Bobby. That doesn't tell him much. Most people have adopted a similar attire. Ash likes to call it Heaven chic but Bobby can't see much difference between that and what people were wearing when he was up and kicking. The rest feel more comfortable dressed in stuff from whenever period they died. He has seen outfits ranging from the big hair 80s to ancient Greece.

Bobby keeps an eye out for the man as much as he can without drawing any attention to himself. He doesn’t know what the guy wants, so blue suit realizing that Bobby noticed him back isn’t something Bobby’s too keen to advertise. All that hard work flies out the window one day when he is getting ready to leave after another endless shift. Bobby finishes packing his things away and is heading towards the door when he runs smack into the guy.

Blue suit grabs him, dragging him the short distance to a supply closet as the last souls make their way out the factory door. He shoves Bobby through into the cramped space, closing the door behind him. Bobby scrambles to grab the first thing he can defend himself with, which turns out to be a mop. Bobby has never mopped a creature to death, but he figures there’s a first time for everything.

Blue suit holds up his hands, “My apologies for the rough treatment, but we needed a place to talk. Privately.”

“I hate to break it to you, but there’s no place to hide. Heaven is wiretapped up the hoosegow, and even if it wasn’t, those angels have some damn good hearing.”

“I’ve taken care of that,” the man says with a smile as he gestures towards the door behind him.

There are sigils scrawled on the door and walls of the small room. Some of them look familiar, but many of them he has never seen before. Bobby lowers his mop, but keeps a firm hold on it, eying the stranger.

“Are you Robert Singer?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I’m being incredibly rude. My name is Henry Winchester,” the man says, holding out his hand, “I believe you know my grandsons.”

**********

When they've finished, Dean calls an old hunting buddy of Bobby’s. The man does frequent runs across the United States carrying everything from cars to furniture. For a small fee, he helps hunters move anything big that needs moving. He agrees to drop off the stuff they can’t pack in the back seat or trunk of the Impala when he heads through Kansas in a day or two. Dean gives him a drop spot about thirty miles from the Bunker. From there, it’ll be up to him to get everything home. With that settled, he and Castiel load the last of their finds up and they get back on the road.

They talk about all the work that will need to be done to the Camaro to get it back in working order. The fallen angel is excited at the prospect of having his own wheels. The fact that it used to be Bobby’s seemed to seal the deal with Castiel. Dean never would have pegged him for the sentimental type. Dean relaxes into the conversation. It feels like the first time he has been able to enjoy himself in weeks.

The Impala is three miles outside of Sioux Falls, heading south, when they come upon a rusted out pickup truck parked sideways, blocking the road. Dean brings the Impala to a stop some yards back, in case they need room to get away.

“Do you think someone broke down?” Castiel asks.

“That’d be a hell of way to park your car.”

Dean glances around. The place appears to be deserted, but with trees hedging them in on either side it’s hard to tell. He takes his gun out, giving Castiel an approving nod when he sees the fallen angel has his blade in hand.

They exit the Impala together, eyes scanning every direction. The old hinges creak and groan as Dean shuts the door, breaking the silence. Dean makes his way towards the pickup. Castiel covers him as they move, keeping an eye out for anything that might try to come from behind. Dean keeps his gun up as he edges closer to the open driver side window. Peering in, he can see the truck is empty. No bodies or signs of anything else nasty having gone down here. Hell, the car is spotless. There's not a wayward candy wrapper or pop can to be found.

“Nothing here.”

“Dean.”

He straightens, turning to look at Castiel. Three men stand between them and the Impala, two of them holding angel blades. Castiel has his blade up, eyes never leaving the newcomers.

“I know you guys are new to this human thing, but it’s kind of self-explanatory that the middle of the street is a no parking zone,” Dean says, as he moves forward to stand next to Castiel.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Castiel,” the guy in the middle says, ignoring Dean’s comment.

“How did you know we’d come here?”

“We’re not the only ones looking for you. There are groups of us stationed at places you are known to frequent,” the guy says, turning to look at Dean for the first time, “And, by extension, the Winchesters.”

Castiel steps in front of Dean, “We have no quarrel with you, Puriel.”

Puriel steps forward, pulling his blade out from under a brown and black poncho, which is disconcerting in more ways than one. The other two remain stalk still.

“We know of your dealings with Metatron. You are the reason we were cast out of Heaven. Because of you we can’t go home,” Puriel says, the midday sun glinting in his dark brown eyes, as he twirls his blade in his hand, “You’ve been a lost cause and a traitor since our Father brought you into existence, Castiel. We intend to correct His mistake.”

“I don’t know if I’d be talking about mistakes with the outfit your rocking. You got a stove plate hidden under there too, Fist Full of Dollars?” Dean asks.

Puriel smiles, “This doesn’t concern you, Dean Winchester. Although, I must say, killing you will be a welcome bonus.”

Everything moves fast. Dean has stunt angels one and two on him before he can blink. He’s fought with angels before. It tends to involve flying through the air until you hit something hard and rib shattering. This time is different. These guys are angel-lite, but they’re still stronger than your average human. He shoots the taller of the two in the right shoulder. The angel falls backwards, stunned for the moment. Dean takes aim at the second angel, but the shot goes wide as the he tackles Dean low. They crash to the ground, Dean’s gun skittering off into the ditch.

The angel kneels over him, stabbing at Dean with his blade. He jerks out of the way, cutting Dean’s arm as they struggle for control. He can feel blood running as the angel slashes down again. Dean almost catches the blade with his chest, but gets a good grip on the angel’s arm before he can drive it home. Glancing behind him, Dean can see that the other angel is struggling to get to his feet, almost recovered from the shock of being shot. Dean manages to bring his leg up enough to kick the angel’s knee out from under him. The angel falls as he tries to overcompensate for the sudden loss of balance. Rolling with him, Dean finds himself on top of the angel, trying to wrestle the blade out of his hand.

Dean sees the taller angel up and coming towards them, blood still trickling from the bullet hole in his suit jacket. With a cry, the angel raises his blade, swinging his arm down to bury it in Dean’s back. The hunter rolls off at the last second, the blade stabbing through the stomach of the angel’s partner. 

In the remaining angel’s distraction, Dean looks for Castiel. He and Puriel have moved off a few yards from where Dean is crouched on the ground. Along with a few minor scrapes to his face, Castiel has a gash cut through the right sleeve of his trench coat, blood soaking through. Puriel looks no worse for wear than when the fight had started, but Castiel is breathing hard and getting desperate. Castiel charges Puriel, swiping at him with his blade, but misses. Puriel kicks Castiel in the side, sending the fallen angel careening over the steep slope off the side of the road.

“Cass!” Dean shouts, as Puriel follows Castiel over the side.

Dean uses the truck to help himself stand as the remaining suit rounds on him. The angel swings at him, but Dean ducks out of the way. He hears the screech of blade scratching against the side of the pickup. Dean dives towards the now deceased angel, grabbing his blade as he rolls back up just in time to catch an armful of tall, dark, and vengeful. They fall back, Dean’s grip tight on the hilt of the blade as they crash to the ground. His head smacks hard against the pavement, but he is still able to thrust the blade up under the angel’s ribs. The guy goes limp as Dean pushes the body off of him.

Ears ringing, Dean scrambles to his feet. He half slides, half falls down the slope of the ditch. All he can see is the soles of Castiel’s brand new boots as Puriel looms over him, angel blade flashing in the sun as he slashes down.

“Leave him alone, you son of a bitch,” Dean shouts, launching himself at the angel as he rams the blade deep in Puriel’s side.

Puriel screams as his eyes start to glow. His body collapses, covering Castiel as it falls forward. Castiel hasn’t moved. Dean grabs hold of what used to be Puriel and pushes him off to the side.

“Cass?” Dean asks, grabbing at the familiar trench coat as he tries to keep the panic out of his voice.

Blue eyes blink up at him. Puriel’s blade is sticking out of the mud, an inch away from Castiel head.

The fallen angel glances at it, “That was close.”

“You think?” Dean says, in a relieved huff as he sinks down to sit next to Castiel.

Chapter Text

It takes some convincing before Bobby decides the guy who claims to be Henry Winchester is on the up and up. John Winchester had never told Bobby much about his past before Mary and the boys, but one sloppy, booze filled night after a nasty hunt found John letting it slip that his old man had supposedly ran out on him and his mom when he was a kid. Henry's tale of being flung into the future through a time traveling closet sounds farfetched, but from past experiences with Castiel, he knows it isn't out of the question. Besides, there’s no denying the guy knows Sam and Dean. Bobby quizzes him on everything he can think of, and Henry answers all his questions.

“How’d you know about me? Doesn’t sound like you were with the boys long enough to get their whole life story.”

“I read John’s journal. There were some pictures stuffed in the back pocket. You were in a few of them, though you were younger. Your name popped up throughout the text as well,” Henry says.  

“I imagine I got lost somewhere towards the end.”

“Yes.”

“John and I had a falling out,” Bobby says, beating Henry to the question, “Over the boys, Sam in particular. Dean was going on 18 and Sam had just turned 14. I never spoke to John again. Dean kept in touch. Sam too, until he went to college.”

Henry pauses for a moment, “Have you seen him?”

“Who?”

“My son. John.”

“You mean, up here?” Bobby asks. Henry nods, “No, we haven’t found John or Mary, though it hasn’t been for a lack of looking. Ash has been combing Heaven since before I got sent upstairs.”

Henry looks unsettled by the news, his shoulders sagging. Bobby can’t blame him. The missing Winchesters has been a mystery no one’s been able to crack and, so far as Bobby can tell, Vegas money is on that being a bad sign.

“Not that I’m not glad to meet another friendly face around here, but what exactly is it you want with me?”

Henry shakes himself from his thoughts, standing straighter, “From your reputation, you seem to be an excellent hunter. I’m sure it hasn’t passed your notice something is very wrong here.”

“To say the least.”

“Have you figured out what you and your men are building yet?”

Bobby shakes his head, “No idea. We get our orders for the day sent to us and so far as I can tell, we only get the bare minimum of what we need to know to do our jobs. What is it they have you guys doing upstairs?”

“Data entry. They’re having us fill out information on every soul in Heaven, specifically family groups and friends for each individual.”

“Why would Heaven care who people want to spend their eternity with?”

“That is the question we need to find an answer to.”

Bobby crosses his arms, “Well, if we’re going to go snooping through Heaven’s dirty laundry, we’re going to need a helluva lot more help than just you and me.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Another hunting buddy of mine. He’s the only other person I knew back home that I’ve been able to find after they shuffled the deck on us.”

“Can you trust him?”

“With my life. Or afterlife, I guess.”

Henry snorts, “Bring him here after the next shift ends.”

“They’ve got him working in a different section. I’d have to go get him then sneak back. There’s no way we’d make it here without being detected.”

The souls steer clear from the work areas once they cross back over into the city proper. He has never been able to see if anyone or anything is standing watch, but he is sure there's something prowling around. If the cold tendril of unease he has felt whenever he lingered longer than most is anything to go by, he's right.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got that covered,” Henry says, smiling as he pulls out a pen and paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and starts to write.

*********

After the unveiling of the infamous list of names, Crowley had been put in charge of scouring all available sources of news for signs of demonic activity, while Sam and Kevin began working their way down the list of Lucifer’s fallen fellows. It’s a surprise to everyone except him that all is quiet on the demonic front.

Abaddon has been out of the loop for centuries. It takes time and patience to gain a good foothold when starting up a new regime, as Crowley well knows. Now is the time to circle the wagons, not to let your soldiers wander the Earth without a chain of command or orders. Demons are not meant to be left to their own devices, if the many tension headaches Crowley had suffered during his tenure as the King of Hell was anything to go by. From what little demonic movements he has been able to track stuck in the broom cupboard he had commandeered as his office, building an army is exactly what Abaddon is up to. The bigger, and more pressing question is, what does Abaddon intend to do with it once it’s in place? If the whispers and legends are true, Hell won’t be the only realm the knight has her heart set on.

This, of course, is not what the elder Winchester had wanted to hear. Sam had managed to keep his brother wrangled by distracting him, giving Dean any number of tasks over the past week to let him pretend to be of some help. Thus far, Crowley has had to pay little to no attention to Dean’s extracurricular activities. He should have known that would be too good to last.

Sam walks into what pains Crowley to call an office. It lacks his customary flair for design, for the moment only consisting of shelves, a desk, and a chair. With zero budget or access to the outside world, he did what he could with it for now, stealing a small potted plant from the library to add a little color. With any luck, he’ll be able to talk Sam into at least letting him put up a few paintings. He considers broaching this very topic as he glances up at the younger Winchester. Sam gives him a smile bordering on apologetic. Crowley returns his eyes to his computer, knowing a lost cause when he sees one.

“No.”

“Crowley --”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“Please,” Crowley says, as he crosses a town off his list of possible hubs of activity, “Squirrel’s got his tail in a knot again, and sent you on a mission to gather the troops for I don’t care what. Spoiler alert Moose, the answer is still no.”

Sam sits down in the chair in front of his desk, “Dean should be back soon. Apparently, he and Cass had a minor run in with a few angels.”

“I fail to see how this affects me.”

“Cass was a little rusty having to fight as a human again, and Dean thinks we should make sure everyone can hold their own. It’s a good idea.”

Crowley isn’t surprised by the suggestion. While their research was slow going, it was becoming clear there would come a point when outside investigation would become a necessity. Still, Crowley is only willing to go so far in the name of teamwork.

“I’ve seen the angel fight. I think his boyfriend is overreacting.”

“Maybe, but it still won’t hurt.”

“I’ve told you before, I’m a lover not a fighter.”

“You may run into a situation where you won’t have a choice.”

Crowley looks up to glare at Sam, “Why? Because I can’t intimately acquaint your face and the drywall with a flick of my wrist anymore? I could handle myself long before I earned my demonic stripes, Moose. I’ll be fine.”

“Then shoot a few bullets and throw a few punches,” Sam says, with a shrug of his shoulders, “If you have the skills, it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“I’ve acquired many skills over the years that I’m fairly certain your brother doesn’t wish me to demonstrate for him.”

“Gross.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Crowley says with a smirk.

***

As it turned out, Sam didn’t have to twist Crowley’s arm too hard. The chance to get a few free jabs in on Dean was more than enough of an incentive for the ex-demon. Dean landed his share of punches too, so they both left the mat pleased with themselves. Even though Castiel might be weaker than they had thought after his fall, everyone was able to prove they were prepared to hold their own in a fight to Dean’s satisfaction. Especially Kevin, who had whipped out a string of martial arts moves, leaving Dean flat on his ass multiple times. Kevin mumbled something about diverse extracurricular activities looking good on college admission forms while helping Dean back to his feet. Sam regrets not being able to get his phone out in time to get it all on video. If anything, Dean’s mini training camp gave them a two hour breather from research, which they needed. Afterward, everyone gets right back at it.

Sam walks into the library, three beers in hand. Dean is flipping through the yellowing pages of a huge, leather bound book. Castiel has his head bent over a notebook, writing. Sam nudges Dean with the end of one of the bottles. His brother reaches up to grab the beer, the long sleeve of his green Henley riding up.

“Dean, look at your arm.”

“What?”

“That cut is almost healed.”

Sam had noticed it earlier. Dean and Castiel both had souvenirs from their fight with the angels. It had still been seeping blood when Dean had walked through the door.

Dean turns his arm to look at it, “Huh. It must not have been that deep.”

“I guess,” Say says, brows furrowed, “Found anything?”

“Bupkis,” Dean says, taking a drink from his beer before continuing, “I don’t get it. These angels or demons or whatever the hell they are were major players. There should be something on them.”

“I’m starting to think there’s not going to be anything for us to find,” Sam says, sliding into the seat across from Dean, “The Men of Letters have a little something on pretty much everything, and there’s nothing.”

“You’re thinking someone etch-a-sketched history and now there’s nothing left?”

“Maybe.”

“Awesome.”

Sam passes Castiel a beer. The fallen angel takes it, but doesn’t open it. Castiel has stopped writing. He is glaring at the table like if he stares at it long enough the grain of the wood will tell him the answer to all of their questions.

“I think we need help,” Castiel says.

Dean rolls his eyes, “Really? What was your first clue?”

Sam kicks Dean under the table. Everyone is frustrated, but it doesn’t give his brother free reign to be a dick. Castiel moves his glare from the table to Dean, but doesn’t rise to the bait.

“In Heaven, there were different classes of angels assigned by God to perform certain duties. Many of us were soldiers, but some were allocated solely to watch over the realms outside of Heaven.”

“Who were they?” Sam asks.

“The Watchers.”

“Creative. God really started to phone it in on the whole naming things gig, huh?” Dean says. Sam kicks him again, harder this time, “What?”

Castiel sighs, “Their name is irrelevant. They were the eyes of Heaven. They knew everything there was to know about Earth, and by extension Hell. Much of the intelligence our garrison received on the movements of demons came from the Watchers.”

“So these Watcher guys might know what the fallen angels were getting up to after their one way trip to the hotbox?” Dean asks.

“Yes.”

“Any idea how we can find them?” Sam asks, trying not to get too excited. This is the first hint of a lead they’ve had in weeks.

“That might prove to be difficult. I’m not sure how many are left.”

“What do you mean?”

“Their ranks were diminished long ago when a number of them were forced out of Heaven.”

Dean sighs, “You’re wanting us to track one group of bad seeds by interrogating another?”

“They didn’t fall for the same reasons as Lucifer’s followers, Dean. The Watchers were punished because they wanted to help humanity. They were the first angels to be in contact with humans.”

That shuts Dean up. He glances at Sam, looking flustered. Sam gives him a look, because while his brother acting weird and embarrassed when he puts his foot in his mouth is nothing new, it’s still annoying. Dean slumps in his chair, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle and doing his best not to look at Castiel.

The fallen angel, for his part, continues on as though nothing had happened, “Many more were exiled because they had fallen in love with a human.”

“Does that mean we have to look for their descendants?” Sam asks.

“No, most of the fallen and any resulting nephilim were destroyed.”

“How?”

“Flooding.”

Sam blinks at Castiel for a second, eyes wide, “As in Noah flooding? That actually happened?”

Castiel shrugs and it’s clear that’s all the answer Sam is going to get.

“Those who later choose the path of the fallen were hunted and killed,” Castiel says, looking every bit as flustered as Dean had earlier.

“Interesting as this history lesson has been, Cass, how does any of this help us?” Dean asks.

“Not all the Watchers fell. There were still a couple hundred active when Metatron shut the gates.”

Sam reaches for one of Kevin’s notebooks and a pen. The kid had a habit of leaving them scattered throughout the Bunker, “Got any names?”

“Just one.”

Dean chuckles, “Careful you don’t get a hand cramp, Sammy.”

“Since I was only soldier, I never came in direct contact with any of the Watchers. However, there was one everyone knew. You’ve both met him as well.”

“Who is it?” Sam asks.

“Joshua.”

***

It’s close to midnight before they get a hit. Sam nudges Dean, his brother half asleep in the chair across from him.

“So, Joshua was Heaven’s number one gardener, right? I took a shot and tried searching new hire records for all the big botanical gardens in the United States and I found a 'Joshua Angel.’ He started about a month ago.”

“Subtle,” Dean says, coming around to look over Sam’s shoulder at the laptop, “Where’s he at?”

Sam snorts, “He’s in Ohio, working at the Cleveland Botanical Gardens.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I don’t understand. Is that relevant?” Castiel asks.

“It’s a message.”

“More like a big, flashing neon sign,” Dean says through a yawn, “Who’s up for a road trip?”

***

Dean is packed and ready to go in less than ten minutes. Three minutes later, and he finishes checking their supplies in the Impala and packing his duffel bag in the trunk. Dean waits another two minutes at the foot of the stairs before he starts banging on doors.

“Sam, get a move on!”

His little brother jerks his door open after the sixth knock, Dean’s hand swiping through the air for what would have been the seventh. Sam glares at him as he slings his bag over his shoulder and walks out, heading towards the library.

“Jeez, Dean,” Sam says, “indoor voice.”

“Did you really just say that?”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Sam grumbles as he writes out a note for Kevin and Crowley to let them know them know where they’re going, “There are some people around here who are trying to sleep.”

“Kevin’s all the way at the end of the hall and I couldn’t give a damn if Crowley gets all 40 of his winks.”

“You’re insufferable when you get like this,” Sam says under his breath.

“What was that, sunshine?”

“Nothing."

It reminds Dean of all the early mornings he’d had to rouse a much younger Sam out of bed earlier than he should have been for some hunt Dad needed to get to or because of some emergency. His little brother had never been the easiest kid to get up, but having to drag him out to the Impala at one or two in the morning was always a fight. To make up for it, Dean used to wrap Sam up in a blanket and let the kid cuddle around him in the backseat as they drove through the night off to some new town, Dad silent in the front seat, hands gripping the wheel.

“We’re burning daylight,” Dean says, voice quieter, “If I drive all night we can be there when the doors open. You and Cass can sleep on the way.”

“Look, I get why you’re so antsy, but Joshua isn’t going anywhere,” Sam says, turning to him, concerned, “We’ve got to work this like any other case.”

“I know, I know,” Dean says.

“Dean --”

“I’m good. Don’t worry.”

Sam gives him a skeptical look, but doesn’t comment.

“I’m going to go see if Cass is ready yet.”

“I’ll meet you guys in the car,” Sam says, as he picks up his bag and heads towards the stairs, “Try not to sound like S.W.A.T. busting through his door.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Whatever, jerk.”

It has been a long time since they’ve done their little routine and Dean can’t help but smile as he heads back down the hallway. Castiel’s door is ajar. He knocks as he pushes it the rest of the way open.

“Cass, you ready?”

“Almost.”

The fallen angel is in his closet, his bag sitting on the bed, packed and zipped up. Dean doesn’t recognize it, but he figures Sam must have given it to him. Castiel is wearing a blue T-shirt and a grey wash of jeans. Dean doesn't know if he’ll ever get used to seeing the guy wearing anything other than his old suit and trench coat. Though, he hasn’t had to see Castiel go out without his coat yet. He sees it draped on the bed, next to his bag, ready to go. Dean is surprised then when Castiel removes a black leather coat from the closet, putting it on. The slim fit jacket hits at Casitel’s hips. It has six buttons, pea coat style. In some weird way it reminds him of the trench coat.

“Where’d you find that?”

“Sam and I were going through some of the storage rooms and ran across a number of boxes containing clothes. I found this and he said I could have it,” Castiel finishes adjusting the coat, turning down the part of his collar that had flipped up. He holds out his arms, looking at Dean, “What do you think?”

Dean’s first thoughts are not ones he wants to say out loud. Because Castiel looks good. Damn good. The messy dark hair with that blue T-shirt bringing out his eyes and the whole package being wrapped up in leather is not something Dean would have ever thought he’d see. He is having a hard time processing. Castiel takes Dean’s momentary lapse in speaking skills the wrong way.

“You don’t like it?” Castiel asks, arms falling down to his sides.

“No! No, it’s great, Cass,” Dean says, trying to recover, “I was just surprised is all. It suits you.”

Castiel gives him a small smile, “Thanks.”

The fallen angel reaches back into his closet and brings out a hanger. Crossing the room, he picks the trench coat off the bed. He takes care putting it on the hanger, even doing up the buttons.

“Finally hanging it up, huh?”

“Yes, it’s time. I should probably throw it away, but I can't bring myself to do it.”

“Nah, you’ve been through a lot in that coat. Somethings you just have to keep.”

Castiel nods as hangs it up in the closet, “Yes, I suppose so.”

Dean watches as Castiel runs a hand down the trench coat, like he’s smoothing out the lumps in a bedspread. The hand pauses at one of the coat’s pockets. The fallen angel reaches in, grabbing something out that he puts in the pocket of his new coat. Castiel doesn’t volunteer anything and Dean doesn’t ask. Castiel grabs his bag, sliding it up onto his shoulder as he follows Dean out of the Bunker to where Sam is waiting for them.

***

Visual aid time! Just in case anyone was wondering, this is kind of what I imagined Castiel's new coat looking like. Though probably minus the belt, since that would be a lot to get done up while you're out on a hunt.

Chapter Text

Joshua turns out to be easy to find. An older woman with white hair teased within an inch of its life named Millie sits at the Botanical Garden information desk as they walk in. She gives them a bright smile when they ask were they can find a ‘Mr. Angel.’

“Oh, he’s such a sweet man. Are you friends of his?”

“He is a member of my family,” Castiel says.

“We were hoping to surprise him,” Sam adds.

“Oh? How wonderful! Let me see here,” Millie says, as she puts her reading glasses on and taps at the keyboard, leaning close to the computer screen, “He should be working in the Woodland gardens today.”

Millie gives them a cheery wave along with a map as they head out, making their way through the gardens. Dean remembers the field trip he went on with Sam what feels like centuries ago, and while some of it looks familiar, the place has changed quite a bit. They walk along boardwalks built amongst the trees, taking some of the bridges and paths off the main drag, eyes searching everywhere for God’s wayward gardener. Besides Cass, Joshua had been one of the few angels Dean had ever liked. But considering the state of the angels they’d had the misfortune to run into thus far, he isn't sure how Joshua will have adjusted to his new life as a human.

“It’s about time you boys made it here. I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.”

Dean almost jumps out of his skin as he spins around. They had walked right by the man. Joshua digs in the dirt surrounding a patch of ground planted with an intricate array of wildflowers, somewhat obscured by some bushes. He doesn’t spare them a glance, content to continue his work. Joshua looks much the same as he had when they had in Heaven, and he hasn't attacked them yet, so Dean takes that as a good sign.

“We didn’t --” Sam says.

“You didn’t think to look for me. At least not a first. I’m not surprised. I imagine you three have had a lot on your plates,” Joshua says, finally looking up at them with a smile, “Hello Castiel.”

“Hello brother,” Castiel replies, voice low. He doesn’t meet Joshua’s eyes.

“There’s a place we can sit over there,” Joshua says, groaning as he stands and wiping dirt off the knees of his pants.

He leads them to a group of wooden benches hidden in the shade of a cluster of maple trees. They sit in silence, Joshua gazing around at the surrounding fauna with a small smile. Dean has never managed to be that content in his entire life, but he somehow gets the feeling Joshua is already better at it than most people.

“You seem uh...good,” Dean says.

“You mean, I don’t appear to be crazy, depressed, or vengeful?” Joshua asks, looking at Dean, “I know many of our brothers did not have such an easy transition. I’ve tried to help those I can. Some are more receptive than others.”

“I bet.”

“How have you been getting along, Castiel?” Joshua asks.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s good,” Joshua says, an eyebrow raised, but he lets it slide, “What about your powers?”

“I don’t have them anymore,” Castiel says as he fidgets next to Sam, eyes never connecting with Joshua’s for too long, “The spell Metatron used to exile the angels from Heaven required an angel’s grace... My grace.”

“The rumors are true then,” Joshua says, continuing with a smile when Castiel looks up in surprise, “Humans didn’t invent gossip, brother. There --”

“That’s not going to be a problem is it?” Dean asks, “The no grace thing? I mean, it can’t be good.”

Sam throws him an annoyed look. He hadn’t meant to jump in and interrupt, but the question had been bothering him. If things could go sideways on Castiel, Dean wanted to be prepared.

“Good? No,” Joshua pauses, studying Castiel, “In this particular case, however, I do not believe he will suffer any side effects. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

“Cass has been normal.”

Sam straightens in his seat, glaring at him, “He wasn’t asking you, Dean.”

“Besides all that goes along with being human, I don’t feel much different than before,” Castiel says, “Except...”

“Except what, Castiel?” Joshua asks, patient as ever.

“I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

“I’ve heard similar complaints from our other brothers and sisters. It’s not something angels usually have any need to become used to,” Joshua says, leaning forward, “but that isn’t what’s troubling you, is it?”

“I-I have these dreams,” Castiel says to his hands resting in his lap more than anyone else, “or at least I think they’re dreams.”

“You’re not sure?”

Castiel rubs the back of his neck, nervous, “I don’t know. I remember dreaming during the Apocalypse, but these seem different. More real.”

Joshua nods, “What are they about?”

“It varies every time and they don’t always make sense, like I’m missing the context of what I’m seeing. I’ve dreamed of my mind being wiped by Naomi. I only remember the most recent occasion. Nothing looks the same in the dream as I remember it, and I think there was someone else in the room.”

“What else, Castiel?”

“I’ve dreamed of horrible things. I’ve seen the slaughter of the first born children of Egypt. People were screaming and children crying as our brothers and sisters descended on them. I found a boy and a baby, hiding in their home.”

Dean jolts, staring at Castiel as the former angel talks. Images fill his mind of darkened streets and blood smeared on doorways. He can almost hear the cries ringing in his ears. He can see the two kids. He remembers waking up from a nightmare in a tangle of sheets on his bedroom floor.

“Cass... In the dream, did you...?” Sam asks, trailing off in shock.

Castiel shakes his head, “I couldn’t. I tried to save the boy, but failed.”

“Were you there for that, Cass?” Dean asks, managing to keep his voice steady.

Joshua turns to look at Dean. He keeps his eyes trained on Castiel, heart pounding. The fallen angel had to have told him this story at some point. That’s how he knows about it. It’s got to be the reason he dreamed about something similar. Like watching a movie right before bed, then dreaming about it later.

“Naomi said that I was, but I don’t remember it,” Castiel says, “I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe they’re more memory than dreams.”

Dean somehow manages to keep himself in check. He leans back, hiding his clenched hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“You would be correct,” Joshua says.

Castiel nods like that's what he was expecting. As if that explains everything. Dean stays silent.

“How do you know?”

“I can sense some of what is happening to you. As I’m sure you’re aware by now, the angels that fell retained some of their former abilities. A higher ranking angel’s grace is more powerful than others. Though still greatly limited, they seem to retain more of their abilities.”

“I bet being God’s ear has its perks.” Dean says, shooting for nonchalance and hoping he lands somewhere in the ball park.

“Yes, and no. It seems the weaker the angel, the more likely they are to breakdown under the pressures of their new existence. Falling from higher up on Heaven’s chain of command comes with its own set of perils, however.”

“Then how have you managed it?” Sam asks.

“I have a garden to tend. It’s a bit smaller than the one I’m used to, but it gives me a purpose,” Joshua gazes at Dean, who fights the urge to fidget under such intense scrutiny, “And purpose is a very important thing to have, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That’s kind of why we’re here,” Sam says, handing Joshua Kevin’s list, “We’ve been trying to track down any information on these names, but we’re not finding anything.”

Joshua takes the list, eyes scanning each name, “The original fallen.”

“Cass said you were the head of the Watchers in Heaven, and if anyone would know, it’d be you guys.”

“I’m afraid I won’t have much in the way of specifics. Despite claims to the contrary, the Watchers were not omniscient. Although, I can see why you two would be so interested,” Joshua says, pointing at Azazel’s name on the list.

“It’s not just that,” Sam says.

“You’re worried about Abaddon.”

“You know about her?” Dean asks, “Word was, the archangels were supposed to have killed all the knights of Hell.”

Sam and Dean hadn’t got to spend much time with Henry Winchester, but their grandfather had given them a few interesting pieces of information while he'd been with them.

“That was the official party line. Clearly, that information was incorrect.”

“Clearly,” Dean says, with a snort.

“Abaddon is one of the first demons. She’s very old and, as a result, more powerful than your run of the mill demon. This list, however, has little to do with the knights,” Joshua says, as he hands the paper back to Sam, “Those angels who survived the fall became Lucifer’s first followers, but if the knights were soldiers, then our fallen brethren were their generals. Hell twisted the fallen until they became something different. They were stronger than anything Hell has ever created. They were known as the lords of Hell.”

“Do you know if there are any lords of Hell left?” Sam asks.

“We were told they had been destroyed.”

“Which means jack considering Abaddon,” Dean says, running a hand over his face, “Okay, so assuming we won’t have to deal with any of those asshats, how do we kill Abaddon?”

“You don’t.”

“Come again?”

“There is a reason the archangels were sent to destroy them. And unless you have one hiding in the trunk of that car of yours,” Joshua says, “as of right now, there’s not much you can do.”

“You’re sure an archangel is the only thing that would have enough juice to do the job?”

Joshua turns to Dean, considering, “They are the only ones I’ve ever seen do so.”

“You said right now there’s nothing,” Sam says, leaning toward Joshua, “So, that must mean there’s something. Is there another archangel floating around that we don’t know about?”

“Dude, the archangels are either locked in Lucifer’s cage or dead,” Dean says, irritated.

“The answer to your question, Sam,” Joshua says, ignoring Dean’s petulance, “is complicated. At one time, Heaven did indeed have more than four archangels, but the rest were destroyed before our Father created humans.”

Dean looks over at his little brother. Sam has his interested face on. The one he gets when he walks around museums. He looks like he is about to embark on a series of questions, sure to elicit the most fascinating of answers and Dean doesn’t feel like suffering through a long, drawn out history lesson right now.

“How does any of this help us?” Dean asks, taking the wind out of his little brother’s sails.

“Castiel, where do humans go when they die?” Joshua asks, with a smile.

The fallen angel shifts in his seat. Dean hasn’t seen him this uncomfortable since he took Castiel to that brothel before their first run in with Raphael.

“Their souls go to Heaven or Hell.”

“Yes, and monsters are allocated to Purgatory, as you and Dean are well aware. What about angels?”

“They don’t go anywhere. When an angel is killed, we cease to exist.”

“Are you sure?”

Castiel squints at Joshua, a frown forming, “It’s what we have always been told.”

“Do you truly believe our Father would provide a safe haven for the souls of humanity and not a place for our deceased brothers and sisters?”

No one speaks for a minute, Castiel’s mind appearing to have been blown by the information. Dean watches him, hearing his breath hitch when he’s able to look back at Joshua.

“All of our brothers and sisters we lost in battle? The ones that I --”

Castiel cuts himself off. Dean half expects Castiel to bolt, but the fallen angel just sits there, head bowed. Joshua is looking at him, pity in his eyes. Dean is glad Cass doesn't see it.

“So, let me get this straight. You’re telling us we need to not only break into Heaven, which is already on lockdown, but we gotta get into Angel Heaven too?” Dean asks to direct the attention away from Castiel as much as to get an answer, “Yeah, that doesn’t sound impossible or anything.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Joshua says, turning back to Dean.

“No kidding. Assuming we can find a way to bust down both sets of doors, do you really think any of the other archangels would be willing to help us out?”

“You would be wise to avoid them,” Joshua says, “They were destroyed for reasons God has never been inclined to disclose. My instinct tells me the four you’ve met would be much more receptive to you than the others would be.”

“I kind of doubt we’re still on any of the archangel’s Christmas card lists at this point, considering we're the reason their either dead or caged.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Sam says, thoughtful.

Dean makes a face, “How do you figure?”

“Gabriel.”

“That assclown? Gotta say Sam, our time spent with him doesn’t exactly fill me with the warm and fuzzies.”

“The guy did stand up to Lucifer and saved our asses.”

“The one time! You think that means he’ll be on our team?” Sam just shrugs as Dean throws his hands up, “Whatever. Worth a shot, I guess.”

“Sounds like it’s the only one we’ve got,” Sam says, looking back to Joshua, “How do we break in?”

“That I can’t help you with. I wouldn’t be able to even at full power. No angel could.”

“Who can?”

“Death is the only one powerful or knowledgeable enough in his own right to help you.”

Dean blanches, “We uh, don’t exactly have the best relationship with him either.”

Joshua chuckles, “I know. That seems to be a reoccurring theme with you boys.”

“You have no idea.”

“Lucky for you, there are a few angels who could possibly act as intermediary for you. Some that have worked closely with Death and his staff.”

“Do you know where any of them are?” Sam asks.

“I have been in contact with one or two. Jophiel comes to mind. He found me not long after our exile. He was the official caretaker of the souls’ personal Heavens.”

“So he was kind of high up on Heaven’s tower of power,” Dean says.

“You could say that. Jophiel is the angel who worked closest with Death.”

“Did he happen to leave you a forwarding address?”

“Jophiel wished to help others who had fallen. I sent him to Salem, West Virginia to meet up with more of our brothers and sisters.”

“You sure you don’t mean Salem, Massachusetts?” Dean asks, “You guys wouldn’t be the first non-humans to make it their crash pad.”

“I’m sure.”

“Guess that’s where we’re headed then,” Sam says with a smile. He stands, holding out his hand to Joshua, “Thanks for your help.”

Joshua takes his hand as Dean and Castiel stand, “Always happy to be of service to the Winchesters, and you know where I am should you need me again.”

Sam nods as the three men start back up the path they had came. Dean is falling in behind Sam and Castiel when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Dean? Could I have word?” Joshua asks.

Sam and Castiel both turn to him, questioning, but Dean shrugs, “Yeah, sure.”

“We’ll meet you back at the bridge,” Sam says, glancing between Dean and Heaven’s former gardener, “Thanks again, Joshua.”

Joshua nods as Sam and Castiel head out from under the shelter of the trees and disappear up the path.

Chapter Text

“You look tired,” Joshua says as they sit back down.

Dean shrugs, “It’s not like I’ve had time to take a vacation to the Bahamas or anything since the last time we saw you. Sleep deprivation comes with the job.”

Joshua studies him with that stare again, but doesn’t say anything. He has nothing on Castiel in the intensity department, but Dean still finds himself fighting the urge to fiddle with the zipper on his jacket while Joshua looks him over.

“You said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

“I know you’ve seen what Castiel is seeing in his dreams.”

“I don’t know --”

“Yes, you do,” Joshua says, interrupting, “The resurfacing memories Castiel has been experiencing...you’ve witnessed them too.”

Dean pauses, picking at a piece of wood sticking up on the arm of the bench, “I didn’t know what they were until you mentioned it.”

“Neither did he,” Joshua says, “Does it bother you that Castiel is not as affected by his fall as the other angels you’ve met?”

The question feels like it comes out of left field, leaving Dean off balance. He tries not to give it much thought. Considering Castiel’s history, however, he can't help but wonder and worry. It hasn’t been that long since Castiel was living it up in a mental ward, but he's fine now. At least he hasn’t been playing board games nonstop or making them sandwich after unwanted sandwich this time around.

“I was just glad something seemed to be going our way for once.”

Joshua shakes his head, “Nothing is ever that easy, especially in the case of you three.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“All right. There’s a connection between you and --”

“Yeah, yeah. A profound bond or whatever,” he says, slinging his arms along the back of the wooden bench as he slumps down, annoyed. He wishes everyone would leave that particular subject alone.

“Castiel told you?” Joshua asks, surprised.

“He just said we shared a bond. He never said what that means.”

“Ah, then he doesn’t know either.”

“Doesn’t know what?” Dean asks, perking up a little. As much as he would like people to mind their own damn business, it’s not like Castiel is mister details.

“It was never a secret to those higher up in the ranks of both Heaven and Hell that you and Sam were to be the beginning and the end of this world," Joshua says, "The only real question was who would come out the victor and, despite what you may have been told, the outcome of that battle was far from guaranteed. The powers that be in Hell knew you would break the first seal, but they also knew Heaven would eventually need you back on Earth.”

Joshua runs his fingers through the growth of a nearby bush as he continues, “They tried to stack the deck in their favor. They buried you deep, endeavoring to destroy your soul so much you would be unrecognizable as Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man. They wanted you to be so damned there could be no coming back from it, even with the help of the angels.”

Dean knows he doesn’t remember all of Hell, but he remembers enough. He remembers cleaving flesh from bone. He reveled in the sounds of the screams and the tortured cries he drew out of the souls placed in front of him. It was the sweetest music he’d ever heard, the ultimate soundtrack to the horrors surrounding him. And he loved it every bit as much as he loathed himself for enjoying it. He remembers trudging through ankle-deep pools of blood after a day of tearing into soul after soul. He would lose track of who all the blood belonged to, never sure if it was his or the soul on his rack. There weren’t any mirrors in Hell, but he doesn’t think anyone could have recognized him by the end, not even his own brother.

Dean stares at Joshua for a moment before he can find his voice, “If I was so far gone, how did Cass find me in that mess?”

“You’d have to ask Castiel that question, though I doubt he would be able to give you the full answer,” Joshua sighs, “You must remember Dean, many of Castiel’s memories have been stolen from him or altered. Even ones he made with you.”

Dean always wondered what had happened to Castiel when he was dragged back to Heaven to be punished because he tried to warn Dean and Sam about what the angels were planning before the final seals were broken. He never had balls enough to ask Castiel, but now Dean figures he won’t have to.

“Why?” Dean asks through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry. I was not privy to the inner workings of Heaven’s higher ups. I do not know what role Castiel was meant to play. Everything I know has been told to me by a higher authority, but He can sometimes skimp on the details.”

“You mean God?”

Joshua doesn’t answer, giving Dean a knowing look as he continues, “However Castiel found you, it took everything he had to get you both out. He almost didn’t survive. When an angel travels through Hell, we are partially cut off from Heaven. The further down we go, the weaker we become. That being said, Castiel should have been strong enough to descend as far as he did and make the trek back up, especially with his garrison helping to keep the path clear.”

“What happened to him?”

“Your soul had been so thoroughly damaged the trip was killing you. Castiel’s orders were to retrieve you, but not by any means necessary. Important as you were, I imagine Heaven could have found a replacement in a pinch.”

“They did,” Dean says, not for the first time imagining Adam still stuck in the cage with Michael and Lucifer.

“Your soul was dying, and there is no coming back from that, I’m afraid.”

“Why am I here then?”

“Castiel made a choice that has affected your lives ever since, and never so much as it does right now. He gave you a piece of his grace, Dean. It was only a small piece, but without it, you would not have made it out of Hell. As I understand it, he tried to cover his tracks, laying claim to your soul as well, but he was found out.”

“He did what? Why the hell would he do that?”

Castiel was such an idiot. He had almost gotten himself killed, literally tore himself apart, just to bring Dean back. Who does that? Why would anyone do that? The angel hadn’t even known Dean at that point and he put everything on the line for him. Dean had never thought he’d deserved to be saved from the Pit, and he’s even more convinced of it now.

“Another question only Castiel could answer.”

“Could? I guess that probably got wiped too.” Dean says, his mind still reeling, but he manages to pull himself together enough to concentrate on what Joshua is saying.

“I would imagine so. By bringing you back the way he did, Castiel had rebelled, adding to a long list of disobedience, even if that particular incident should have been considered a minor infraction and technically was still serving Heaven’s best interests.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you still carry that piece of his grace with you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, "Got to say, I haven’t seen any fringe benefits.”

“You have been enjoying those benefits since the angels fell. You just haven’t been paying enough attention.”

“How do you figure?”

“You are what is keeping Castiel from falling apart. When he fell, that bit of grace he left in you reached out to help. It still recognizes Castiel.”

“Like it’s trying to heal him through me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s just... So, I’m some kind of angelic in case of emergency kit?”

“In a sense, but it’s not just Castiel you’re acting as a lifeline for. You’re also the reason your brother is still up and walking around.”

“Sammy? What does this have to do with Sam?”

“That bit of grace has been with you for a long time now. It’s acclimated to you, attaching itself to the closest source of power that most resembles an angel’s grace.”

Dean thinks for a moment, “My soul.”

“In the years since you received it, the grace has integrated itself with your soul. It has become something different,” Joshua says, “There are not many things that could heal the damage Sam has suffered from undergoing the trials to close the gates of Hell.”

“Cass said he couldn’t swing it.”

“No, he wouldn’t have been capable of that level of healing. You, on the other hand, are. It’s a slow process, but it’s going on right now, even as we speak. You two, as in all things, are different. You do remember your time in Heaven, correct?”

“Yeah, Zachariah stalked us like the creepier he was, then we met up with you in the Garden.”

Joshua chuckles, “Zachariah controlled most of your time in Heaven, bringing up memories designed to cause strife between you and Sam, but when you came to the Garden, you both picked the same place.”

“So?”

“So you jointly created a place in Heaven. This place,” Joshua says, gesturing towards the garden around them, “Only a select few are able to do that.”

“Are you saying Sam and I are soulmates?” Joshua just nods, “Isn’t that for people who are like, I don’t know, married and in love and stuff?”

“Not necessarily. Soulmates come in many forms.”

“Not really sure what to say to that. Awesome, I guess?”

“In this case, I suppose it is. That connection is what’s allowing you to help heal your brother.”

They sit for a minute, Dean lost in thought. If this is true, and he doesn’t have a reason not to trust Joshua, then how far down does this rabbit hole go? If Dean can heal two people without realizing it, what could he do if he was trying?

“Can I control this uh, whatever this is?”

Joshua hesitates, longer than Dean is comfortable with, “I do not know what the mixture of soul and grace that lives in you is capable of or how much you can learn to control it. Something like this has never happened before.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Anything is possible, but not always advisable.”

Dean grins, “I can work with that.”

“I’m serious, Dean. Even I can see the dark circles under your eyes and the way your clothes are hanging looser on you than they used to.”

“I’ve had some sleepless nights and maybe skipped a few meals. If you haven’t noticed, we’re under a little bit of stress here.”

“You were under a great deal of stress during the Apocalypse and you never looked this bad.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself,” Dean says, eying Joshua, “What the hell am I supposed to do? Let them lose it? Let them die?”

Because that is not going to happen. Not on Dean’s watch. Not if there is something he can do about it.

“You are sacrificing yourself to prevent that from happening. How far are you willing to go to save them, Dean?”

“I’ll do whatever I have to,” Dean says, without a second thought, “It’s what I’ve always done. Even if it kills me.”

“It just might.”

***

“What did Joshua want?” Sam asks as Dean makes his way towards him.

Dean looks further up the path to Castiel. The fallen angel stands next to a small pond, shoulders hunched as he watches some ducks swimming. He looks back to his brother. Dean knows he can’t tell Sam the truth. His little brother would march him right back down to Joshua and demand he tell them how to flip the off switch on the grace lodged in Dean’s soul. The thought makes his stomach twist.

“He wants us to keep a close eye on Cass. I think he’s worried about him.”

“Understandable. He's been through a lot,” Sam says, glancing Castiel’s way.

“Yeah, he has. How are you doing, by the way?” Dean asks, trying to steer the conversation away from anything to do with Joshua.

“I’m good.”

“No fainting spells or feeling sick?”

“Nope, nothing,” Sam says with a shrug, “Actually, for the last few weeks, I’ve felt as close to normal as I have in... God, I don’t even know how long.”

Sam is telling the truth. Hell, the guy even looks well rested. In the last week or so, Dean has spent fewer nights staying up with his little brother. He thought it was his presence that had been keeping the nightmares away. Dean guesses he was kind of right since it kept his grace charged soul closer to its patient. He was glad to see his brother start to make it through most nights without needing him. Unfortunately, having his nights freed back up hadn’t brought any extra sleep Dean’s way.

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, giving him a strange look, “So, Salem, West Virginia?”

“Hey, I’ll take angels over witches any day of the week. If we shag ass, we should be able to make it in six hours,” Dean says with a smile as he slaps Sam’s shoulder, turning him back up the path, “Hey Cass, you ready?”

Castiel turns his head as Dean and Sam walk towards him. He nods and falls into step with them. They walk through the winding paths of the gardens, Dean rambling the entire time. He can’t stop word vomiting all over the place. It feels like Joshua is going to jump out of a bush at any second and blow Dean’s cover, which is ridiculous. Still, the more miles he puts between them and this place can’t hurt.

“Are you guys hungry?” He hears himself babbling as they hit the parking lot, “I’m starving. Did we even have breakfast? There’s gotta be somewhere good to eat between here and Salem. Some place fun. Sammy, you remember that one diner we stopped at near Missouri where the waiters wore those --”

“Dean, why --” Sam starts, but is interrupted by his cell phone ringing. He digs it out of his jacket pocket.

“Hello?”

Dean opens the Impala’s driver side door, Castiel already sliding into the backseat. He starts to sit down, pausing when he sees Sam hesitate.

“Are you sure?” Sam says, glancing to Dean.

“What is it?” Dean asks, but Sam waves him off.

“No, don’t leave, I’ll come get you... I don’t care, just stay put,” Sam says, ending the call.

Sam jerks open the door of the Impala, climbing into the passenger seat before slamming the door closed.

Dean slides behind the wheel, glaring at his little brother as he pats his door in apology, “Easy, damn it. What’s going on?”

“That was Crowley.”

“He found some omens?”

“Better. He got a hit with one of his old contacts. Abaddon is in Colorado.”

Dean slams his hands against the steering wheel, “Of course she is! We can't be in two different places at once.”

“We won't have to. You and Cass can head towards Salem. I’ll borrow a car and go check it out.”

“Like hell you will.”

“Dean, you just said --”

“I know what I said. You’re not going alone.”

“Which is why I’m taking Crowley.”

“That’s not any better, Sam!”

Castiel leans forward, arms crossed and resting along the back of the front seat, “What exactly does Crowley think he’s found?”

“Hell's top brass are gathering to meet with Abaddon.”

“Jesus Sam, and you want to head there with Crowley as back up? There’s no freaking way.”

Sam sighs, frustrated, “It’s a recon mission. We’re not going to go in guns blazing. We wouldn’t be doing that if it was you, me, and Cass. I can handle this, Dean.”

Dean fights the urge to start yelling. While sending Crowley anywhere with anyone is always nine kinds of dumb, that isn't Dean’s only problem with Sam's plan. He can’t tell Sam he’s concerned this grace healing thing won’t work if Dean’s not close by. What if his little brother starts getting worse?

“Look, I know you’re worried that I’m not up it, but we just talked about this. I feel fine,” Sam pauses, turning to glare out the windshield, “Or is it more than that?”

“Sam --”

“You think I still need a chaperone.”

He stops there, but Dean can almost hear Sam accusing him of lying that night when Dean had busted into that old, abandoned church to stop his little brother from finishing the trials. He told Sam there was nothing he would put in front of him. That he trusted Sam and needed him here to help more than anyone else. And Dean meant every word. Sam doesn’t know it, but he is asking Dean to put Sam’s desire to pull his own weight in front of Sam’s health. In front of Sam’s life.

“No, I don’t.”

“Then let me do this.”

The “please” is implied. Sam is looking at him like the next words out of Dean’s mouth might break him. They have been in as good a place with each other as they’ve been in years since the night the angels fell. Dean doesn’t want to lose that. He stares at this brother hard before turning away.

“If anything happens, anything at all, you call.”

“I will,” Sam says, the relief clear in his voice.

“That includes if any of the trial side effects start coming back. You. Call. Me.”

“I promise, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head as he turns the ignition, the radio filling the silence that falls between them. He turns it up as he pulls out of the parking lot, hoping he made the right choice.

Chapter Text

They drop Sam off in an out of the way park and ride, Dean glaring at the back of Sam’s head the entire time his little brother is hot wiring an older model Honda Accord. The Impala follows it out of the parking lot minutes later, Sam going right and Dean turning left. Dean watches his rearview mirror until Sam is out of sight, then cranks the radio and settles in, his knuckles turning white from clenching the steering wheel so tight. Castiel remains silent next to him, left to his thoughts. They are on the road for less than five minutes when Castiel’s phone starts vibrating, alerting him he has a text. It’s from Sam.

                                                                                Keep an eye on Dean.

It isn't surprising Sam had noticed the difference in his brother’s behavior since leaving Joshua. Dean had been too cheery. Even during those rare, relaxed times, Castiel had never seen him be as jovial as he had been before Sam received Crowley’s phone call. Castiel had learned to read Dean over the years and he knew the hunter could be a convincing liar when he needed to be. Whatever Joshua said had left Dean discombobulated enough to throw him off his game.

Thanks in large part to Dean's rage driving, they make it to Salem in record time, rolling into town before sunset. They check in at the Blue Jay motel, stopping at their room long enough to throw their bags inside. They hit the local diner a few streets down, for which Castiel’s stomach is grateful. While there are a multitude of exhausting and monotonous rituals involved with being human that Castiel wishes he was still exempt from, eating isn't one of them. They seat themselves at one of the few empty tables, colorful ads for various local businesses sealed under the clear counter top.

Most of the patrons converse quietly, the clinking glasses and scraping of cutlery against china accompanying the soothing murmur of voices as a few solitary souls find a spot at the counter, riding stools that appear to be held together by duct tape more than anything. Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the noise of everyday life. The longer he is human, the more he appreciates these moments of calm and normality. This seems to be lost on Dean, whose head is buried in the menu. Castiel smiles at him, shaking his head as he picks up his own.

“I can’t decide if I want a bacon cheeseburger or a double-decker BLT," Dean says, pausing to look over his menu at Castiel, "Dude, they even put bacon on the Reuben.”

“Or you could just order bacon with a side of bacon.”

“You say that like it’d be a bad thing,” Dean lays down his menu as he leans towards Castiel, voice solemn, “Let me tell you something, Cass. Now that you’re human, there’s a few rock solid rules you gotta know, and one of them is everything is better with bacon.”

“Everything?”

“Yep?”

“Even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” Castiel asks.

He has become rather fond of them over the last few weeks spent in the Bunker. Dean’s eyes light up at the prospect.

“I don’t believe we have that on the menu, but it’s the best idea I’ve heard in awhile,” a tall man with curly blonde hair says, grinning at Castiel as he comes to a stop next to their table, “My name’s Joe, I’ll be your waiter this evening.”

Dean scowls up at the guy, who hasn’t seemed to notice him yet.

“Ready to order?”

“I’ll have a a bacon Reuben, fries, and a beer. What about you, Cass?”

“Cass, huh?” Joe asks, as he jots down Dean’s order before looking back up, “What’s that short for?”

“Castiel.”

“Don’t hear that one too often,” Joe says with a chuckle, “What can I do for you, Castiel?”

“I’ll have two cheeseburgers with everything, french fries, a Caesar salad, and a coke.”

“I like a man with an appetite,” Joe says, with a wink at Castiel before he heads off to put their order in.

Dean watches Joe go, brow furrowed, until he disappears behind the swinging door separating the diners from the kitchen.

“Did I order too much?” Castiel asks as Dean turns back towards him.

“Hell no. I’ve had way more than that after a late night hunt. The guy was trying to flirt with you,” Dean says, spitting the words out like they taste bad.

“I know.”

Dean looks stunned, “You knew?”

“It’s nothing new. I’ve had people flirt with me numerous times during my travels on Earth.”

“You-You what? Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you flirt back?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, “Only once to my knowledge.”

“Did it work out?” Dean asks, fingers fiddling with the silverware sitting on his place mat.

“It resulted in a marriage. I think that would qualify as a success.”

They hadn’t spoken of Daphne or his time spent as “Emmanuel” since Castiel regained his memories. It isn't something Castiel thinks of often. It feels like it happened to someone else, like a movie he can turn on inside his head and watch when he wants to. Mostly, Castiel doesn’t like to recall Daphne because of what happened afterwards. It wasn’t until after he was brought back from Purgatory that Castiel had been in good enough mental and physical shape to try to make amends.

By then, so much time had passed Daphne had picked up the pieces of her life, moving out of state for a new job and saving Castiel an awkward conversation. “Emmanuel,” Castiel found out later, had been declared deceased after an exhaustive search. Daphne had even put up a small monument in the cemetery behind St. Augustus church near the house they had lived in. Nestled in the back near an elm tree, Castiel had stood and stared at the tombstone. It only had a name and a death date, since “Emmanuel” hadn’t remembered his birthday. He wouldn't have had one to remember even if he'd had access to his memories at the time. Still, it was a pleasant spot, even if it was for a man who had never existed.

Dean is staring at him, at a loss for what to say. Joe returns, bringing their drinks and food, sparing Dean. He sits Dean’s order in front of him and moves to put Castiel’s down. Castiel reaches out to help, taking the glass from Joe, so he doesn’t have to reach so far. Their fingers brush as he hands Castiel the glass.

Joe gives Castiel another wink, “Enjoy!”

He walks away, smirking at Dean who has been glaring at him during the entire exchange, arms crossed. Castiel sighs. He doesn't know why Dean is so insulted by Joe’s flirtatious overtures, and the question bothers him only a moment longer before he starts digging into his food. They eat in silence for a while.

“Is there some kind of super secret eating contest I don’t know about?”

“I’m hungry,” Castiel says around a mouthful of burger as he grabs some more fries.

Dean puts down his sandwich, “If you were that hungry why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t think you would want to stop.”

“I would have if I’d known,” Dean says, leaning towards Castiel, “Sorry man, I shoulda noticed. It’s just... I was --”

“Distracted.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “and I guess I’m not used to having to worry about you needing any of this stuff on a regular basis.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Dean.”

“No, I don’t have to...”

Castiel isn’t sure how long they stare at each other before he hears someone clearing their throat nearby. He looks up to see Joe standing next to them.

“Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” Joe says, tone cooler than before.

Dean smirks at him, leaning back in his chair, “You might have been.”

Joe drops their check off without another word and moves off to help another set of customers.

Castiel watches him go, before turning back to Dean, “That display was unnecessary, Dean.”

“Come on, the guy’s been making a pass at you all night and it’s annoying. It’s not like you were interested,” Dean says, doubt crossing his features a moment later, “Were you?”

“No,” Castiel says, in a huff, unsure why he is so agitated by Dean’s behavior.

Castiel leaves some tip money on the table as he grabs the bill and heads to the cash register. It’s an old, dinged up mass of metal that sits on the counter and Castiel is surprised it still works. Dean comes up behind him as he pays. Castiel is handing over his money when Dean elbows him in the ribs. Castiel glares at him as the hunter jerks his head in the direction of an elderly couple sitting a few stools down from where they're standing.

“Hurry up, Edgar! I’ve got to get home early tonight. Tomorrow’s the church bake sale and craft show. Jophiel wants everything turned in an hour before hand, so we’ve got plenty of time to setup.”

“I don’t care what Joshfell says, Evelyn, I’m not rushing my meal. It’s bad for my digestion.”

“Jophiel. It’s Jophiel,” Evelyn says, swatting at Edgar’s shoulder, “Honestly, how many times do I have to tell you?”

“If you ask me, Joshfell is a hellvua mean name to give a kid,” Edgar says, taking a sip from his iced tea.

“Well, no one asked you.”

Castiel takes his change, and the two head out of the diner, the sun now low on the horizon, drenching the small town in an eerie, orange glow.

“That was easy,” Castiel says, as they turn toward the direction of the motel.

“Even better, he’s going to be at a bake sale,” Dean says, with a grin.

**********

“Not one goddamned slice of pie left. What kind of bake sale is this?”

“Dean,” Castiel says his name like a reprimand as they skirt around the corner of a small, red brick church away from the bustling crowd.

“Sorry,” Dean says, half to Castiel and half to the solemn old building standing watch over the people passing under bright, white tents scattered across the sun drenched churchyard, “See anyone who looks familiar?”

Castiel shakes his head, “I can’t tell anymore. Everyone here could be an angel and I’d never know.”

“Oh come now, Castiel, perhaps you’re just not looking hard enough.”

Dean and Castiel wheel around, almost bumping into the chest of a very broad man. Dean looks up at the guy, who might even give Sam a run for his money in the height department. The man reminds him of Santa Claus except for the bright red beard and hair.

“Castiel and Dean Winchester,” The man says, beaming as he gives them a bear hug each, lifting Dean at least six inches off the ground.

“I thought that was just a cupid thing,” Dean says, straightening out his shirt with a glare.

“I apologize, but it’s not everyday you meet a celebrity, let alone two at the same time! It’s an honor.”

“Uh, thank you? Or your welcome, I guess?”

“We’re looking for Jophiel,” Castiel says, unfazed and straight to the point, as always.

“Search no more, brother. You’ve found him. Can you truly not tell? We are all of us diminished to a certain degree, but I’ve not met anyone who couldn’t still spot one of their own,” Jophiel pauses, looking Castiel over, “Or are the rumors true? Don’t tell me you’re completely human now, are you Castiel?”

Dean glances over at Castiel, who looks uncomfortable. It has to be hard on him, going over this story every time they meet someone new.

“Yeah it’s true,” Dean says with more heat than he means to, “and we’re happy to have him unlike you douchnozzles. Metatron tricked Cass and stole his grace to use in a spell. That’s why all you featherheads are stuck down here rubbing elbows with us-us... What’d Uriel used to call us?”

“Mudmonkeys,” Castiel says, staring at Dean as if he’s lost his mind.

“Right. And us Mudmonkeys,” Dean says, “are trying to fix this damn mess before everything goes straight to Hell, and that’s not a freaking metaphor.”

“I’m going to assume you’re here to ask for some kind of favor then,” Jophiel says as he crosses his arms, “I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you that you two and that brother of yours have your fingerprints all over this mess as well.”

“You want to go down that road? Let’s talk about about all the crap the angels have put us through. How about Naomi or Zachariah, huh? You were one of the higher ups, I’m sure those names ring a bell,” Dean says, seething as he edges closer to Jophiel, “Yeah, we’ve broke the merry-go-round a few too many times ourselves, but it sounds to me like the angels have been dicking around with things since the dawn of time, so do you really want to start playing the blame game, you son of a bitch?”

“Dean!” Castiel growls, pulling Dean away from Jophiel.

Jophiel blinks at Dean, before turning to Castiel, “He doesn’t know how to ask people for help does he?”

“No,” Castiel says, hand gripping tight to Dean's arm, "He doesn't."

“Are you going to help us or not?”

Jophiel laughs, “Calm down, Dean. Yes, I’m going to help you.”

“You will?” Dean asks, surprised.

“And you can stop defending Castiel’s honor, I meant no offense,” Jophiel says, holding up his hands.

“I wasn’t -- That’s not --” 

The guy was making it sound like Dean was swooping in to save Castiel like he was some kind of damsel in distress. Or would it be dude in distress?

“Of course you were. I’d be surprised if you didn’t react so strongly toward a threat to the one that holds such a claim on your soul.”

Dean jerks at the mention of souls. He had planned to tell Castiel and Sam about the whole soul thing sometime between never and the end of time, but now all of a sudden he’s an inch away from this Jophiel guy blowing his cover.

“A what?” Castiel asks, shocked.

“The claim. You did it Castiel, surely you can see it.”

“I wouldn't be able to now,” Castiel says, squinting at Dean, “but there was never anything there before.”

“That’s not possible. It’s too --”

“We aren’t here to talk about freaking souls,” Dean shouts as his panic gets the best of him, causing a few people nearby to look over at them. Jophiel waves them off with a reassuring smile, “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

Jophiel looks between Dean and Castiel before nodding and motioning for him to follow him. Castiel glares at Dean, but doesn’t push further. Dean follows behind them, knowing he’s dodged a major bullet, at least for now.

**********

“Bobby, this is ridiculous.”

“Stop fidgeting or I’ll have to start over.”

“I can’t help it. It tickles!”

Bobby sighs, fighting the urge smack Rufus upside the head for acting like a little kid. A person can only take so much whining.

“There has to be a better way of doing this.”

“It’s the only way to hide it from the normal souls, ya idjit, now hold still.”

Bobby finishes painting the sigils Henry had given him on Rufus’ sides and back. As he completes each one, they glow a dull blueish white before returning to the black color of the paste he had been instructed to make. The ingredients were easy to find, but the sigil work was some of the most intricate Bobby has ever seen. Once Rufus is taken care of, they switch places. Bobby does a far better impression of a canvas than his partner, and his session goes much quicker.

“So this stuff is supposed to make us invisible, huh?”

“To any celestial eyes. At least I hope so. Otherwise I just got intimately acquainted with your back for no reason.”

Rufus snorts, “Guess we should head out.”

No one pays them any mind as they make their way towards the factory Bobby works in. They move as quick as they dare, without looking like they’re in any big hurry. It’s a fine line they’d both long since learned to walk. Celestial eyes are one thing, but humans are just as likely to turn you in if they think there's a juicy reward in it for them. They would be fools to think there aren’t at least a small group of souls on the newest flavor of big bad's payroll. They arrive at Bobby’s work station without incident. None of the doors are locked when they get there. The factory floor is silent. The only light in the place comes through the windows, thanks to the eternal sunny day they’ve had since the big change. What Bobby wouldn’t give for something different. A spring rain shower or a thunderstorm would have never looked so good. They slip into the broom cupboard, finding it empty.

“Are we getting stood up?”

“Give him a minute.”

It isn't long before Henry opens the door, “Sorry I’m late. If I am actually late, that is. Time seems to be rather fluid here.”

“If it exists at all,” Bobby says, “Rufus Turner, meet Henry Winchester.”

The two shake hands, Rufus giving Henry the once over as he does, “Bobby here tells me you think there’s something fishy going on.”

Henry takes out a piece of paper with a dozen names on them, flattening it out on an overturned barrel for them to see.

“The nature of the information gathered in the files is indeed suspicious.”

“You can read that gobbledygook?” Rufus asks, surprised.

“Enochian? Well yes, among other languages,” Henry says, “Anyways, I copied these names from some of the more irregular files they’ve had us updating. I was able to find at least one friend or family member who had found everyone else close to them except the person whose name I had written down on my list,”

Henry points at one of the names, “Gertrude Bradley has a mother, father, and two sisters up here, but none of them have been able to locate her. Stanley Bishop only had a brother and his best friend from childhood.”

“Let me guess, they haven’t been able to find him either,” Bobby says.

Henry shakes his head, “None of them have been located.”

"Find anything that links the names on your list?"

"Not as of yet."

“So what? Heaven’s a big place. It can’t be too hard to get lost in the shuffle. Hell, we still haven’t found all of our people yet,” Rufus says, turning to Bobby as an afterthought, “By the way, I did finally run into Ash. He’s whipping up some kind of machine to help locate Ellen and Karen and everyone. From all his babbling, he’s trying to throw a few things other things together too, but search me if I knew what he was talking about.”

“Ash is our Heavenly IT guy,” Bobby says to Henry, “He can build pretty much anything computerized needs building and he’s fluent in Enochian too.”

“That will come in handy. Do you think he could take a look at these names? See if he can locate these people? At least find out what section they’ve been sent to work in.”

Rufus takes the sheet of paper, “I’ll give it to him when I see him.”

“If Ash can’t find anything, what do you think we’re dealing with here?” Bobby asks.

Henry takes a deep breath, “I believe whoever is now in control of Heaven is taking some of the human souls. Just not enough to attract any kind of attention and never more than one person from a family group.”

“That would explain what they have you guys doing upstairs, filling out everyone’s bios,” Bobby says, crossing his arms.

“To what end?” Rufus asks, "Why be so careful about it?"

“I don’t know,” Henry says, “but souls are a powerful force. It’s hard to imagine what kind of damage someone could do if they could find a way to harness vast quantities of that kind of energy.”

“You mean power stuff like whatever it is they’ve got us building out there?” Bobby asks.

“Among other things.”

“Now there’s a cheerful thought.”

**********

Jophiel leads Dean and Castiel down to the church basement. It’s finished. The smell of fresh white paint still hangs in the room. Brand new beige carpet covers the floors, muffling their footfalls. The basement is sectioned off into multiple rooms. They look like small classrooms, each complete with tables, chairs, and a dry erase board that takes up almost an entire wall. Jophiel leans against one of the tables, studying Dean and Castiel before speaking again.

“What is it you want from me?”

“We’re looking for a back door into Heaven,” Dean says, “Word is you have the inside track on a guy who could manage it.”

Jophiel chuckles, “Death? Yes, it would be nothing for him to break down the barriers locking away Heaven but, at the moment, he has no interest in the affairs of Earth, let alone Heaven or Hell.”

“He flew the coop too?”

“It seems a certain human ruffled his feathers the wrong way, yes,” Jophiel says, the skin crinkling around his eyes as he tries to hold back a grin, “Said something about an extended vacation, last I spoke with him. It would take an event of some significance to attract his attention.”

This isn't the first time something Dean did in the past has come back to bite him in the ass, and he doubts it’ll be the last. He lets the former angel’s mirth at his expense roll off his shoulders. It’d be just his luck to repeat the same mistake and tick this guy off. Or tick him off more than he might have already.

“Is there another way? Anyone else we can speak with?” Castiel asks.

“There is one, though convincing him could be harder than asking Death,” Jophiel crosses his arms, stroking his beard in thought, “My department dealt with reapers. They brought the souls to Heaven and we processed them. Most went to Heaven, some went to Hell.”

“If a deal’s made you go straight to Hell, don’t pass go, don’t collect $200, yeah we’re acquainted with how it works,” Dean says, suffering the glare Castiel gives him for interrupting.

Jophiel continues, unabated, “The reapers themselves are not able to enter Heaven on their own. They were let in through various gates by the angels who guarded them. Most souls came to us through the proper channels, but we had a few uh, freelancers we did business with.”

“Were you guys trafficking souls?” Dean asks.

“I’d prefer not to go into the specifics,” Jophiel says, “Suffice it to say, souls are souls, however you come by them, and souls are power. Angels far more powerful than I gave the orders and we followed them.”

The angels have fallen. Heaven is locked against them, and Jophiel is still willing to keep the secrets of a power structure he knows was corrupt. He is either too brainwashed to notice or Jophiel isn’t as friendly as he seems. Dean clasps his hands behind his back, feeling the outline of the angel blade tucked in the waist of his jeans against his forearms. Castiel must come to the same conclusion. He feels the fallen angel straighten next to him, ever the strategist, trying to take the room in without moving a muscle.

“Who will we need to speak to?” Castiel asks, tone still casual despite the change in the atmosphere.

“Stingy Jack, or Jack-O’-Lantern, as you’re probably more accustomed to hearing him called.”

“We’re supposed to talk to a pumpkin? What’s he going to do? Turn into a stage coach and ride us up to the pearly gates?”

Jophiel sighs, “Jack is neither pumpkin nor man. He’s the spirit of what was once a man, and he’s your only shot at achieving your goal.”

“How do we find him?” Castiel asks, before Dean can speak, which even he has to admit is for the best.

“In his off times, Jack likes to frequent sites that have reported paranormal activity.”

“He scares the hell out of people for fun?” Dean asks.

“He’s a bit of a trickster, yes.”

Jophiel grabs a piece of paper and a pen off of the table he is leaning against and writes a list of all they’ll need to summon the spirit, giving them directions to a near by 'hotspot' for paranormal activity. A favorite stop for teenagers and imitation Ghostfacers. Jophiel doesn’t mention if the place is actually haunted or not, but Jack must do enough scaring on his own to keep the legend going if it's not. They turn to go, Dean pocketing the list of supplies needed for the summoning ritual. From the quick glance he got, the ingredients shouldn’t be too hard to find. Dean is up the first couple of steps when Jophiel speaks.

“If you’re looking for soldiers in some ill-conceived war you’re planning to wage, you can look elsewhere. I’m sure our brothers and sisters who have gathered here would agree," Jophiel says as Dean looks over his shoulder at him, "All we want is peace.”

Castiel jolts, turning back, “We do not wish to start a war.”

“You’re naive if you think any action you take against Heaven or Hell will not end in bloodshed, brother. Your ragtag group will not be enough to fight them.”

Dean takes a step back down, “We can manage on our own, thanks. We’ve been up against worse odds and come out all right.”

“Have you?” Jophiel asks, staring through Dean, “You’ve faced down many a great foe, even Lucifer himself, but the beast you poke now is far greater than any you’ve faced before. You think you know who your enemy is, but do you truly?”

“Maybe not, but I think we’ve got a pretty good place to start,” Dean says, taking the stairs two at a time, without looking back.

Chapter Text

It takes Fergus a few years to work out how Hell works. It all comes down to what the other guy is able to get you to do for them verses what you can make the other guy do for you. He talks his way off the torture racks in under twenty years, Hell time. He climbs to a position distributing Hell’s newest recruits to their new stations, the souls all procured through demon deals and general naughty behavior. It’s tedious work, but it comes with better accommodations than the torture division. This is where he first meets Lilith. His ability to talk circles around Hell’s regulars doesn’t go unnoticed. She takes an interest in him, grooming Fergus for the fast-paced world of sales.

He’s a natural. After a few short decades of training, Fergus is able to seal his first deal. Negotiations were rigorous. Lilith wanted to test him, giving Fergus a client from a high ranking, aristocratic family. In the end, the old man takes the offer, securing his family's wealth by saving their failing brewing business in exchange for his everlasting soul. Fergus takes the man’s surname as his own to mark the occasion.

With Fergus left in the dust, Crowley enjoys a level of freedom and respect he never achieved when he was human. He takes on client after client, relentless in his pursuit of being the best sales representative Hell has ever produced. He reinvents the sales department. Crowley sends teams of demons out to work different sections of the globe instead of randomly assigning demons on a case by case basis. Sales go up.

Business is good for a century or two before their numbers start taking a dive as human tastes begin to change. As the old practices and beliefs dwindle, fewer people summon demons to make deals. Crowley sends the troops out to do the hard sell. If the people won’t come to them, they will have to go to the people. He gives tutorials on how to pick the perfect meatsuit when meeting a potential client. It’s all in the marketing, after all. Centuries pass both on Earth and in Hell as Crowley climbs Hell's own version of the corporate ladder until one day he finds himself second only to Lilith. Demons avert their eyes as he strolls past them. They know his name. They know what he can do. Crowley has finally made something of himself.

Which is when everything falls apart. Lilith had given him a long leash, overlooking many of Crowley’s indiscretions and dubious dealings, because he produced results unmatched by any of her other salesmen. He had flourished in the harbor of her good graces until he overreaches, contradicting a direct order from Lilith and substituting it with his own. Even though his instincts were correct and his play resulted in a slew of fresh contracts, it’s the worst offense he could commit. He barely has time to celebrate before Lilith’s muscle busts in, dragging Crowley before her. She waves her guards off, leaving them alone in Lilith’s quarters. There are countless reasons why it's unpleasant to be summoned to Lilith's domain, not the least of which is her choice of decor. Her rooms are so white it’s almost blinding. White invokes thoughts of purity and innocence and Lilith has always been contrary by nature. She thinks it's ironic. Crowley thinks everyone should be provided sunglasses at the door.

Lilith regards him from where she lounges across a cushy white couch, “Crowley.”

“Lilith.”

“It has come to my attention that you’ve been misbehaving,” Lilith says in a singsong voice, “You haven’t been playing by my rules.”

“I was merely trying to expedite --”

“It’s a very simple game,” Lilith says, ignoring him, “I’m surprised you’re having such a hard time grasping the finer points, especially after all this time.”

“It’s not what --”

“Please don’t disappoint me by making excuses, Crowley,” Lilith pouts, “It’s beneath you.”

He remains quiet, eyes cast downward as he feels her studying him. She stands, coming toward him.

“Look at me,” Lilith says, voice ice cold.

Crowley looks up, forcing himself to keep eye contact.

“You wish to challenge my authority, but it’s too difficult for you to look me in the eye? It’s just so frustrating.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You should be! You’re my star pupil, yet somehow you find yourself in a situation where not only did you try to make a play at my position without any plan or support, but you gave one of your underlings the opportunity to rat you out. You left yourself vulnerable and you never even knew you were.”

“I wasn’t trying to take over.”

“But that’s where you see yourself isn’t it? King of the Crossroads usurping the Queen? I’ve practically raised you sweetie, don’t lie to me.”

“You know me too well.”

“I do, and you will have to be much smarter than this to get where you want to go,” Lilith says, returning to her seat with a sigh, “Always have a workable Plan B, Crowley. And if you must trust anyone, trust only yourself, but be aware no one will be able to compromise what you build better or faster than you.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you do. I will not always be here to babysit you. Know that if you let yourself slip, there will be a fall, and there will be no getting up from it,” Lilith smiles at him, “One day you will control every deal that comes in and out of Hell, but today is not that day. Defy me again, and it will be my pleasure to invent new ways to torture, just for you, my dear.”

Crowley bows, beating a hasty retreat, not wishing to be the beneficiary of Lilith’s special brand of creativity. But he takes her words to heart.
 
**********

A day and a half after their conversation with Joshua finds Sam holed up in the cheapest motel Crowley would agree to stay in, which meant an actual hotel. The Summit Arms Inn had to be pushing at least three stars. It’s the nicest place Sam has ever stayed in during a hunt. The lack of moldy, stained bedsheets are welcome, but deep down Sam has to admit the cookie-cutter room didn’t have the same charm as the ridiculous themed decor the Winchesters were usually subjected to. At least those rooms were interesting.

Their first priority had been to fortify the room, placing hex bags and painting warding symbols over the walls, making them invisible to demons. Crowley had winced when he got too close to a few of the symbols, but nothing seems to hinder him from moving around. They crashed after that, both exhausted from the trip. The morning was spent finishing up their redecorating project. Dean had called and given them the lowdown on the Jophiel situation, telling Sam he and Castiel would be spending the evening at an abandoned, supposedly haunted tunnel. His brother had sounded less than thrilled at the prospect.

It’s mid-afternoon when Crowley gets a call with Abaddon’s specific location. Crowley wanted to go alone, not only to scope the place out, but to speak with Abaddon as well. He seemed sure he would be able to talk his way into her inner circle. Sam had called it suicide. The ex-demon had called it a calculated risk. In the end, Sam had given in. If Crowley can pull off what he thinks he can, it would be a major coup for them.

Sam is trying to keep busy, cleaning the stash of weapons he had brought with them while Crowley gets himself together. For this to work, Sam will have to stay in the room. If anyone catches wind of him being here, they’re beyond screwed. Sam will be close enough to provide backup if the need should arise, but that’s all he's good for. It’s not a pleasant feeling. Crowley emerges from the bathroom, primped and ready to go.

Sam watches the ex-demon put on his coat, “Are you sure about this?”

“If I come at Abaddon in anyway that doesn’t involve crawling on the ground and groveling, I’ll be the guest of honor at dinner this evening and I won’t be sitting around the table, if you catch my drift."

Sam grimaces, running a hand through his hair, “I know. It’s just... You’re really sticking you neck out for us, Crowley.”

“You can reward me with a full day of pampering at a topnotch spa when this is all over. If my arms and limbs are still attached that is,” Crowley says, as he opens the door, “Ciao.”

The door clicks shut. Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out before settling back into his cleaning.

**********

Crowley is, of course, caught by Abaddon’s goons a few blocks away from the abandoned paper factory she’s holed up in. He lets the demons take him, ignoring the moronic banter and insults they throw his way. A minute ago they had been his underlings. Their betrayal doesn’t come as a surprise since loyalty has never been a strong suit amongst demons, but as far as Crowley is concerned, they are all still beneath him, so their words mean little to the former king of Hell.

They drag him along grimy corridor after grimy corridor, scattered materials and parts of machines coated in layers dust are strewn about the halls. He'll need to take another shower just from walking around the building. It feels like an age before the demons manage to navigate him into the room where their new lord and master is holding court. Crowley takes it all in. Abaddon sits center stage in the middle of the gutted factory floor, the late afternoon sun providing a spotlight as it filters through the empty holes of the once windowed ceiling far above their heads. Demons stand in small groups, scattered about the shadows awaiting any orders that may come their way. They glance toward Abaddon, but their gazes never linger. Crowley keeps his head up, eyes forward as he’s brought closer. Abaddon stands, studying him as they come to a stop a few feet away from her.

“We found him up the street, heading this way,” one of the demons holding him says.

Abaddon waves them off, his demon escort wasting no time as they skitter away to the safety of the shadows. Crowley refuses to look anywhere other than Abaddon, keeping still and his face devoid of any emotion.

“This is an unexpected surprise. I have to say, I would have thought you’d be hiding under whatever rock is farthest from me. Fighting was never your style.”

“No, I prefer a more civilized approach.”

“If by that you mean the cowardly approach, then yes, I’d agree. You crossroad demons have always been a sniveling bunch. Wheeling and dealing instead of just taking. It’s disgusting,” Abaddon says, moving in on him.

She stops an inch from his face, her breath sickly sweet as she continues, “The thought of one of your breed ruling over all of Hell is laughable at best. The fact that you had the audacity to even try is as astounding as it is insulting. Tell me why I shouldn’t gut you where you stand and let you watch yourself bleed out onto the floor.”

Crowley looks away, “I’ve come to throw myself at the mercy of the court, as they say, in the hopes that you’ll judge me of some worth.”

Abaddon considers him for a moment, “You reek of humanity. I can hardly smell any demon left on you. Somehow, you’ve managed to become even more of an abomination than you were before. What possible use could you be to me?”

“Information.”

Abaddon laughs, “I have almost all of Hell at my feet, and all you have to give me is information?

Crowley pauses. He doesn’t want to give up his trump card this early in the negotiations, but he has been doing this for centuries now. Abaddon is a loose cannon at best, and he can feel her slipping through his fingers.

“You’re right, they are very good at what they do, but none of them can give you the inside track on the Winchesters.”

“Already so willing to bite the hand that feeds you, Crowley? What can you tell me about them?”

“Winchester-Petite and his wingless sidekick are seeking the help of a very big player as we speak.”

“How big?”

“Death big.”

“Why would they be doing that?”

“I’m afraid my insider information doesn’t extend that far,” Crowley says, edging closer to Abaddon, his voice quieter, “But it’s something about opening doors that have been locked up tight and the keys thrown away.”

Abaddon strolls around Crowley. She circles him like a vulture trying to decide how best to begin picking at its meal. This is the tipping point. If she doesn’t buy what he’s selling, he’ll be dead on the floor before he realizes she’s struck. Sam had told him to let him know via an emergency text if things went south. He can feel the weight of the cell phone in his coat pocket, his hand hanging right next to it. But Crowley knows there’s no backup for these kinds of negotiations. She comes to a stop in front him.

Turning back towards Crowley, Abaddon’s ruby red lips break into a smile, “Where are they?”

“In West Virginia. I’m afraid that’s as specific as I can get. Unfortunately, there seems to be at least a brain cell or two left to rub together between the two of them.”

“They only trust you so far, then.”

“What can I say? These things take time. I’m working on it.”

“I’ve dealt with the Winchesters. I’m not sure they’re a big enough threat to justify letting you live.”

“Take it from someone who knows, there are no bigger proverbial wrenches in grand schemes than Sam and Dean Winchester,” Crowley says, “They have a way of raining on everyone’s parade.”

“I’ve heard,” Abaddon says, pausing before smiling wide, “Finding them shouldn’t be difficult, now that you’ve narrowed it down.”

“Glad to be a service,” Crowley says, putting his hands in the pockets of his coat, “And I’d be glad to be of more help, if you’re of a mind.”

“How so?”

“Winchester jumbo-sized and the rest of their motley crew of hunters are still out there. If your minions do manage to kill his brother and their pet angel, he could get down right ugly.”

Abaddon circles him, “What would be in it for you?”

“My head not on a stake would be preferable,” Crowley says as Abaddon chuckles, “perhaps a high up position in the new order? Whatever you think of me, you know I’m no fool. I can see the writing on the wall and it all ends with you on the throne. Besides, the transition would go quicker if we work together.”

She leans into his space once more. Crowley stays stalk still.

“Stick with the younger one, find out what you can. If your Intel checks out, I’ll contact you. If it doesn’t, well...” Abaddon says, with a grin, “I’ll contact you either way, but I don’t think you’ll enjoy what I assure you will be an excruciatingly long conversation.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Crowley says, backing away slowly as Abaddon turns her attention from him to her gaggle of demons sitting on the sidelines, barking orders as she goes.

“Do a good job, Crowley, and I’ll see what I can do about the stake thing,” Abaddon calls after him as he reaches the exit.

Crowley makes his way out of the factory and slips out the door onto the street, pulling his collar up against a sudden burst of cold wind. A line of dark clouds drift closer, the rumble of thunder sounding off in the distance. A storm is rolling in. It takes him less than a second to realize there are three demons tailing him. Abaddon isn’t half as dimwitted as he could have hoped for, but Crowley isn’t put out at the thought of a challenge.

Crowley walks along the crumbling sidewalk, leading the demons on a merry, if sluggish, chase through town. He stuffs his hands back in his pockets, kept warm by comforting knowledge that his backup plan is securely in place.

Chapter Text

Midnight finds Dean and Castiel sitting on a grassy slope near Flinderation Tunnel. Dean pokes at the ground with a stick. They had performed the ritual Jophiel had given them to summon Jack-O’-Lantern to perfection. Despite that, it has been over two hours and Jack has yet to show. Silence had long since fallen between the two of them, leaving each to their own thoughts as they keep an eye out for any sign of the wayward spirit. After the first hour had passed, Dean had grown bored and started trying to test any new skills he might have from his grace powered soul.

In the times he has been left alone since talking with Joshua, he has taken to trying to do some of the stuff he'd seen Castiel do over the years. Nothing huge like popping out to the Grand Canyon or anything, but small things. He knew Castiel could make stuff move sometimes, and Dean was all for anything that resembled something a Jedi could do. This morning, he tried to make a pen move from the desk in the motel room to where he was sitting on his bed. Dean was almost positive the thing had twitched in his direction, but Castiel had interrupted, coming through the door with food, so he couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t want to try anything like that while Castiel was around. It would be Dean’s luck he’d move some big ass log or something and there would be no explaining it away. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to find Sam. Castiel used to be able to pinpoint the Winchesters' exact location with just a thought, except during the Apocalypse, when the former angel had doodled some sigils on their rib cages to hide them from the rest of Heaven.

It takes a while, but he starts to feel a spot somewhere in the back of his mind that feels like Sam. It’s a warm, comforting buzzing, but nothing concrete comes through. He pokes at it, part of him wishing he could send Sam words or something. Mind texting would be awesome. Nothing happens, but at least Dean gets the feeling Sam is doing all right and his health isn’t deteriorating with them being separated. That skill alone is more than enough to make Dean happy. At least for now. Opening his eyes, Dean lets out a sigh and leans back onto the grass, looking up at the stars.

“We shoulda brought snacks. I could go for some potato chips right about now,” Dean mumbles.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says out of nowhere.

“You didn’t know we’d be out here this long.”

Castiel shakes his head, “For the claim on your soul. I shouldn’t have... I don’t know why I would have done that.”

“Me either,” Dean says, with a snort as he props himself up on his elbows, “but I’m sure you had your reasons. It’s not a big deal.”

“You don’t understand, Dean. It’s not something to be entered into lightly for either of the parties involved. Making a claim on someone is binding. Sacred. It can’t be broken.”

Dean swallows hard before sitting up further and forcing a shrug, “Okay, so it’s kind of a big deal. But look, we’re fine here. Everyone’s good. No harm, no foul.”

“I don’t understand how I could have done such a thing without asking for your consent.”

“Maybe you did, hell I don’t know. I don’t remember much from you raising me out of the Pit. Do you?”

“Clearly not all of it,” Castiel says, tone dry as the desert.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m consenting now.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Castiel says, folding his arms around his knees as he draws them up towards his chest, “It’s not something to joke about, Dean.”

“Who said I was?”

The silence engulfs them. A gentle breeze rattles leaves in the trees far above their heads, the only other noise coming from the infrequent traffic from nearby Route 50.  

“You truly don’t mind?” Castiel asks, the sound muffled by his arms.

He looks up at Castiel, his blue eyes studying Dean from over the crook of his arm.

“I could think of worse things,” Dean says, with a smile.

Castiel raises his head and gives him a small smile back before glancing away again. Dean forgets he was hungry.

“Is this place actually haunted?” Dean asks as a way to calm his sudden onset of nervous energy.

“Possibly. Legend has it a horrible train wreck occurred here sometime after its construction during the mid-1800s. I only had time for a cursory glance at the history while you were gathering the supplies to summon Jack, but I was unable to find any official records or newspaper articles to substantiate the claim.”

Dean pats the shotgun beside him, “Either way, I think we’re covered.”

“I do not believe this place is haunted, though I can see why it would attract the attention of teenagers and paranormal seekers.”

“Abandoned tunnel with a graveyard nearby? It's like ghost story 101,” Dean says, staring across to the other side of the old railroad tracks to the spot where dozens of old graves crumble just beyond the trees, “Anything on what people supposedly see here?”

Castiel shrugs, “It varies, but there were many stories of people having seen the light of a ghost train and heard it coming at them through the tunnel.”

“Haunted train, huh? Sammy and I dealt with a haunted, racist truck once.”

“I know. I read the book.”

Dean has never been so grateful for the dark of night. He remembers Castiel telling Chuck he was a fan of his work, but Dean figured it was just because the dude was a prophet. Like it was part of an angel’s job description to appreciate a prophet’s work, not that he’d actually taken the time to read any of it.

Dean’s mind starts racing. It’s not like the fallen angel doesn’t know Dean’s slept with a bunch of people. Hell, everyone knows that. This is different though. Castiel knows about Dean’s first love, Cassie, who he’d been all heart-eyes for again when they had met back up the second time around. What’s worse is Castiel knows about what Dean did with Cassie during that case. Multiple times. In vivid detail. He can hear himself complaining to Sam about all the full frontal nudity the day they had first stumbled on the “Supernatural” book series. Wherever Chuck is, if Dean ever finds him, he’s going to kill him.

“Do you hear that?” Castiel asks, staring at the dark, gaping mouth of the tunnel.

Dean shakes himself, listening as he grabs his shotgun. He stands, knees popping from having sat too long in one place. Picking his way down the incline, Dean is careful not to make anymore sound than necessary. Down in front of the tunnel, the sound is a little clearer. A distant rumbling. It sounds like it’s at least a mile off.

“Could just be coming from the road,” Dean says over his shoulder to Castiel as the fallen angel makes his way down the hill to stand beside him.

“Or it could be the ghost train.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Dude, seriously?”

Dean turns his attention back to the tunnel. It’s too dark to see to the other side. He pulls out a flashlight, flipping it on. Trapping it between his hand and the barrel of his gun, Dean starts down the tunnel. The sound of Castiel’s footfalls echo after his. The light only penetrates so far, giving Dean a good view of the moldy, stone walls surrounding them. He can hear water dripping, intermixed with the rumbling sound. It gets louder the further in they walk. At what he figures is the halfway point, Dean stops and puts the hand holding the flashlight out to feel along the wall. He doesn’t feel any vibration. Nothing’s coming.

“Dean?”

“What?”

“Is that a reflection from your flashlight?”

Dean looks forward. Up ahead the smallest circle of light is visible through the exit at the other side of the tunnel. It had been pitch black a second ago. They stand, watching as the light gets bigger. The rumbling almost deafening in the enclosed tunnel.

“You don’t think...” Castiel starts, trailing off as he tugs on the back of Dean’s jacket.

“There’s no freaking way.”

The shrieking sound of a train's whistle has them running back the way they came. Dean drops the flashlight, barely keeping hold of his gun as they sprint for the exit. The growing light behind them is more than enough to see by.

“Cass, move your ass!” Dean shouts, as he runs a few inches ahead of the fallen angel.

The whistle sounds again. Dean swears he can hear the chugging of the wheels turning, bringing the train closer. The light is so bright, the entire tunnel is lit up. The train can only be a few yards behind them, closing fast. He reaches back, grabbing hold of Castiel’s leather jacket as he all but drags the fallen angel the last few legs. They breach the end of the tunnel, Dean flinging himself off to the right, yanking on Castiel as hard as he can, dragging the fallen angel along with him.

They lie in a tangle of limbs, breathing hard. It’s almost a full minute before Dean realizes three very important things. They’re not dead, the sounds of the train has vanished, and they are no longer alone.

Dean detaches himself from Castiel. He scrambles to his feet, leveling his shotgun at an old man standing in the middle of the broken down train tracks. The guy is doubled over, his bowler hat almost falling off as he clutches his sides, struggling to catch his breath from all the laughing he’s doing. Something small lays toppled over at his feet, light shining out from it. Dean notices the man is holding something in his hand. At first he thinks it’s a weapon, but it turns out to be one of those wooden toy train whistles people buy in gift shops across America.

“What the hell?”

“Your faces,” the guy manages between fits, still unable to stand all the way up.

Castiel makes his way over to Dean, wiping at the grass and leaves clinging to his jeans, “Are you Jack-O’-Lantern?”

“In the flesh. Well, give or take. The name’s Jack,” the man says as he puts the whistle in the pocket of his raggedy, tweed jacket.

“My name is Castiel, and this is Dean Winchester,” Castiel says.

Dean lowers his gun in irritation, “Hold on. Was the whole haunted train thing you?”

“Yep.”

“How?”

“Spirit,” Jack says, pointing to himself, “And a very old one at that. Stingy Jack does as he pleases. Besides, it’s not every day someone calls for a good scare. Jack usually just pops by for an impromptu performance. Wanted to put on a bit of a show for you two though, since you performed such a lovely summoning spell for dear, old Jack.”

“But all you’ve got is a mini-Maglite and a kid’s toy!”

“This is no flashlight,” Jack says, insulted.

He bends to pick up the light, holding the small glowing orb toward them in his outstretched hand. It’s carved out grin smiles up at them as the flame flickers inside.

“Is that a freaking apple?” Dean asks, turning to Castiel in confusion, “Is that a freaking apple?”

“I believe so,” Castiel says.

“Jack-O’-Lanterns are made out of pumpkins,” Dean says, indignant.

Jack huffs, “They are here and now. In the old days, people carved them out of turnips.”

“Then why don’t you have a damn turnip?”

“Salem’s annual Apple Butter Festival is coming up. Thought it would be more appropriate,” Jack says, miffed at having to defend himself, “Did you two come calling to question wily Jack’s taste in fruit and vegetables?”

Dean has a smart remark ready to go, but Castiel beats him to the punch, “We need a way into Heaven.”

“Who doesn’t?” Jack says, with a chuckle, “How do you think old Jack can help you get there?”

“Is he seriously going to keep talking in third person?” Dean mutters under his breath, though not quiet enough as Castiel stomps on his foot, “Ow!”

Castiel glares at Dean before looking back to Jack, “You use your lantern to draw unlucky, traveling souls off the safe road to their death.”

“Indeed, it's said old Jack will lead you astray, but what makes you think he’ll lead you where you want to go?”

“I’m very old Jack,” Castiel says, voice lower than normal.

It reminds Dean of a night in a derelict barn, what seems like a lifetime ago. Light bulbs blowing left and right, glass and sparks raining down as the boards that gave the barn its shape threatened to fly apart at the seems. All of it coming from a scruffy looking dude in an oversized trench coat walking through the door. Dean swallows, taking a step back as Castiel moves towards Jack.

“I’ve been around for a great many things,” Castiel continues, “I know of the crossroad deal you made. I know how you went about tricking the demon to give you extra years on your contract. I even know about the bargain Death offered to save you from Hell. You’ll wander forever, ferrying who he says, when he says, for the rest of eternity. No rest. No peace. Just wandering.”

Jack takes a step back, eyes wide, “Legends. Myths. Truth mixed with lies as the centuries roll by.”

“The light that glows from your lantern. It’s powered by what’s left of your soul, not an ember from the depths of Hell like the legends say.”

“How could you know that?”

“I haven’t always been what I appear to be,” Castiel says, voice quiet as he looks down at the shorter man.

Jack considers him for a long time, “No, you haven’t.”

Castiel backs off, giving Jack more space between them, “Not only do we need to break into Heaven, but we must also gain entrance into the part of Heaven set aside for deceased angels.”

“More myths and legends.”

“But there’s truth in it, not unlike you,” Castiel says, lips twitching upwards, “We’re trying to set things right again, Jack. With Heaven locked and Hell in an uproar, you can’t be having the easiest of times carrying out your own tasks.”

“It’s true,” Jack says, with a weary sigh, “Souls are being left to wander in the between. Lost. Alone.”

To Dean’s ears, Jack almost sounds sad at the thought.

“Then help us.”

Jack pauses, staring at Castiel before nodding, “There are ways. Back ways. Old ways. It’ll take some time.”

“You’ll have it.”

“What’ll Stingy Jack get in return? It’s a big favor you ask.”

Castiel hesitates, “What do you want?”

Jack considers the fallen angel, “A favor, whenever Jack should require it.”

“Fine.”

“From both of you, mind,” Jack says, looking around Castiel to Dean, eyebrows raised, “And old Stingy Jack always collects.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Deal.”

“How much time will you need?” Castiel asks.

“Summon Jack on the next full moon. He’ll be ready for you then.”

That’s a little over a month away, but Dean holds his tongue. With a wink and grin, Jack disappears. Dean glances around, half expecting the douchebag to jump out and scare them one last time before actually taking his leave.

**********

It’s late when Sam hears the sound of a key card being slid into place. He’s on Crowley before the ex-demon can finish locking the deadbolt.

“How did it go?”

“You need to call your brother.”

“What? Why?”

Crowley slides his hands into the pockets of his black overcoat, “I may have let slip a vague description of their intentions and a general idea as to their location.”

“Why would you do that? What the hell, Crowley?!”

“I left out any important details,” Crowley says, hands up, “I needed something to give to Abaddon to make her trust me. Speaking of which, you’re looking at her newly minted double agent and your welcome. Save your outpouring of adoration for later. I highly suggest you get on the phone.”

Sam grabs his cell out of his pocket, his finger jamming into the screen. It’s a miracle it doesn’t crack. He puts the phone to his ear. It goes straight to voicemail. Crowley makes himself comfortable on the nearest bed, leaning against the headboard as he flips through a copy of 'Good Housekeeping.'

“Be sure to tell Abbot and Cass-tello to play up their shock and surprise.”

“I swear, If anything happens to them --”

“I have full confidence that they can handle whatever Abaddon throws at them,” Crowley says, as he turns a page, “Them being a group of ten demons, give or take a few. You may want to mention that.”

Sam turns, marching towards the bathroom, trying to get as far away from Crowley as possible. Dean’s phone goes to voicemail again.

**********

They’re just outside of Salem when Dean remembers to check his cell. He had left it in the Impala while they were waiting at the tunnel, not wanting it to go off at an inopportune moment. Sam had been blowing up his phone while they were messing around with Jack. Dean tries not to panic, mind going to the worst possible scenario. Sam is hurt. The soul connection doesn’t keep healing this far away. Sam is dying and it’s all Dean’s fault. Before he has a chance to toss it to Castiel to have him check, the thing starts ringing in his hand, Sam’s name popping up on the caller ID.

“Sammy?” the edge in Dean’s voice unmistakable.

“Dean! Thank god. Are you and Cass okay?”

Sam sounds fine. Nothing too awful can have happened if he’s capable of calling and is this coherent. Dean feels his shoulders sag as an overwhelming sense of relief hits him.

“We’re fine, man what’s going on?”

Those good vibes last all of five seconds as Sam starts to give him the run down from Crowley’s dealings with Abaddon. Dean jerks the steering wheel hard right, sending them careening to the side of the road, tires sliding in the loose gravel. He manages to put the Impala in park before he starts berating his little brother over Crowley. He doesn't feel any better about the situation by the time he gets off the phone, but due to the huge head start Crowley has given the demons, Dean and Castiel have a limited amount of time to find a place to hunker down before a demonic hit squad will be coming down on their asses. Salem isn't a big place. There was bound to be someone who had seen them heading this way out of town. Dean loves his baby, but the Impala isn’t the most inconspicuous car on the road.

Castiel spots a vacant two story house a few miles up the road. Blue paint peals off the sides in long curls. Most of the windows are boarded up, the spaces between allowing them to get a good look around without being too visible from the outside. It sits settled among a number of trees, but it has good sight lines. The inside of the house is gutted. Anything that would have been worth selling or scraping having long since been ripped out. Half the drywall is missing, along with a few floorboards.

They get to work, unloading the Impala with all the necessities. Everything is ready in less than an hour. They decide to salt every entrance except through the basement. If Crowley was right on the count, it’s not a matter of if they’ll be able to get in the place, but when. At least this way they can control the where.  

When they finish sunrise is still a few hours off as they settle in. Dean thinks the room they wind up in would have made a good dining room. From their seats on the floor, they can see the kitchen and living room areas, the front and back door, and most of the staircase that leads to the second floor. They’d checked both the upstairs rooms and the attic, finding only a few mice and a couple crumbling boxes. Whoever had lived here hadn’t been back in a long time.

“I’m going to kill that asshat when we get back,” Dean says, leaning back against an exposed stud, shotgun across his lap and Ruby’s knife in his hand.

“While I wouldn’t mourn Crowley, his strategy was sound.”

“Sicking a horde of demons on our asses isn't a strategy, Cass. It’s attempted murder.”

“There are worse betrayals Crowley could have committed,” Castiel sighs, “Besides, Sam seems to think --”

“Sam’s wrong about this one. Crowley’s going to screw us one way or another before this is all said and done.”

Castiel looks unconvinced. Dean shakes his head at him, exasperated. If it was anyone else, he might be able to consider the possibility they could change. It’s not like they haven’t run into plenty of good monsters over the years. This isn’t anyone else, though. This is Crowley. The guy manipulates and stabs people in the back as easy as breathing. Dean is a second away from throwing Castiel’s track record with the demon up in his face, but stops himself. Castiel isn’t the one he’s angry at. He’s angry at Crowley for being such a dick. He’s angry at Sam for being hellbent on saving the demon. Mostly, Dean is angry with himself for letting those two ride off into the sunset together on some wild demonic goose chase.

“Dean,” Castiel hisses, eyes trained on the floor below them.

The ancient wooden steps leading to the basement creak as someone makes their way upstairs. The demons found them quicker than he would have thought, even with the head start. Dean nods at Castiel. The fallen angel makes his way into the kitchen, moving as quick as he can without making any sound. Stationed behind a partial wall, Castiel waits for the door to open, angel blade drawn. Dean scoots up to kneel behind a flipped over table with only three of its legs still intact, shotgun trained on the door. Time ticks away as the footfalls inch closer to the closed basement door, coming to a stop on the top step. There’s a moment of silence before the door is flung wide open. Dean has a clear shot, but there’s nothing there. The staircase is empty.

A blast of wind whips through the house, knocking the table back into Dean. The hunter crashes against the wall, the shotgun skittering across the floor. Salt lies scattered around the room, the lines they had placed along the windows and doors broken. Dean has enough time to shove the table out of his way before the first demon is on him. He manages to gank the son of a bitch and the poor bald dude he’d possessed with Ruby’s knife, before two more come careening at him.

Dean gets a glimpse of Castiel. The fallen angel is holding his own, taking on three different demons and having already dropped two. Dean shoves the two out of the way, making a break for Castiel. There’s only one entrance into the kitchen. If Dean can get to it, they’d only have to defend one area. He is a few feet away when a demon the size of a linebacker takes him out at the knees. Dean squirms, trying to get his legs free, slashing at the guy and whoever else is dumb enough to come close to him. He gets kicked in the face for his trouble. Blood trickles out of his nose. Disoriented, Dean cranes his neck to see where Castiel is. He can’t spot the former angel, but from the large pile demons, it looks like Castiel is on the ground too.

“Cass!”

The only answer he gets is the sound of fabric tearing followed by a sudden grunt of pain. Dean hopes it’s just because someone knocked the air out of Castiel as opposed to other gruesome alternatives. He has to get to him. Dean tries to get up, but the boulder-sized demon is still trapping his legs. They’ve stripped him of Ruby’s knife, flipping Dean over on to his stomach as they trap his arms behind his back. A woman with long, blonde hair and a scar running along her cheek grabs a hand full of Dean’s hair, pulling his head up and back. His breath comes in gasps as he glares up at her. She runs the tip of the demon killing knife along Dean’s exposed neck, the cool tip scraping across his skin.

“How many of my kind have you killed with this thing?”

“Not enough,” Dean says, voice strained as he fights for more air.

She ignores him, “I think it’ll be fitting to kill you with it.”

“If it’ll spare me your monologue, go right ahead.”

“Oh, I will,” she murmurs, as she tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen, “but first, you’re going to watch us kill your boyfriend over there.”

“Leave him alone,” Dean growls, struggling again as he watches a group of five demons drag Castiel out of the kitchen.

Blood oozes from a cut hidden somewhere in his hair, but otherwise the fallen angel looks unharmed. Dean only catches Castiel’s eyes for a moment before one of the demons tilts his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing underneath the thin skin of his neck. It takes two other demons, one on each arm, to restrain Castiel, which gives Dean a strange sense of satisfaction as he watches the former angel still trying to give them hell, despite his obvious disadvantage.

“Sorry sweet cheeks, we can’t do that,” the woman is saying, “Orders are orders, and you two have to die. But the boss didn’t say we couldn’t have a little fun with you first. Now, eyes on the birdie.”

There’s at least six demons in here with them. There’s nowhere to go. No back up coming. No way out. Dean tries not to panic as they start cutting long lines down Castiel’s arms, dragging it out as they take their sweet time. It’s not enough to do any real damage, just enough to hurt. Just enough for blood to start seeping through the thin cotton of Castiel’s button down shirt where it isn't cut open, staining the bright blue to black. Minutes pass. The former angel keeps his mouth clamped shut, eyes staring at the ceiling. Dean watches from the floor.

It’s the sharp intake of breath that gets to Dean when the demon wielding Castiel’s relinquished blade digs a little deeper. He struggles, trying and failing to get some kind of purchase, but all Dean gets for his trouble is a tightened grip on his hair as his head is tilted back even further. His breath comes shorter. His eyes start to water, making it harder to see as Castiel lets out a soft whimper. They’ll be twisting the blade now, digging down into the muscle until they hit bone. Dean knows the techniques. He spent forty years doing the same job in Hell. You can stab a person and they’ll feel a hell of a lot of pain, but it’s better to make them anticipate it. To let your victim feel the knife cut through layer after thin layer, like teeth grazing skin. When the knife finally bites through, the cold steel tearing flesh from muscle and muscle from bone, it’s a relief as much as it is torture.

When Castiel breaks, Dean feels his scream reverberating in his bones. The hunter twists and yells, calling the demons every name in the book and a few he invents on the spot. There’s a pounding in his head that matches his heart rate, beating double time against his ribs. He thinks he almost gets his legs out from beneath the behemoth sitting on top of him as he continues to rant, words falling out of his mouth. He doesn't even know if he’s speaking English at this point. A buzzing in his ears joins in with the pounding, drowning out every thought, except for Castiel’s name playing on repeat.

Cass. Cass. Cass.

Something is happening around him. He feels the weight on his legs lift and the grip in his hair loosen as the world goes white as the buzzing hits an even higher pitch. All Dean wants to do is cover his ears. He wants to curl in on himself and run at the same time, but Castiel is still out there.

Cass. Cass. Cass.

There’s more screaming. His panic rises at first, certain that it’s coming from the former angel, but there are too many voices. A shrieking chorus provides a vocal track to the buzzing until there’s only one voice left.

Is that Cass? Dean asks himself.

But it’s not. It’s Dean. Dean is the one screaming. He can’t stop. He screams into the white, the relentless noise the only thing he hears as tears stream down his face. They taste like blood.

“Dean!”

Hands grab him at him, but it’s not the same as it was with the demons. These hands and arms aren’t holding him down, they’re trying to hold him together.

“Dean, you have to stop!”

He lets them anchor him down. The screaming and the buzzing fade as the blinding light burns out, leaving him in darkness.

Chapter Text

It takes 11 years, 7 months, and 24 days of almost constant battle to reach the lower levels of the Pit. At least by Hell’s time standards. The garrison sent to help free the Righteous Man had been hard pressed to deal with one round of Hell spawn before fresh reserves would appear as wave after wave of demons battered Heaven's defenses. The angels had been forced to tear through the levels of Hell bit by painstaking bit. Finally, they had reached a point where the garrison could no longer move forward, the onslaught of demons too great to ever push back. The more senior angels in Heaven had sent orders tasking Castiel with pushing through the line on his own to find Dean Winchester. It was thought it would be easier for one angel to slip through Hell’s defenses, while the rest of the garrison kept the exit clear and served as a distraction.

It has been almost three years since those orders had been given. Castiel moves through the barren wastelands of Hell as quick as he dares while maintaining some level of stealth. It had become clear early on that the farther down the angels ventured, the further removed from Heaven’s light and power they were, diminishing them and their powers. This far down, Castiel feels like he has been all but abandoned, the song of his brothers a distant murmur at the back of his mind, instead of the reassuring cacophony of voices.  

He makes his way through towering, jagged mountains. The black rocks reaching up out of the ground like the bony fingers of some gigantic monster trying to claw its way from the very foundations of this damned place. He flies between the mountains, whose valley is filled by a frothing, black sea. Billions of souls call out to him from the writhing madness below, begging for salvation.

Amid the darkness, clean, worthy souls by the hundreds of thousands, blink at him, as their owners suffer an eternity of drowning under the weight of the rest of the condemned. Time will pass and one day they will be no better than the muck surrounding them. That’s why they flicker. Unfortunate souls, caught in circumstances both outside their control and due to their choices mingle among the worst of humanity. Whatever good a soul retains does not last long down here. Castiel watches as a few of them melt into the darkness right before his eyes. 

He puts on a burst of speed, flying past as demons drag some of the souls out of the sea. He watches as they carry them off to caves dug into the black rock of the mountains. He tries not to hear the tortured screams. The Righteous Man will be found in one of these numerous caverns. Castiel had been briefed on what kind of condition he may find Dean Winchester in. The angels knew through intel that the Righteous Man had broken under the weight of his torture, and by extension had broken the first seal and was now torturing others. Even so, Castiel had been sent to retrieve him if there was anything left to save. If not, he was to leave Dean Winchester to his damnation. Castiel knows there won't be anything left. Dean Winchester had been down here far too long to still be what Heaven needed him to be.

Castiel hadn’t understood what he was trying to save until he lands at the opening of one of the caves. All of the torture chambers Castiel had blew by had been dark. This one was the only one with a light. The flame of a small candle quivers in the corner of the tight space. The candle is made from some substance Castiel does not recognize as what would normally be used for such an item. The angel has no desire to investigate further. A figure lies curled in on itself as far away from the opening as possible. There is no reality here. The vast majority chose to shake off their former visages, becoming scaly, deformed beasts of every imaginable shape and size. If Castiel didn’t know better, he’d mistake the figure before him for a fully human male. The light dances along the walls of the cavern, casting shadows over the man’s back. Fingers dig into his shoulders as he hugs himself, leaving marks in the layers of caked on blood and muck left sticking to the man’s skin where sweat hasn’t already made tracks.

While it’s an interesting sight to see a soul retain his human form after spending so long in Hell, what sets Castiel back on his heels is the light emanating from this man’s soul. It is tarnished and diminished. No soul, no matter how special, comes to this place without feeling the ramifications. The thought of how bright he must have shone before his years in Hell is both tantalizing and terrifying to Castiel.

“Dean Winchester?”

Nothing. Castiel gets no response from the figure on the floor. He edges into the space, cautious to keep an eye out for anyone who may try to attack him while his back is turned. He crouches down a few feet away, softening his voice as he tries again.

“Dean?”

The man flinches at the name. He turns his head, fear written on his face as he studies the angel. Something clicks behind those bright green eyes as he lets his head fall back onto the rock floor, sighing in relief.

“I thought Alastair’d sent another fake Sa --”  Dean says, before coming to an abrupt halt. He scurries to sit up, back pressed flat against the wall, “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m an angel of the Lord.”

Castiel doesn’t have much experience with people, but logic tells him that most in Dean’s situation would be ecstatic by this news. The man just blinks at him.

“Dean? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m here to rescue you.”

“Uh huh.”

Castiel stares at Dean for a moment, reading him, “You don’t believe me.”

“Do you know how many times they’ve sent hallucinations my way? Because I don’t. It’s one of the very few ways you can get your kicks down here. So, excuse me for not throwing you a damn party.”

Castiel sits back, insulted, “I am not a hallucination.”

Dean leans towards him, “They always say that too. Now will you leave me alone? I’ve done my work for the day. I’m tired.”

And he looks it. There’s no such thing as sleep or rest in Heaven or in Hell. Castiel knows that as a fact, but Dean still looks ragged and weary.

“I’m afraid you do not have time to rest, Dean. We have to get moving,” Castiel says, as he reaches out to Dean.

His hand falls on one of the man’s arms, dragging the form to a standing position. Dean fights him. Castiel has to wrap his arms around the struggling soul, trying to get a good grip as Dean writhes in his arms.

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!”

“I can’t do that, Dean,” Castiel says, his impatience starting to bleed through.

“I’ll give you that I’ve never had a hallucination try to manhandle me before. Alastair’s getting real creative,” Dean growls as he tries to elbow Castiel in the face.

“I’ve told you, I’m not --" Castiel stops, tossing Dean back into the far corner of his cave.

His charge lands with a thump, “Easy with the merchandise, asshat!”

“Quiet.”

Castiel moves towards the entrance, angel blade drawn. He heard a noise outside the mouth of the cave. He stands guard, scanning everything he can see from his vantage point. Castiel spots it. Something large on the horizon, heading their way at breakneck speeds.

**********

The first thing Dean is aware of is someone dragging him out of the Impala, although manhandling would be a better word for it. He tries to fight the rough treatment, but finds his limbs won’t cooperate long enough to get him anywhere. He wonders if whoever has him is at least semi-friendly towards hunters. If not, he could be in real trouble.

“Hey! Easy with the merchandise,” Dean says, slurring his words as he struggles to open his eyes.

“Shut up,” Castiel grunts somewhere near his ear.

That answers that question, but considering Castiel’s tone, Dean isn't so sure he’s any safer here than he would be with the demons. He opens his eyes enough to see Castiel fumble a motel room door open, almost letting Dean’s arm slip from around his shoulders in the process. The fallen angel gets a better hold on him, dragging Dean through the doorway and all but throwing him onto one of the beds. Dean hisses as he hits the mattress. His head feels like it’s on fire.

Castiel lugs the last of their bags into the room by the time Dean is able to get himself upright. He sits on the edge of the bed, taking deep, even breaths. He puts his head in his hands trying to hold in whatever is trying to beat its way out the side of his skull. It’s like someone took all the hangovers he has ever experienced in his life, combined them, then multiplied it by two. It takes him longer than it should to realize they are in a different motel room than the one they'd stayed at in Salem. He wonders where they are now and how long Castiel had driven before stopping.

“Cass, what happened?” Dean asks when Castiel finishes salting the last of the windows.

“I said, shut up.”

Dean manages to raise his head enough to glance at Castiel. He drops the salt into one of the bags and starts pacing back and forth, his brow furrowed and his fists clenched like he wants to hit something. Dean has to look away. All the movement is making him dizzy. Besides, the last time he saw Castiel this angry, Dean had gotten the hell beat out of him in a dark alleyway. It’s in his best interest not to look right now.

“What did you do, Dean?”

“I didn’t do --”

“No,” Castiel says, crouching down in front of him, trying to make Dean look him in the eyes, “Humans cannot do what you just did to those demons. I can’t even manage it. Not anymore. What deal did you --”

Dean looks up at that, glaring at Castiel, “I didn’t make any deals! Like we haven’t been down that road a few too many times. How much of an idiot do you think I am?”

“I’m not sure. Tell me what you did and I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t jump all over me, Cass," Dean says through a groan. "You’re the one who did this to me.”

“What?”

Castiel sounds confused, verging on horrified. Dean realizes too late he hadn’t meant it to come out that way. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all. Damn, it would be better if he was a little more coherent for this conversation.

“I didn’t mean it like that. You did it for me. I guess. Haven’t really gotten a straight answer on that one yet,” Dean says, sighing, “I don’t know man. Maybe if you’d sit still for a second I could think straight.”

“I’m not -- Dean!”

He feels himself falling backward, but Castiel grabs his arms, steadying him before he hits the mattress. Dean closes his eyes again. Things are a little better without all the crazy visuals. Cool hands settle on either side of his head, holding him still. They feel so good against his hot skin, the pounding lessening a fraction as Castiel’s fingers settle on his temples. He reaches up and grasps Castiel’s forearms. Dean feels his head being tilted down, their foreheads touching.

“God that feels so much better,” Dean more moans than says, “Don’t move, okay?”

“Dean, what is going on?” Castiel asks, voice low.

“Nothing’s going on. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Everything is --”

“If you say, ‘fine’ one more time, whatever is wrong will be nothing compared to what you will have to deal with from me.”

Dean continues, without really listening, “I’ve gotten through worse than this, you don’t have to worry.”

“Get through what?”

Damn, Dean should have taken Castiel’s original advice while he was ahead and shut the hell up.

“It’s nothing,” Dean murmurs as he opens his eyes, grateful that the world seems to be staying in place this time.

Castiel leans away to glare at him, “Don’t do that.”

“Cass...”

“Dean,” Castiel says, his fingers slowly threading through Dean’s hair, “Let me help you.”

Dean leans into the touch. It relaxes him a little too much, because he hears himself talking when he’s pretty sure he had decided to keep his trap shut from here on out.

“That’s the problem, Cass. You always help me. You’ll go to your grave helping me and I --” Dean stops because he is about to say things he isn't sure he’ll ever be able to say. Things he’s not even sure he should.

“I don’t understand.”

Dean is reluctant to continue, but does, glancing away, “The short version is you, for some stupid reason, gave me some of your grace when you dragged my sorry ass out of Hell. Apparently, over the years, it’s gotten all mixed up with my soul and now it’s kind of been jump started.”

He looks back at the fallen angel and can see this is news to Castiel. The angel blinks at him for a moment, but recovers after a beat.

“Why now?”

“Joshua thinks it has something to do with you falling.”

“You’ve known about this since we spoke to Joshua?” Castiel asks, anger seeping back into his voice, “This is why you’ve been ill.”

“I haven’t been sick.”

“You’re always tired and you’re losing weight, Dean, what do you call that? Sam has been all but climbing the walls wondering what was wrong. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Uh, I thought you guys wouldn’t notice?”

“You’re exhausting.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not or you wouldn’t be so frustrating.”

Dean chuckles, “Then how would you know it’s me?”

That gets the tiniest hint of a smile out of the fallen angel. Castiel stands, wincing as he straightens, removing his hands as he goes. Dean lets go of him, but misses the contact. He would like to chalk it up to that bit of grace wanting to stay as close to its original owner as it can. It would be easier that way, but it wouldn’t be the whole truth. Castiel sits on the bed next to him, their legs and shoulders touching, making things a little bit better.

“Did Joshua happen to mention if you can stop this from happening?”

“No.”

“You didn’t ask.”

It’s not a question, but Dean answers anyway, “No, I didn’t. Joshua said the grace that’s stuck in me is keeping you from cracking up like some of the other angels. I’ve been subconsciously healing you or something like that.”

Castiel nods like he expected that, “Through our bond.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And I’m sure you started pushing it further than you should have once you knew what was going on, didn’t you?” Castiel asks, eyes narrowing.

There is no way to answer without getting into a crap load of trouble, so Dean shrugs.

“At least there are ways to stop this. I can --”

“Don’t you dare,” Dean growls, his hand grabbing Castiel’s wrist like he’s afraid the former angel is going to rush out and do something stupid right this second.

“Dean, I won’t allow you to damage yourself for me.”

“You could lose it if I don’t.”

“That is exactly what I deserve.”

“Like hell it is.”

“Dean --”

“No, you don’t deserve that. I know you’ve messed up, but you’ve done good too, Cass. Just like me and Sam. You think we haven’t earned one way tickets back to Hell for all the times we’ve jacked everything up?”

“You were trying to help.”

“So were you, damn it. No, we’re going to fix all this, just like we always do when one of us breaks the world.”

Castiel pauses, looking down at Dean’s hand on his wrist, “I don’t remember giving you my grace in Hell, but the only possible reason for me to do so would have been to save your soul from fading out of existence.”

“That’s what Joshua said.”

“You said that was a stupid reason," Castiel says as his eyes find Dean's, "Even after all this time you still don’t believe you deserve to be saved either.”

Dean snorts, “Well, I’m saving you, whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t like it.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m playing nursemaid for Sammy too.”

“That does not make me feel better. It’s all the more reason for you to let me --”

“No.”

They glare at each other and Dean knows Castiel is already plotting, certain that once they make it back home, he’ll be able to get Sam on his side and Dean will cave. He’s wrong though. Dean might not know exactly what he’s feeling about Castiel these days, but he knows he’s not going to lose him again, just like he isn't going to lose Sam. He can’t.

“Look as much as I’d like to continue listening to you yell at me, I’m beat.”

The pounding feels like it’s getting worse again. Dean shakes his head a little, trying to clear it.

“Whose fault is that?”

Dean ignores him, instead kicking off his boots and shrugging out of the green button down shirt he’s wearing. He tosses it at a nearby chair, but doesn’t quite make it as the shirt slithers off the arm to the floor. He yawns as he somehow manages to shimmy out of his jeans. He leaves them where they fall next to the bed. Dean settles up on the mattress, groaning when his head hits the pillow. He has never been so grateful for motel room beds. Castiel hasn’t moved.

“Are you going to sit there and glare at me all night?”

“You mean morning,” Castiel huffs as he stands.

He listens to the sounds of the fallen angel getting ready for bed, growing more agitated by the minute. Dean thinks his souped up soul is still jittery after his blow out with the demons, and not that he’ll tell Castiel, but he’s a little freaked out by what he did back there. He knows he pushed too far even if it was an accident.

But it’s not just that. He feels like Castiel is too far away from him. There’s a similar buzz in the back of his head for Sam, but he’s always felt the world was all wrong when his little brother wasn’t nearby. Castiel is different. He’s in the other room brushing his teeth, but it’s still too damn far. The fallen angel reenters the room in his baggy, black long sleeve, button down shirt and pajama pants, because of course the guy has to get dressed up to go to bed. He had spent most of his time on Earth dressed in a suit and tie. Dean reaches out when Castiel’s hand starts to pull the cord on the lamp between the two beds minutes later, his fingers encircling the fallen angel’s wrist again.

“Cass...” he starts, trailing off because he’s not sure what he wants to say.

He tugs on Castiel’s arm and somehow the former angel must get it. Castiel nods as he turns out the light. Dean shifts over, making room as Castiel crawls into bed beside him. They stare up at the ceiling in silence, arms brushing against each other.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says to the crack above his head, “about not telling you.”

“I know,” Castiel says, sighing as he turns on to his side towards Dean, “Just don’t overreach like you did tonight. In all likelihood this will end badly and I can’t lose --”

Castiel cuts himself off. Dean imagines him biting on his bottom lip to keep the words trapped. He turns into Castiel, wishing he could see his face, but settles for a dim outline thanks to the little bit of light from the first rays of sun filtering through the moth eaten curtains. He reaches up and runs a hand through Castiel’s messy hair.

“I know. I can’t either.”

**********

Ash’s search for the names Henry had given Rufus turns up nothing, except that all of them were assigned to Section 3. It’s not a red flag, at first. Bobby’s factory is known as Section 37 and Rufus is in Section 93. When Ash is unable to find a general area where Section 3 is located, instead of getting an exact fix like all the other sections, things start to sound fishy. Bobby and Rufus meet up with Henry again after their next round of shifts and it’s decided that it’s worth taking a self-guided tour.

“How did Ash finally get a read on this place?” Bobby asks, as they walk along the streets, eyes peeled for anything out the ordinary.

“He didn’t,” Rufus says, “Process of elimination. He could get enough of the city to make a rudimentary map, except for a huge, glaring hole on the outskirts.”

They try to make their route seem unplanned, like they are three buddies out for a stroll. It works until they get closer to the city limits. The crowds thin out as they approach, forcing them to take advantage of any back alleys or overhangs they come across. It’s slow going. Bobby is starting to think this trip is going to be a bust when Henry grabs both of them, dragging them up against an old brick building.

“Look,” Henry says in a whisper, nodding to his left.

Bobby and Rufus poke their heads out long enough to look down a darkened alley. There are all kinds of figures milling about. It’s strange. Not only are there so many people gathered in an almost abandoned part of town, but the alley is silent. You could walk by and not even know they were there if you weren’t looking. Bobby can’t make all of the figures out, the shadows too deep between the towering buildings, but that feeling of dread starts to creep back up on him as he studies the scene. He doesn’t see any of those creatures like the one he had seen before, but he’s sure at least one of them is down there. The figures he can make out appear to be human souls.

“Can I help you three?” a voice asks from behind Bobby.

He turns, Rufus and Henry following suit. A woman stands in front of them, shorter than the three men, with a tight, blonde bun and wearing a tailored suit and tie, much like standard issue angel wear.

“We were just...” Rufus says, trailing off.

“Out for walk,” Henry says with a smile, “We wanted to explore this beautiful city of ours, but I believe we made a wrong turn somewhere.”

“I’d say,” the woman says, deadpan.

“We’ll just be on our way,” Bobby says, moving to walk around the woman.

He gets two steps before someone is grabbing him. He can’t see who it is, but he figures it’s a safe guess that whoever it is resembles the two burly mooks strong arming Henry and Rufus. Without another word, they’re dragged in through the nearby door of the brick building they had been peaking around. It’s dark. It takes time for Bobby to adjust after becoming so used to the brightness of their endless summer day. They don’t make it far into the building, coming to a stop in front of the third door down a hallway he can’t see an end to.

The woman opens the door, stepping aside long enough for them to be walked through. They’re brought in front of a man sitting at a desk. He’s suited up, just like the woman. Bobby thinks he looks familiar. It takes him a minute, but he realizes he has seen this soul before. It’s the young guy that had been standing on the fountain the day they had been released from their new apartments, giving them the run down on how things were going to be working up here from now on. The man doesn’t look up from the file he is reading. Stacks of manila file folders sit scattered across his desk.

“What is it?” the man asks, still not bothering to glance their way.

“We found these three sneaking around outside. It’s them.”

The man’s eyes flick up at this, studying the three of them over top of the file. He lays it down on his desk, leaning back in his chair as he folds his hands in his lap.

“Well, I suppose Metatron had been right after all.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here,” Rufus says, “We were just --”

“Please, save whatever lie you’re about to tell. We know who you are.”

“Don’t know how that’d be. Can’t say the same for you,” Bobby says.

The man leans over to open one of the drawers in his desk. He pulls out a red file, much bigger than any of the others. He opens it, licking a finger as he flips through a few pages.

“Robert Steven Singer. While you were alive, you were a mechanic and the owner of Singer Salvage Yard in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Not to mention a prominent hunter of all things supernatural. Up here, you have a wife, Karen, and a short list of friends you consider family. Ellen and Jo Harvelle, Pamela Barnes, Rufus Turner,” the man says, glancing up, “who I see is present here with us today. And I suppose I can add Henry Winchester to your friend list, since you three seem to have become such close pals. Shall I continue?”

“How did --”

“If you’re skulking around here, you already know how we know what we know,” the man says, hand coming to rest on some of the files scattered across his desk, “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

“What are you doing with the information in those files?” Henry asks.

The man smiles, “I’m sorry, did I give the impression that this was a Q & A? No, this is more of a lecture. The powers that be --”

“You mean Metatron,” Bobby says.

“-- had hoped you wouldn’t get curious,” the man says, ignoring him, “But, in the event of this very thing happening, steps have been taken to ensure there will be no further involvement from you.”

“What steps?”

The man closes the red file folder with their information as he gets up from his chair. He comes around to stand in front of them, sitting back against the edge of his desk.

“I assume it’s come to your attention that you haven’t been able to locate the vast majority of your family and friends.”

Bobby’s stomach drops. Ash hadn’t been able to find anything on any of the people they know. He’d been hoping it just meant he needed to do some fine tuning on that contraption of his. Sounds like the damn thing had been working fine all along.

Bobby glares at him, “Where are they?”

“Safe. For now,” the man says, “Whether or not they stay that way is entirely up to you. Had you left well enough alone, they would have been released to you after our work is done here. As it is, you’ve forced our hand.

The man leans towards them, “And let me be very clear. If you’re found near here again, if you ask questions, or if you seem to be doing anything out of the ordinary whatsoever, their existence will be null and void, do you understand?”

“I think we get the picture,” Rufus says, still trying to get the guy holding him to let off.

“Good!” the man says with a grin, “Now, these fine gentlemen will be escorting you back to your zones.”

The men holding them start to drag them out of the room. They make it as far as the hallway, the woman holding the door that leads back out into sunshine open for them when they hear the man’s voice call after them.

“Enjoy yourselves fellas, it’s a beautiful day out there.”

Chapter Text

Abaddon summons Crowley hours after the attack on Castiel and Dean. His plan works like a charm. Despite the demons being unable to take them out, Crowley has bought his way in to Abaddon's good graces. Sam still isn’t happy about it, but he had been less upset once Castiel had called with the all clear. Crowley stops back after his meeting just long enough to tell Sam to head back to the Bunker.

“Why Kansas?”

“That’s where Abaddon is headed next. Big goings on in your own backyard, apparently.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re all together. None of you are going to like this, and I will only be able to stomach the mandatory angry, angst ridden whine-fest from the three of you once.”

“So you’re just packing up and taking a road trip with a bunch of demons?”

“Jealous?” Crowley asks, side eyeing Sam as he stuffs his things back in his bag.

Sam glares at him, “I’m worried.”

“I’m cut to the quick, Moose, I really am. Have our misadventures these last few months meant nothing to you?”

“Yeah, they have,” Sam says, zipping his bag with more force than necessary, “I’ve stuck my neck out for you time after time with everyone --”

“You’re worried about loosing face.”

“I’m worried you won’t be able to hold your own once you’re thrown back into that world. I’m worried you haven’t been out long enough not to slip back into it,” Sam says, “I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks, I was there in that church with you that night, Crowley. I know you're different. I know you can be different. I just don’t know if you want to be. I’m not even sure you know what you want.”

Crowley pauses, bemused, “I didn’t know you cared so much, Moose.”

“Look, just be careful, all right?” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

“Wait a while before you leave and let the dynamic duo know what’s going on.”

With that, Crowley is gone. Sam checks out at noon and is on the road three minutes later. The late September sun beaming through the windows of yet another stolen car as he makes his way back home. It’s not the smartest thing they’ve ever done. Trusting Crowley to play double agent and be faithful to any side other than himself is like betting against the sun rising tomorrow. Even so, Sam still has faith in Crowley. Having faith has always been his best and worst trait.

**********

Dean wakes somewhat rested. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. It would have been nice to be able to take the time to savor the feeling, but he is also greeted by a raging case of morning wood and an armful of Castiel. Dean would be cool if these two things were mutually exclusive, but as it is, he’s not that lucky.

Dean’s face is nuzzled into the back of Castiel’s neck. He’s got an arm wrapped around Castiel’s waist, having tugged the former angel as close to him as possible while they were sleeping. One of his legs is even trapped between Castiel’s. The other arm is tucked up under the fallen angel’s pillow. Dean’s whole body is pressed up against him, with Dean’s dick trapped between his stomach and Castiel’s low back. His first instinct is to panic, because he has no idea how he’s going to extricate himself from this without getting caught.

“Dean?” Castiel yawns.

Well, damn.

“Yeah?”

“Your penis is poking me in the back,” Castiel says, like he’s telling Dean the time.

“Uh...”

He’s blank. What the hell do you say to someone in this situation? Dean is sure they don’t sell apologetic Hallmark cards for inappropriate boners.

“Can you please take care of it?” Castiel says through another yawn, as he snuggles into him, squirming against Dean like he’s settling back in.

Castiel must be even more clueless than Dean, because he’s positive that adding friction to the equation is not what you’re supposed to do in these kinds of situations.

“What?”

Castiel sighs as he turns in Dean’s arms to face him. Hair a wild mess and eyes still bleary with sleep. It’s doing nothing to help Dean “take care of it.” Quite the opposite, in fact. He bites his lip to stifle a moan.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean --”

“It’s fine, Dean,” Castiel says as he stretches, his lean body moving against Dean as he goes.

Something comes out of his mouth as Dean scrunches his eyes closed. He’ll go to his grave, again, before he admits that it was a whimper.

“Do you want some help?”

He has no time to even begin processing that question before Castiel’s hand is trailing against the outline of his dick through his underwear.

“Ungh?” Dean manages, and in all honesty he’s proud he’s able to get that much out.

“Is this all right?” Castiel asks, the slightest hint of uncertainty coloring his voice as he stops moving.

Dean groans, pulling him closer with the arm he still has draped over Castiel’s waist, “I’ll have to kill you if you stop.”

Castiel starts again, slipping his hand underneath the waist band, fingers gliding over Dean’s skin. Dean can't move, eyes still closed. His right hand is twisted in the fabric of Castiel’s stupid sleep shirt as the fallen angel wraps his hand around Dean’s dick, pushing closer into his space. He finds himself hating Castiel’s pajamas with every fiber of his being. He wants skin. He wants to flip Castiel over onto his back and kiss every inch of him, just to tease. Partly because Castiel’s a dick and a tease himself, but mostly because Dean wants. This is Castiel’s show, though. Dean’s not going to do anything, he’s just along for the ride.

“Open your eyes, Dean.”

He does. Castiel is inches from his face, blue eyes staring back at him. Lips part, Castiel’s tongue sweeping out to wet his bottom lip. Dean can't help but stare. He feels the overwhelming need to lean in. To run his teeth across that bottom lip, drawing lines against it with his tongue. He wants to kiss him until they’re left panting, lips chapped within an inch of their life and then kiss him some more because why the hell haven’t they done this before?

Dean tilts his head toward Castiel, keeping his eyes opened as he goes. Their lips are almost touching when the fallen angel twists his wrist just right, stopping Dean in his tracks. Eyes wide, Dean exhales Castiel’s name into the fallen angel’s still open mouth, both of them breathing the same air as they exchange moans and disjointed utterances of each others names. Dean’s eyes only close when he comes. Castiel’s lips graze his cheek, his cool breath sweeping across Dean’s temple as he strokes him through the aftermath. Castiel is up and out of the bed a minute or two later, Dean still trying to catch his breath. He watches the fallen angel.

“Cass?”

He isn't sure which question he wants to ask first. Someone needs to explain to him how they had gotten to this completely awesome place were amazing things like that happen. A big part of him is wondering if Castiel doesn’t need a little help now too after all of that. Castiel, seeing the bemused look on his face, is kind of enough to answer at least one of those questions.

“You were moaning my name in your sleep,” Castiel says, as he heads to the bathroom with a smirk, “I didn’t think you would mind.”

Dean lets his head fall back onto the pillow with a thump. How in the hell did this become his life?

***

After Dean had recovered enough brain and body control, he cornered Castiel in the bathroom and discovered that the fallen angel could indeed use a little help of his own. Later, Sam had called to let them know everyone was heading back to the Bunker. They hit the road soon after that. Dean is surprised to find Charlie sitting in the library with Kevin, heads stuck in their respective laptops, when he and Castiel roll in. When she sees them on the stairs, she runs over to give him a hug and meet Castiel. Sam isn't far behind her.

“I gave Charlie a call while I was driving back. Thought we might need the extra tech support. Got her up to speed on everything so far.”

“I’m running a search for anything related to knights or lords of Hell, while we’ve been digging through the Letter’s files,” Charlie says, turning to Sam, “Which we seriously need to discuss digitalizing some of this stuff. It would definitely cut down on the time suck hunting and gathering for information.”

Sam snorts, “We’ll get on that whenever we get a day off.”

Dean had hoped their extra curricular activities earlier would have made Castiel forget the whole telling Sam about Dean failing to mention the whole ‘my soul has some grace stuck in it and now I’m healing you both but it’s doing some damage to me’ thing. No such luck. Castiel wastes no time dragging Sam off to blab the whole story.

Dean tries to lie low. He gets maybe ten minutes peace, before Sam comes swooping into his bedroom, seconds away from hulking out on him. In the end, Dean wears Sam down, telling him he’ll take it easy. That everything is fine. That he won’t overstep his bounds. His brother doesn’t believe him. Castiel, who’d been right behind Sam serving as backup for their ambush, seems to believe him even less. The three of them come to a stalemate on the issue and it’s tabled, at least for now.

They spend the rest of the evening catching up with everyone over dinner before settling in around the TV. Kevin calls it a night around ten o’clock with Castiel following not long after, leaving Dean, Sam, and Charlie to finish watching another episode of 'Game of Thrones'. Dean glances up at the clock, counting off how many minutes he should wait so it doesn’t seem weird for him to leave, like he’s following Castiel around or something. He hears a door click shut down the hall.

“Okay, how long have you two been an item? Is it serious? Why didn’t you tell me?” Charlie asks, in a rush as she turns to Dean, “I need details, but like, not too many details, if you know what I mean.”

Sam looks up, confused, “Who’s together?”

“Dean and Castiel, former dreamboat of the Lord, of course.”

“What?”

“How did you know?” Dean asks, appalled.

“Wait, it’s true?”

Charlie looks between Sam and Dean, “You hadn’t told Sam yet, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Oops, my bad.”

“Sammy, it just kind of hap --”

“About damned time,” Sam says, turning back to the TV.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re kidding, right? Dean, you’ve been mooning after Cass for years now. Everyone knows that.”

“Not everyone.”

“Well, maybe not you or Cass, but yeah, pretty much everyone else,” Sam says, with a shrug, “Dude, almost every friend or enemy we ever had has all but called you guys boyfriends at one time or another. A few of them have actually called you boyfriends.”

“That was just dicks being dicks because they’re... They’re dicks!”

“Could you have fit one more ‘dick’ into that sentence?” Charlie asks as Dean glares at her.  

“I think it’s great. I’m happy for you, Dean,” Sam says, looking at him with a grin, “I mean, we’re going to make fun of you --”

“Totally.”

“ -- because I can’t believe you were that oblivious. Years, man. Years.”

“I hate you both.”

“Oh, you love us,” Charlie says, hugging him around his waist.

“Now stop watching the clock and go snuggle up with Earth Angel back there, so we can concentrate on our show,” Sam says, with a smirk.

“Is that your pet name for him? Because it’s adorable and it should be,” Charlie says, releasing Dean.

Dean gets up and heads out of the room, retreat the better part of valor at this point, “Thanks for a great conversation, let’s never have one like it ever again.”

“Just keep the noise down, Dean,” Sam calls after him, “I don’t want to have to move you guys to a different section of the Bunker just because your nocturnal activities scar our guests for life.”

Dean flips him the bird as he walks out the door. The cackling from the den follows him all the way down the hall. He plans on ditching his shoes and maybe changing into some sweatpants before heading over to Castiel’s room. Dean is grumbling to himself when he reaches his bedroom door, but forgets any lingering irritation when he opens it to find Castiel already under his covers, waiting for him.

**********

With their friends being threatened and still no line on what exactly the higher ups in Heaven are up to, Bobby, Rufus, and Ash decide to double down on finding the rest of their group. Ash pools all his resources, concentrating on each individual soul. It takes time. More time than Bobby would like. With the additional information Bobby, Rufus, and Henry were able to give him from their failed investigation, his search narrows down to a small apartment building in the heart of the city. Like the rest of this damn place, it’s nestled among other buildings, houses, and stores from various centuries. Bobby and Rufus take turns scooping out the joint. With the streets contantly jam packed with souls, they don’t have to worry too much about being spotted.

Either way, Bobby is sure to keep moving as he takes in his surroundings on one of his passes by. The yellow brick building looks like it wouldn’t have been out of place during his time. From what they’ve been able to see, there’s an entrance in the front and one off to the side, down a tight alleyway. So far, none of them have seen anyone come or go, which is unusual. There seems to be a constant stream going in and out of every other building surrounding it as people go about their business. It’s going to make it hard to break in unnoticed.

When work shifts end, the blocks surrounding the apartment building are near to bursting. They decide they’ll have an easier time breaking in undetected using the sudden influx of people as camouflage. What they really need are weapons. Guns, knives, salt, anything would be better than what they have right now, which is jack with a side of squat. Ash is working on it, and Bobby can only hope he finds something soon before they find more trouble in Paradise.

**********

Crowley had been calling Sam periodically to check in, but it’s not until the following evening that he calls for a ride to the Bunker. Dean had insisted on keeping the exact location of the Bunker a secret from Crowley, which all things considered, Sam agrees with. He might trust Crowley, but he isn't willing to put the lives of everyone he loves in danger based on that instinct. He meets Crowley about 40 miles outside the dead zone surrounding the bunker. Sam is waiting for him when he gets there. After blindfolding the ex-demon, they head out, driving back in silence. He can feel the tension radiating off of Crowley.

Sam leads him through the door, closing it before he removes the blindfold. Everyone’s gathered in the library, watching as Crowley marches down the stairs, Sam following close behind. He asks for the list with the names of the Lords of Hell on them. Grabbing a pen from in front of Kevin as the prophet hands the paper over, Crowley starts striking off names.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean asks, making to grab the list out of Crowley’s hands.

He slides it out of Dean’s reach, “All of these are confirmed dead.”

Once he has finished, Crowley puts the pen down and slides the paper into the center of the table.

“There’s only seven left?” Sam asks, after looking over the sheet.

“Finally some good news,” Dean says.

“No, it’s not. I’m assuming you all have been doing some research while I’ve been away doing all the heavy lifting. One lord of Hell is your worst case scenario,” Crowley says, pointing at the list, “This doesn’t even register on the Richter scale of the most awful things that could possibly happen.”

“You mean it’s only a worst case scenario, if they break out, right?” Charlie asks, “I’m assuming these dudes are still kicking it down south.”

Crowley blinks at her, “I’m sorry, you are...?”

“Crowley, Charlie. Charlie, Crowley,” Sam says, without looking up from the list.

“If there is any good news, it’s that they’re not here. Yet. If Abaddon has her wicked way with the lot, however, it’s only a matter of time before they’re set free.”

“Abaddon’s game plan is to set loose a bunch of demon-angel-whatevers?” Dean asks, skeptical, “Weren’t those guys her bosses? I don’t think they’ll like her power grab anymore than you did.”

“She has some top secret, beyond classified way to control them, or so she says.”

“How is she proposing to bring them back?” Castiel asks, “I’m assuming the lords are buried fairly deep in the Pit. It would take a substantial amount of power to get them out, not to mention sustaining them on this plane of existence.”

“I don’t know how she plans to extract them from Hell,” Crowley hesitates, looking at Sam, “but she’s got what they’ll need to survive here.”

“Vessels,” Castiel says, voice quiet.

Crowley nods, still looking at Sam, “Did Azazel mention anything about other children like you, back when he was trying to recruit you?”

“Sure he did,” Dean says, defensive, “The rest of them were killed in Azazel’s version of the Hunger Games back in Cold Oak. All except Jake, but Sam killed him.”

“He’s not talking about them, Dean,” Sam says.

“Who else then?”

Sam shifts in his seat, “Azazel told me there were other generations of kids like me. It was just a passing comment. I wondered what he’d meant at the time, but nothing’s ever come of it.”

“Well, it has now,” Crowley says, “Are you telling me it’s never bothered you two that you were supposedly preordained by Heaven to be the vessels for Michael and Lucifer and yet, Azazel wasted all those years prepping other demon blood kids? Did you think he was just doing it for kicks?”

“I was going to Hell, then there was an Apocalypse on,” Dean says, crossing his arms, “It’s not like we can keep track of every -- Wait, why in the hell am I defending us to you?”

“I’m sorry, demon blood kids?” Kevin asks, staring at them all like they’ve lost it.

Charlie shushes him, chin in her hand, enthralled by all the new information, “It’s all covered in the “Supernatural” books. I’ll show you later.”

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“You don’t,” Dean says, pointing at Charlie, “And if you show him where to find them, I’ll end you.”

“If we could please get back on topic,” Crowley says, irritated at having his conversation hijacked, “The Reader’s Digest version is Abaddon hunted down the rest of your extended demon blood family and has, through a process I’m sure none of you are chomping at the bit to hear about, narrowed the group down to twenty. I believe the final step will be to train them so hard they start breaking. Whichever seven remains will get the dubious honor of being possessed.”

“They started out as angels though right? Won’t they have to ask for permission to take over?” Sam asks, “That’s how Lucifer operated.”

“Lucifer was still an angel,” Castiel says, “He was simply locked away in the Cage. The lords are at least some part demonic, meaning the angelic rules may not apply to them.”

“Besides, whatever “training” Abaddon is putting the poor bastards though probably won’t leave them with the ability to tell the asshats no, even if they still want to,” Dean says, running a hand down his face as he leans back in his chair, “They’re being held close to here?”

“Just under 100 miles away from where Moose picked me up,” Crowley says.

“Any idea what kind of state they’re in?”

“Mentally or physically?”

“Both.”

“They’re fine physically. Mentally is a bit of a mixed bag I’d say, but there’s no way to be sure. I didn't get much face time with the new recruits on our tour of the facilities.”

“We have to get them out of there,” Sam says.

“We’re not even close to being ready to attack Abaddon,” Dean says.

“I’m not talking about attacking. It’s just a little B and E.”

“Yeah, into a heavily guarded, demon filled death trap that may or may not include the queen bitch herself.”

“Look Dean, it doesn’t sound like it’s going to matter if we ever get ready to fight her if she manages to raise the lords of Hell. These people are her key to doing it. If we take that away, it at least buys us some more time.”

Sam stares his brother down. No one speaks. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Castiel’s hand slide over to rest lightly on Dean’s arm.

“We have to do this.”

Dean tears his eyes away from Sam to glare at Castiel.

His brother pauses before he says anything, turning to look at Crowley, “We’re going to need everything you got on the setup and security for this place.”

“I’m working on it,” Crowley says, “It will take me a few days to find out the basics.”

“You’ll have to get an iron tight alibi too, Crowley,” Sam says, “If Abaddon finds out who --”

“Please,” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow at Sam as he smirks, “If I have a superpower it would be my ability to cover my own ass.”

“I think we can all attest to that,” Dean says, with a noticeable down tick in his usual animosity towards the ex-demon.

Sam takes it as a good sign.

**********

Dean walks into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Sam had just got back from dropping Crowley off, picking a different area than where he’d met him in case they were somehow followed. He stayed up to make sure his little brother didn’t have any trouble. Dean heaves a heavy sigh, exhausted from the last few days. He plops down in a leather chair he stole from one of the sitting rooms in the Bunker to decorate his bedroom with, leaning down to untie the laces of his boots.

“Did Sam make it home?” Castiel asks, without looking up from his book.

The question is so domestic, it stops Dean in his tracks. He looks up at Castiel. The fallen angel is leaning back against the headboard, dressed for bed and already under the covers. Dean’s room had started out with just enough stuff for him. One bedside table, a desk, and a few of his personal items to spruce up the place. Somewhere along the way, he gained a matching bedside table and the chair he’s sitting in now. Hell, even the shelf he’d originally had all his weapons spread out on had been shuffled off mostly to one side. It’s like the room had been waiting for someone else to fill it. He guesses maybe he had been waiting for it too.

Castiel looks up at him over his book when he doesn’t get an answer, “Dean? Why are you grinning at me like that?”

“What? Yeah, Sammy made it back all right,” Dean says as he finishes taking off his boots.

Castiel raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t push, deciding instead to return to his book. After heading to the bathroom to finish getting ready for bed, Dean shucks his T-shirt and jeans. He slides under the covers next to Castiel.

Dean leans toward Castiel, looking over his shoulder, “What are you reading?”

“Dracula”

“Really?” Dean asks, sitting back up, “You don’t get enough of this stuff in our everyday lives?”

“This is fiction, Dean.”

“Sorry, guess I just didn’t peg you for a horror fan,” Dean says, with a chuckle.

“I asked Sam to give me a list of books that every human should read.”

“How long’s the list?”

Castiel sighs, “He’s still not done.”

“Yep, sounds about right,” Dean says laughing. Castiel smiles at him before turning back to his book, “Well, let’s hear some of it.”

“You want me to read to you?”

“Sure. I’ve never read it,” Dean says.

Dean lifts his arm, an invitation. He wraps it around Castiel's shoulders as the fallen angel leans against him. Castiel starts reading, head resting against Dean’s shoulder.

“As he spoke, he was dipping into his bag, and producing the instruments of transfusion. I had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt sleeve. There was no possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one. And so, without a moment's delay, we began the operation. After a time, it did not seem a short time either, for the draining away of one's blood, no matter how willingly it be given, is a terrible feeling, Van Helsing held up a warning finger. "Do not stir," he said. "But I fear that with growing strength she may wake, and that would make danger, oh, so much danger. But I shall precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection of morphia."”

Dean kisses the top of Castiel’s head as he watches him flip the page.

“He proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his intent. The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge subtly into the narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride that I could see a faint tinge of color steal back into the pallid cheeks and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to feel his own lifeblood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.”

“Guess the dude’s never heard of flowers and chocolates.”

Castiel snorts, “Well, the flowers might be appropriate I suppose. At least during the daytime.”

“Will flowers and stuff do for you or do I have to tap a vein to woo you?”

“I do not believe any further wooing will be necessary,” Castiel says in an embarrassed huff, a blush creeping across his cheeks, as he nudges Dean in the ribs with his elbow, “Now, can I please continue?”

“Sorry, yeah,” Dean says in a quiet tone, pulling Castiel a little closer to him.

Dean misses most of what’s going on in the story. Instead, he lets himself sink into the rhythms of Castiel’s voice as it rises and falls with the text, the low, warm tones relaxing him. He rests his head against Castiel’s, breathing in the smell of his hair. This, Dean Winchester thinks to himself, is as good as his life is ever going to get. Everyone he loves is safe under one roof. Sam is fine, Castiel is fine, and Dean's grace infused soul helping them along their way to being fine hasn’t killed him yet. All of that would be enough for Dean, but somehow he has found himself in bed with the last person he would have ever thought would be here. Hell, Dean had stabbed Castiel in the chest with Ruby’s knife the first time they both remember meeting each other. His life is weird.

Castiel drifts off to sleep while reading, the book falling from his grasp. Dean picks it up off the covers, marking his place before sitting it on his bedside table. He manages to settle the fallen angel in, laying them both down without waking him. Dean holds Castiel, sleep still eluding him. He sleeps better with Castiel here, but it’s not enough. He only manages a few hours a night if he’s lucky, despite how exhausted he feels. Still, just being here with Castiel in his arms is better than he could hope for. Dean can’t imagine anyone else being in this spot next to him. It has been so easy, and it feels so right. If Dean had any lingering questions about how deep he’s in with Castiel, he has his answer now.

Chapter Text

Castiel craves physical touch. It isn't something he thought much about when he was an angel. Touch, in the human sense, doesn't apply in an angel's true form. Stuck in this human body, his human body, he can feel it like a itch he can't scratch when he goes too long without any contact. He enjoys the occasional hug from Sam or Charlie. Kevin seems to be fond of fist bumping. It's a strange, but satisfying gesture, especially when you “explode” it at the end and imitate the resulting noise. But it’s Dean’s touch, in particular, that Castiel craves. Even before that first morning he woke up with Dean wrapped around him, Castiel had been finding any excuse to bump into the hunter as much as he dared during the day. He disregarded the “personal space” rule at every turn and Dean, much to Castiel’s surprise, hadn’t rebuked him.

However, since that morning after their fight with the demons, Castiel hasn’t had to find a reason to touch Dean. The hunter had always been more tactile than most, aching for human touch just as much as Castiel does now. In the past, Dean had found it necessary to satisfy that need between hunts with various people he found in towns the Winchesters stopped in, but Dean seems to enjoy the convenience of Castiel being an arm's length away. When they are with the others, Dean reaches out for Castiel’s hand under a table in the library or runs his fingers through his hair while they watch TV. He makes it a point to bump Castiel’s shoulder, letting their arms brush against one another as they walk through the halls of the Bunker. Castiel savors every minute of it, but he never initiates contact.

Except for their time spent sleeping in the same bed, which has now become routine, their alone time has been cut somewhat as the amount of people wandering around the Bunker has increased. This place is big, but it doesn’t always seem that way. When the group isn’t enjoying a little downtime together, the rest of their days are spent continuing their research on the lords of Hell. It’s slow going, and they haven’t had much success.

When Sam finds a strange notation in one of the files he's reading, Castiel volunteers to look it up for him. He makes his way down the hall, locating the room indicated in the file. Castiel has enough time to click on the few overhead lights and open one of the many filing cabinets before Dean slips in after him. He hears the door close shut behind him as strong arms wind around Castiel’s waist. Dean kisses the back of his neck, his nose nuzzling into Castiel's hairline.

“Dean, I’m working,” Castiel says, “and you’ve got your own research to do.”

“Finished it,” Dean mumbles into the crease behind Castiel’s ear before moving to nibble on his earlobe.

Castiel forgets what he was going to say for a few seconds.

“Did you really?” Castiel manages to ask, keeping his voice level as his knuckles go white from gripping the edge of the filing cabinet door as he rereads the name of the file in his other hand for the ninth time.

“No, not really,” Dean says, “but this is more fun.”

Dean presses against him, hands finding their way up under his shirt, skimming across Castiel’s stomach. He lets out a ragged breath as the file drops back into place, Castiel using that hand to grab at the cabinet instead to help hold himself up.

“Do you want me to stop?” Dean asks.

It’s a stupid question. Castiel can hear the smirk in Dean’s voice. He slams the cabinet shut, using Dean’s surprise to gain the upper hand. Castiel turns, getting a fist full of Dean’s blue button down and the black shirt under it as he manhandles the hunter to the back of the room, finding a dark corner behind some bookcases. Castiel pushes him up against the cool concrete wall, staring Dean down. The shadows are deep here and he can only see part of the hunter’s face. Dean looks shocked, but Castiel is pleased to see his pupils are dilated, mouth slack. Castiel leans in, lips inches from Dean’s.

“Cass?” Dean asks, tongue darting out along his bottom lip, eyes trained on Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel wants to kiss him. It’s one of the few things they haven’t done together, despite Dean’s repeated attempts. But something keeps stopping Castiel. It’s a line he’s too afraid to cross. Dean leans towards him, trying to close those last few inches that separate them, but Castiel puts a hand on his chest before he can get there, pushing Dean flat against the wall again.

He drops to his knees, mouthing along the bulge in Dean’s jeans as his fingers make quick work of Dean’s belt buckle. Castiel can hear Dean moan above him. The sound sends a thrill through him. Somehow this is easier. Less complicated. Besides, Castiel has found he enjoys making Dean feel good just as much, if not more than, allowing Dean to do the same for him. In a matter of seconds, Castiel has Dean’s pants and underwear pulled down, one hand resting on Dean’s hip as the other wraps around his dick, giving it a few experimental strokes.

Dean hisses. Castiel can hear his head thump as he lets it drop back against the wall. Fingers card through Castiel's hair as he licks from the base all the way to the tip, letting his breath ghost over the wet stripe he leaves in his wake.

“Who’s the tease now?” Dean asks, breathless.

“I don’t believe you’re in any position to be a smart ass.”

He lets his tongue play along the ridge where the head meets the rest of Dean’s cock, before taking it into his mouth. The tip of Castiel’s tongue presses against the hole at the tip of his dick as he draws the head in. Curling his lips around his teeth, Castiel squeezes his lips together before letting off completely, mouthing his away back down the underside of Dean’s cock.

“Cass,” Dean moans, fingers tightening in his hair as Castiel sucks along the base, “Cass, please.”

He can never last as long as Dean can when it comes to foreplay. As soon as the hunter starts asking instead of taunting, his voice cracking from want, Castiel gives in every time. He isn't sure if Dean has caught on yet or not. As it is, Castiel makes his way back up his dick, sucking the head into his mouth, pausing before taking more of Dean in. He goes slow at first, hand and mouth working in tandem, as he takes him deeper. Dean’s hand falls from it’s place tangled in his hair, sliding down to caress Castiel’s cheek.

He looks up at Dean from under his eyelashes. As their eyes meet, Castiel feels Dean’s breath hitch from where his hand is splayed across his stomach, arm anchoring his hip. Dean is a wreck. Despite the low light and his current position, Castiel can see the sheen of sweat glistening along Dean’s brow. Breathing heavy, his hand finds its way back into Castiel’s hair as he speeds up. Castiel doubles his pace, tongue dancing along the bottom of Dean's cock, hand chasing his mouth. A few more seconds and Dean is gone. Castiel swallows, slowing as he rides out the aftershocks with Dean.

Castiel sits back on his heels, admiring his work. Dean paints a gorgeous picture. Eyes slid shut as he slumps against the wall for support, his pants and underwear lying in a pool around his feet. He presses a hand against his own dick to relieve some of the pressure before he stands, pulling Dean’s clothes up with him. Castiel barely has his jeans zipped back up before Dean is grabbing at him. His movements are lethargic as he manages to get Castiel’s pants unzipped and a hand under the band of his underwear. Castiel braces himself with an arm against the wall, his other arm wrapping around Dean’s waist.

Dean goes slow, varying the pressure as his hand slides up and down Castiel’s dick, smearing pre-come around to ease his way. Castiel’s head falls to Dean’s shoulder as he pulls the hunter closer to him, Dean’s other hand clutching at his shirt along his back.  He moans, bucking up into Dean’s hand, trying to get him to move faster. To add more pressure. To just give him more. But Dean keeps a steady course, torturing Castiel in the most delicious way possible. Castiel kisses along Dean’s neck, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under his lips as he goes.

“Dean,” Castiel moans as he kisses up to his temple, the hunter’s eyes closed, his long, beautiful eyelashes splaying out over his freckled cheeks.

Castiel moves up, placing gentle kisses along the hunter’s hairline. He can taste the salt from the drying sweat on his lips.

“Dean,” Castiel says in a gasp as the hunter’s pace quickens.

He snakes one of his arms up under Dean’s, fingers sliding through the sweat slicked hair at the back of Dean’s head as Castiel tries to get closer, holding on for dear life. Dean opens his eyes, watching Castiel. His pace is relentless and with a swipe of Dean’s thumb over the head of Castiel’s dick, he loses it. He moans Dean’s name into his neck as the hunter strokes him to the end. Castiel goes slack as Dean removes his hand, pulling him closer as they slide down the wall to the floor, both still breathing hard.

Dean kisses his forehead as Castiel lays his head on his shoulder. They won’t be able to stay here long. The concrete floor is as cold and unforgiving as the wall, but for now, Castiel curls into Dean. He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of Dean’s heartbeat. He wonders if, when the time comes and Dean moves on from him, he’ll be able to survive without this.

**********

“Something’s wrong with Cass,” Dean says as he walks into Sam’s room without warning or preamble.

His little brother looks at him from over his laptop, “Is he sick or something?”

“No, he’s fine,” Dean says, plopping down next to Sam on his bed, kicking his feet up as he crosses his legs at the ankles, “It’s just... He won’t let me kiss him.”

“We are not talking about your sex life,” Sam says, shutting his laptop to glare at Dean.

“No, it’s not that. The sex is awesome. Like really awesome. I haven’t had it this good since --”

“Oh my god, Dean, no! You need to stop right now.”

Dean ignores him, “It’s like I try to kiss him, but every time I do, he dodges out of the way or distracts me --”

“Please, do not tell me how he distracts you,” Sam groans.

“-- I mean, everything else is great, so I don’t get it.”

Sam pauses, considering Dean, “Does your breath stink?”

“No,” Dean says indignant, but after a second, he lifts a hand up to double check.

Sam smirks, “I don’t know, man. Have you tried talking to him?”

“No, that’s why I’m talking to you.”

Sam just looks at him, because yeah, Dean knows he should be talking to Castiel. He’s the guy with the answers. But Dean isn't sure if he wants to know the answer. What if Castiel is not as into this as Dean is? The thought is terrifying. Dean’s first instinct is to shut down and pull away, but he knows that if he does that, he’ll lose Castiel either way.

“Look, relationships are hard,” Sam says, “It’s something you have to work at. When I moved in with Jess, the first couple of months were awful. We were so different, but after we worked out the kinks we made the differences work to our advantage. And not the kind of kinks you’re thinking about, because I know you.”

Dean is almost too shocked to say anything else. Sam has never once brought up Jessica without being prompted.

“I figured things were always sunshine and roses between you two,” Dean says.

“Well yeah, things were great a lot of the time, but it’s just like anything else. Sometimes there's crap you’ve got to deal with and you’ve got to do the work. Is Cass worth it?”

Dean looks down at where his hands are folded in his lap, “Yeah. He is.”

“Then go talk to him,” Sam says, shoving Dean out of his bed with a grin, “and stop bothering me.”

“You love this feeling your feelings crap and you know it,” Dean says as he gets up to go. He makes his way out into the hall, but stops and pokes his head back in, “Thanks Sammy.”

“Sure thing, Dean,” Sam says, smiling.

***

Dean waits for the right time to broach the subject with Castiel. He doesn’t want to do it in front of the others, obviously, but he doesn’t want to make the fallen angel feel like Dean is cornering him or anything. It’s a lot to think about and to be honest, this whole relationship thing is starting to give Dean heart palpitations. At best, he has minimal practice at making a long term thing last, and that’s being generous. He’s scared to death he’s going to screw this up with one wrong word and that’s the last thing he wants to happen.

The next afternoon finds them in the garage messing around with the Camaro. A playlist of classic rock songs plays quieter than Dean is used to in the background. He had commandeered Sam’s laptop to multitask, using this time to further Castiel’s musical studies while they work. They made a lot of headway with the car over the last few days since they’ve been stuck waiting for Crowley to get his ass in gear and get them some info. Still, the down time does have its perks, and spending extra time with Castiel is up at the top of the list.

For the most part everything on the Camaro was in working order despite being left in the salvage yard for so long. Everything under the hood is done. Some stuff had needed to be replaced while others just needed cleaned out. The essentials like oil changes and fluid levels are all finished. The car is road worthy, if not the prettiest thing anyone's ever seen. Most of the interior is finished. Dean wants to find some replacement seats, but the ones already in it will do for now. There's a few other details on the inside and the exterior needs painted. Besides that, they're almost done.

Dean leans under the hood, pointing out what else he'll want them to work on down the road, while Castiel watches from over his shoulder. Pink Floyd’s “Hey You” finishes in the background as he glances at the fallen angel, smirking when he sees some grease smeared across Castiel’s left cheek.

Dean reaches out, thumb rubbing at it as he cups Castiel’s cheek, “Got a little something there.”

“What?” Castiel asks, turning towards him as he tries to see what it is.

“Just a little grease, though I’ve got no idea where you got it from,” Dean says, chuckling. They haven’t worked on anything major this afternoon.

Castiel smiles, leaning into the touch. They’re looking at each other. Things are good. Dean is getting all the go ahead signs, and he knows he’s reading them right. He leans in and at first, Castiel leans towards him too, then he aborts mission. Castiel turns his head, looking back towards the engine and leaving Dean hanging in midair.

“Okay, what the hell is going on, Cass?” Dean asks as he pulls back, more angry than he intends.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Are you freaking kidding me? Have I done something wrong? If I did, you gotta tell me, so I can try not to do it again.”

Castiel refuses to look at him, still staring under the hood, “It’s not you.”

Oh god, he’s getting the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech. Dean’s thoughts screech to a halt. This is his worst case scenario, but it’s not like he hasn’t been waiting for it. He knows he’s not good for Castiel. Dean isn't good for anyone. Look at what he put Lisa and Cassie through. He’s not stupid enough to think Castiel would want to stick around for a guy with an airplane cargo hold full of emotional baggage. He tries to remain calm, even as his heart is threatening to beat right out of his chest.

“Then what is it?” Dean asks, taking a few steps back. It's like somewhere in his head he thinks if he distances himself physically, what's coming won't hurt as much.

It’s a long time before Castiel says anything, “It’s a line I’m not sure I can cross with you.”

And there it is. Dean looks down at the floor. He can’t stand to look at Castiel. Doesn’t want to see whatever it is written on the fallen angel’s face.

“Look I get it, man.”

“You do?”

“Sure. I mean, you’ve gotten such a bum wrap because of us. Because of me. You should get everything you can out of this human thing. You deserve so much more than me, and I get that.”

“What?”

“It’s fine, Cass, really. I’m not surprised or anything,” Dean says, he can feel himself start backing away. All he wants to do is bolt out of this garage as fast as possible, “Hell, I’m surprised you stuck around as long as you did.”

He thinks he ought to be close to the exit, at least he would be if he didn’t have an iron tight grip on his arm, holding him in place.

“Dean, I don’t think I deserve better than you. There isn’t anything better,” Castiel says trying to catch his eye and waiting until Dean glances up at him before he continues, “You must remember, I’m very old. I’ve been around the world too many times to count. I would know.”

Dean stares at him, “Fine, let’s say for a moment you really believe that, then what’s with the bobbing and weaving business? Come on Cass, you’ll suck my dick, but you won’t let me kiss you?”

The fallen angel at least has the decency to blush, “It’s difficult to explain.”

“Well, you better try, because I sure as hell ain’t getting it.”

“I know you very well, Dean,” Castiel starts, pausing as he studies him, “I know your body, I know your soul, and I know your history,”

Castiel lets his hand drop from Dean’s arm as he says, “And, historically speaking, you do not stick around with people you ‘hookup’ with.”

Castiel does the air quotes with his fingers and Dean finds it very hard to let that one slide in the name of keeping the conversation on track. Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind” starts up in the background. Dean missed whatever was playing before it.

“You’ve got to know I’m not just hooking up with you, Cass.”

“How would I know that? We’ve never talked about any of this.”

“Damn it,” Dean says, raking his hand through his hair, “If you know me so well, then you know I’m bad at this.”

“I do. That’s why I haven’t pushed,” Castiel says, looking away, “That and I was afraid of what the answer might be.”

“Dude, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

“I know you want to, at least for now.”

Dean furrows his brow, confused, “The hell is that supposed to mean? It’s not like you haven’t flew the coop on us plenty of times too.”

“You’re missing the point, Dean. I’ve left you, but I always come back.”

There it is. Dean’s history is sure as hell coming back to bite him in the ass, but this was not how he expected it to get him. Because Dean doesn’t always come back does he? He’d left Castiel hanging after the Apocalypse. He never even tried to call to see how the guy was doing. Grade A friend right there. He had been trying to do the apple pie thing like Sam had wanted with Lisa and Ben. He'd known seeing Castiel again would have made it harder to keep his promise. It’s no excuse, but it had been his reason at the time.

Dean and Sam had tried to kill Castiel when he took the souls from Purgatory and, maybe worst than that, Dean had completely given up on him by that point. Sam was the only one who’d held out hope on that front. Once the angel had popped back up, they’d dropped him off at the mental ward with Meg after Castiel had taken one for the team by shouldering Sam’s special brand of crazy. Yeah sure, they’d had their reasons, and some of them were better than others, but it all still amounts to the same thing: Dean leaving Castiel behind in the dust. The same can’t be said for the fallen angel standing in front of him.

“Dean, I do everything that you ask. I always come when you call...”

He remembers hearing those words, but their true meaning doesn’t hit him until now.

“I’m not leaving, okay?” Dean says, closing the space between them, “Look, even if none of this between us had ever happened, I meant what I said in that crypt when we found the angel tablet. You, me, and Sam are family, whether you like it or not. I’m not going to leave you. Ever. You got me?”

Castiel still looks skeptical, but relents with a nod, “All right. If you understand that I’m choosing you. I’m not missing anything by staying here with you, Dean. I’d be missing something if I didn’t.”

Dean imagines there is a similar cynical look on his face, but he nods anyway, wrapping his arms around Castiel, “I’ve had enough talking for one day, so I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s all right with you.”

Castiel nods.

It’s awkward as first, trying to find the right rhythm, but then it clicks and it’s all kinds of awesome. Dean drags Castiel over to the Impala, trying hard to slide into the backseat without missing a beat. Dean lightly drags his teeth across Castiel’s lower lip as they maneuver into the car, Dean landing on the bottom. Castiel moans as he rolls his hips against Dean, begging for friction.

It’s like being a teenager again after Dad had first turned the keys to the Impala over to Dean, back when making out was the most exciting thing in the world. Dean is finding it still can be. Hands and legs tangle everywhere in the cramped space as they try to find a comfortable spot. Everything is beyond amazing until Dean’s brain catches up with what he’s hearing. Bob Seger has long since given up the speakers, AC/DC having taken over, going on and on about “dirty big balls” and Dean can’t help himself. He starts laughing, head dropping back against the seat, a confused Castiel lying on top of him.

“Why are you laughing?” Castiel asks, almost offended.

“Listen,” Dean says, putting a hand over his eyes as he tries to stop.

The fallen angel cocks his head to the side, listening to the lyrics.

“Some balls are held for charity
And some for fancy dress
But when they’re held for pleasure
They’re the balls that I like best...”

“Are they singing about testicles?”

The sincere look of bewilderment on Castiel’s face sends Dean into another laughing fit.

He’s still trying to catch his breath as he says, "Depends on how you want to take it, but yeah, pretty much."

"Why?"

“I don’t know man, because it’s AC/DC.”

Castiel just shakes his head at him as the song ends, the gods of playlist shuffling smiling on them again as Led Zeppelin’s “Fool in the Rain” starts. Even so, the mood has changed, the heat gone. They share lazy kisses between talking about whatever comes to them. Still wrapped up in each other, they finally find a good position, Dean holding Castiel as their feet poke out an open window.

Chapter Text

Jessica Moore hadn’t thought much about what Heaven would be like when she was alive. Had she been asked at the time, she would have listed off some of the normal stuff. Things like being reunited with friends and loved ones and white light everywhere. Maybe a few cute little cherubs flitting around from one fluffy cloud to the next. The real Heaven hadn't met her expectations. It had, in many ways, exceeded anything she could have hoped for. Well, up until now, that is. Being tied to a chair in an empty floor of an apartment building would never had made her Heaven must-have list, before or after her death. At least she isn't alone. Four other women sit tied up in chairs similar to hers, all of them comprising what amounts to Sam’s extended family. Some of it anyways.

“Anything Pam?” Ellen asks, looking over at the psychic seated next to her.

“Not a thing. Whatever is keeping us here has enough juice to shut me down.”

“Well, keep trying,” Ellen says giving a fruitless tug against her bonds, “It’s hard to say how long it might take the guys to realize what’s going on here.”

“It’s Bobby and Rufus, Mom,” Jo says, rolling her eyes, “I’m sure they’re already neck deep in it.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t help them along.”

Except those few minutes she had met Dean before Sam left on that fateful trip to find their father, Jess had never met any of Sam’s relatives or pre-college friends. Since dying however, she’d had plenty of time to get to know them. And to get to know Sam, by extension. The first person she had met was Bobby Singer. The older man had come crashing into her personal Heaven, introducing himself as a friend of Sam’s. He was the first soul Jess had met up here. It had only taken a few minutes of chatting with him to realize both Sam and Dean meant much more to Bobby than just friends of the family. If anything, the look on his face when he caught sight of Jessica’s projection of Sam in her Heaven would have been clue enough.

Bobby was the first one to explain what had happened to her and why. He told her about Sam’s life before he escaped to Stanford. About his life after. It was horrifying. She had hoped Sam would have moved on and had a happy life after the fire, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d known something wasn’t right when that thing, masquerading as their friend Brady, stopped by their apartment on her last night alive. A demon, according to Bobby. At the time, she hadn’t known why she was attacked or that Sam was the reason. She just knew that things were wrong. Worse still, it turns out things were wrong in ways she never could have guessed.

She wasn’t mad that Sam didn’t tell her about his past. Jessica wouldn’t have wanted to be the one to bring someone’s whole view of the world crashing down. To have to tell them monsters were real. Who would want to relive those nightmares? Who would want to take the chance at having someone you love think you were crazy? Or worse, believe you. She would like to think she would have believed Sam had he told her, but she can never be sure.

When she asked why he had come to visit her, Bobby had babbled something about wanting her to know the truth. Jess knew it was because he thought Sam would want him to look after her. Bobby is rough around the edges, but he is a sweet man with a soft heart and it doesn’t take a genius to see he loves Sam and Dean like they were his own. When she asked him how he had been able to visit her personal Heaven, Bobby took her to meet the rest of Sam’s hunting family.

It had been a relief to be with real people again. As enjoyable as a place you have total control over creating can be, it’s still lonely. Basking in the warmth of the souls in Ash’s Heaven, a bar otherwise known as The Roadhouse, had been like a soothing balm. They took her in as one of their own. Sharing their stories. Teaching her about all the things Jess had never known existed when she was alive. She learned about the lore and what to do if you came across something unnatural. It was as fascinating as it was terrifying.

Jess and Jo had taken to each other, becoming fast friends. Ellen and Karen, Bobby’s wife, became surrogate mothers to Jess. She got the feeling that happens a lot to people who find themselves in close proximity to either of them. Ash and Pam were wild and fun, taking her along on some of their covert adventures throughout the rest of Heaven. She became part of their group. Jess had never had a large family. She was an only child. Her grandparents on both sides had passed long before she was born and both her parents were still alive. While logic dictated she had to have some ancestors up here, she didn’t know any of them. It was nice to know she wasn’t alone anymore.

Those stories Bobby had first told her should have prepared her for something like this. If there was one running theme it was that anyone connected to a Winchester was bound to get caught in the crosshairs. Just because you're dead and lucky enough to have made it to Heaven doesn't make you exempt.

“Jess, how are you holding up, honey?” Karen asks.

“I’m fine,” Jess says, concentrating on the ropes holding her hands behind the back of her chair.

She’d had early success with getting something undone back there, loosing the ties around her wrists by a fraction. The souls that had tied them up had what looked like rope, but when she grabs at them it's like trying to untie a strand of sand. She’s sure Ash would have some technical explanation for why matter doesn’t work up here like it does down on Earth. From what Jess has been able to figure out thus far, the harder she focuses on gripping the material under her fingers, the easier it becomes to manipulate. She had let the others know, hoping one of them might have better luck. So far, no one had managed to get out.   

**********

Crowley calls the next day giving Sam a location for them to meet a little over thirty miles from where Abaddon is based. Sam can tell Dean is on edge as they pack up the Impala. They are heading in, sight unseen, with just Crowley’s word it’s not a trap. He would be an idiot not to question it. Sam even feels uneasy as they pull away from the Bunker. They haven’t been sitting idle over the last few days. Charlie, with Kevin’s help, has been putting her computer skills and contacts to work trying to find back channel ways to get large amounts of the required ingredients to make more demon bombs. Some of the supplies had started to trickle in, but they weren't able to get anything ready in time for this mission.

They meet Crowley in a shut down diner. The once shiny, chrome exterior rusts in places. The neon sign next to the road lies broken into pieces at the base of the post it had once swung from. The green door almost comes off its hinges in Castiel’s hand as he opens it to let Sam and Dean pass through. Black, spray painted sigils line the walls and if given a few minutes to search, Sam is sure they would find a number of hex bags scattered throughout the old diner.

“Love with you’ve done with the place,” Dean says as he sits a green canvas bag full of weapons on a dusty booth table.

“It’s a bit much, I know," Crowley says from his perch on one of the few remaining counter seats, “but better safe than dead.”

Crowley gives them the run down. He managed to put together a basic schematic of the building. The ‘demon kids’ were being held in the basement. Most of the day, the place is crawling with demons, but they thin out at night. With the kids locked up tight and other missions Abaddon needs carried out to deal with, most of the demons head out, leaving the place with minimal security.

“What about Abaddon?” Sam asks.

“Out recruiting. Word is she’s making a Pit stop before coming back, but I can’t guarantee how long she’ll be away playing downstairs.”

“What about you?” Dean asks, “Where are you going to be?”

“The boss has given me orders outside of town. I won’t be on site, but if you could be so kind as to not leave any survivors, it would go a long way toward keeping my cover intact.”

“Abaddon will know who broke in whether there are any witnesses left or not,” Castiel says.

Crowley rolls his eyes, “Of course she will, but I think we can all agree the less she knows about how you knew exactly where you were going and when to attack, the better off I will be.”

With that, Crowley takes his leave, instructing them to stay where they are until night falls. Sam and Castiel settle in for a long wait as Dean paces, taking slow tours around the diner, glancing out the openings in the boarded up windows from time to time. 

***

Castiel dozed off after two hours, back leaning against the wall with his legs kicked up along a battered booth bench. Dean had only paused his pacing long enough to shuck his coat and drape it over him. The diner is warm enough, but Dean knows Castiel likes to sleep with a blanket wrapped around him, burrito style if he can manage it. He is notorious for stealing covers.

“Would you sit down, Dean? You’re going to be exhausted before we get started if you keep going,” Sam says, scowling at him from the table he’s sitting at next to Castiel's booth.

“I’m fine.”

“Whatever. Just sit.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but plops down in the seat across from him. Sam had been reading, though Dean had caught his little brother staring at him more than once over the last hour.

“Happy?”

Sam shakes his head at him, “I know you’re not happy about trusting Crowley, but it’s kind of the only lead we have to go on right now.”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

“I can’t believe we’re back here again is all,” Dean folds his arms resting them against the table, “The demon blood thing and Azazel. I thought we were done with all that.”

“I’m starting to think we’re never going to be done,” Sam says with a sigh.

Dean hears the agitation running through Sam’s voice as he closes his book, fingers fiddling with the yellowed pages. Over the years, Dean is pretty sure they both have come to terms with the fact they will be hunting in some way, shape, or form for the rest of their lives, however long that might be. Most of the time he is all right with that prospect and he thinks Sam is too. But this is different. This isn’t hunting. Not in the same sense. For Dean and Sam, not only is it personal, but it’s dangerous in so many more ways than getting hurt or killed out on a hunt. This runs soul deep and they can’t seem to escape it.

“It’s going to end because we’re going to finish it. Once and for all,” Dean says, leaning closer to Sam, his voice quieter, “We’ll get through this like we did last time, Sammy.”

“God I hope not,” Sam says looking at Dean with a wry grin, "I can't help but wonder what we're going to find. What these people are going to be now. I still remember what it felt like to have all that power running through my veins. I... I got lost in it." 

“Hey,” Dean says, waiting until Sam looks him in the eye, “It’s different this time around, man. I’m here. Cass is here. We’ve got the Bunker. We’ve got more things going for us than we’ve ever had. We’ll get through this, you hear me?”

Sam nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Sam doesn't seem to believe him. Dean is trying real hard to keep believing himself.

**********

Ash bangs the top of his contraption with his fist again, frustrated. When Bobby had asked if that was good for it, Ash had muttered something about “percussive maintenance.” Whatever readings he is getting from the apartment the rest of their group are stuck in isn't what he had been expecting. Ash is trying to get a better idea of where in the building Ellen, Karen, and the rest are being held. Bobby watches the guy cussing at the machine, leaning against a wall in the cramped in apartment version of The Roadhouse that Ash now calls home. Henry and Rufus sit on stools, drinking beers at the abbreviated bar.

“This can’t be right,” Ash says.

“What’s wrong?” Bobby asks.

“From what this thing is telling me, there’s a whole mess of souls stuck in there.”

“It’s not that big of a place. How many could there be?”

Ash turns the screen towards them. Rufus gets up off his stool to come have a look. After staring at it for minute, he straightens crossing his arms.

“All those little white dots represent a soul?” Rufus asks.

“Sure does.”

Henry stares at the screen as he looks over Rufus' shoulder, “That’s a lot of souls.”

“Yep.”

Bobby sighs, “So we either have more people we have to bust out of there or we’re getting ready to walk into a horde of unfriendlies.”

“Basically,” Ash says.

Rufus looks at Bobby, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You still want to go through with this?”

They hadn’t been able to locate any guns or knives or any of the normal fare as far as hunting gear goes. Bobby had been able to find a few pipes and a couple tools that appeared to be made of whatever counted as iron up here, but that was the extent of their weapon supply. Whether or not the iron they had found would work against anything in Heaven remained to be seen. Worst case, Bobby is hoping they can beat the hell out of whatever comes at them, soul or otherwise.

“We don’t have much of a choice.”

***

They leave Ash and Henry back at Ash’s place, figuring if any thing happens to him or Rufus, at least there will still be two people out there who know something is fishy in angel land. They move with the flow of the crowds, eyes peeled for anything that looks out of the ordinary, but they don’t run into any trouble. Bobby follows Rufus as he ducks into the narrow alleyway between the apartment building and the bakery next door. They stop in front of a red metal door. Rufus tries the handle, on the off chance that they'd get lucky. It’s locked. He starts picking the lock with the makeshift tools they were able to gather while Bobby plays look out, a huge wrench clenched in his hand. A duffel bag filled with what weapons they do have sits next to his feet.

“How long does it take to pick a damn lock? Did you forget how to do it?” Bobby asks, feeling exposed despite the deep shadows this far into the alley.

“Do you want to do this?” Rufus asks, “It’s all about finesse, Bobby.”

“I’ll take a little less style and flair if it gets us out of the open faster.”

“Next time we’ll just kick the door in, how’s that? Then everyone and their mother’s mother will know where coming. Would that make you happy?”

“Shut up, ya idjit.”

Bobby knows he’s being testy, but he can’t help it. They are so close to getting everyone out and safe. The sooner they get this done, the happier he’ll be. The lock clicks a few seconds later. Rufus picks up the pipe Bobby had given him, getting a good grasp on it as he eases the door open. His partner pokes his head around the door, checking the immediate area out before motioning Bobby with his hand. They head in. The place is quiet. The only light comes through huge windows spread throughout the first floor. Glass panels run up the full length of the staircase off to their right. Their intention is to give every floor a quick sweep before doing a more in depth search, looking for any guards and checking for any open doors as they go. Bobby and Rufus make it to the third floor, and part way down yet another dark hallway, when they run into two human souls.

“How did you two get out?” one of the guys asks.

Bobby and Rufus make a run for it, but they don’t get far. Bobby ditches his bag, pushing it into an alcove before the two men are able to catch up with them.

“Drop your weapons,” one of the souls says.

Bobby can see the glint of an angel blade in his hand, “Where in the hell did you get that?”

“I said, drop them.”

Bobby nudges Rufus. Holding up his other hand in surrender, Bobby stoops down to place the tool on the ground. Rufus does the same. He doesn't know what kind of damage an angel blade could do to a human soul, but he is willing to bet it wouldn’t be pretty. The two men grab them by their shirts, dragging them back down the hall the way they came, the points of the blades digging into their backs. One of them opens a door, pushing both Bobby and Rufus through. The two hunters stumble as the door slams shut behind them. Bobby scrambles for the door, trying to get it open even as he hears the lock slide into place.

“Balls.”

“Was this part of the plan, Bobby?”

When Bobby turns to glare at Rufus, he realizes they're not alone. A group of fifty or more people are hanging around in the gutted apartment, all of them stopped to stare at the newcomers.

“Huh, fresh blood,” a man says, smiling as he makes his way through the crowd towards Bobby and Rufus, “Been a while since we’ve had anyone new. We were starting to worry there wasn’t anyone left out there to cause any trouble.”

**********

The stupid rope is almost there. Jessica can feel it. One more loop and she’s free. She tries to keep her excitement in check, never sure when one of the souls keeping them here will pop in to check on them. She prefers them over whatever those other things are. They had only seen them once and if Jessica has her way, she’ll never see one again. They fill whatever space they occupy with their overbearing presence. There’s something off about them. It’s like they shouldn’t be allowed to exist and the space around them is trying to reject their presence, but can't quite manage it.

It was hard to look at them. Sometimes they could almost pass for humans, but most of the time they took the form of grotesque monsters. Their skin clung to them in clumps, most of it looking more like charred pieces of wood than flesh. They kept their huge, waxy looking wings tucked behind them so they could move through the doorways of the building. She would hate to see what they look like when they’re spread wide.

Bobby had told her many monsters can pass for regular humans on Earth, but elsewhere things tend to show their true colors. At least that had been his experience while in Hell. Jessica assumed the creatures that had helped contain them when they’d first been brought here were the unfiltered version of something the hunters in the room had run across before on Earth. She’d been wrong. None of them had ever seen one before.

Jessica closes her eyes. She can hear the others murmuring around her. She tries to block out their voices. It’s one more loop. If she can just slip one of her hands out from under it...

It’s a shock when her hand pops free. She sits stunned for a second before she shakes her other hand loose before bending over to start working on the ties holding each of her ankles to a separate leg of her chair.

“How did you to do that?” Jo asks, just as stunned as Jess had been, “I’ve been trying for days.”

Jessica grins at Jo, “I concentrated.”

“Well then, we’d be screwed if it were up to you Joanna Beth.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie."

Jessica tosses aside the rest of the rope as she moves over to start working on Karen’s. For whatever reason, it’s much easier to work on the ropes when you’re able to see them. With help from the others, they’re free in a matter of minutes.

“Now what?” Karen asks.

The room is empty for the most part. They’ve had plenty of time to scan the area, looking for anything that might be useful as a weapon. The apartment has been gutted, leaving only a concrete floor and the few light fixtures scattered throughout the unfinished ceiling.

“We get the hell outta here,” Ellen says, walking towards one of the windows.

She leans far enough towards it to look out, but not close enough anyone could spot her from the street. Jessica and Jo move up beside her.

“That’s a lot of people,” Jessica says, staring down at the mass of souls moving in all different directions on the streets and adjacent square below them.

“We can use it to our advantage,” Jo says, “It’ll be easy to get lost in a crowd like that.”

“First we have to get out of this building,” Ellen says, turning back to the room at large, “Pam, can you feel anything nearby?”

“There’s a mass of something a floor below us. There’s too much interference for me to know exactly what it is, but none of the energy in that area has moved since we’ve been here.”

“More hostages?”

Pam shrugs, “It’s a possibility.”

“So investigation and then break out of here?” Jo asks, almost sounding excited.

Jess can’t blame her. They’ve been staring at the same four walls for what feels like weeks.

“I’ve been trying to pay attention to when they’ve been coming to check on us,” Karen says, “It’s hard to be exact, but it feels like it’s been a long time since they’ve been in. We won't have much time.”

Ellen rolls her eyes, “Figures. Let’s move.”

The group makes their way towards the door. It isn't locked. The souls holding them must have assumed they wouldn’t be able to get out. Either that, or there’s a trap waiting for them somewhere, which isn't a pleasant thought. Pam leads the way, using whatever psychic sense she can to feel her way towards whatever is down below. With any luck, she can catch anything heading for them before they get to them. Ellen brings up the rear, watching their backs. They move as quiet as they can through the darkened halls.

They reach a set of stairs leading down through the building. They must have been on the top floor, since their only choice is to go down. Light pours in through the huge windows set in the stairwell. They creep downwards, trying to keep any eye out above and below as they come to the next floor. Pam leads them down the corridor, coming up short at one of the doors towards the end of the hall.

“We’re here,” she whispers to them.

Ellen moves forward, trying the handle. The door won’t budge and they can't pick the lock. It takes both Ellen and Jo banging on it to get the thing to move. The door swings wide and bangs against the wall inside, opening up into gutted out apartment much like the one they just left.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Ellen says as she takes a step into the apartment.

**********

Bobby, Rufus, and the rest of the captive souls all back up, unsure of what is trying to bust through the door at them.

“Ellen?” Bobby asks, shocked as the door swings open.

“Guess it’s a damn good thing we didn’t wait on you boys to rescue us.”

Rufus rubs the back of his head, clearing his throat, “This is the rescue mission.”

“You leave a little something to be desired in the execution,” Ellen says, laughing as the rest of their group files in.

Karen makes her way over to Bobby, hugging him. He keeps his arms around her as he looks her over.

“You guys all right?”

“We’re fine,” Karen says with a smile, “You?”

“I’ve been worse.”

“I’m sorry to cut your guys’ reunion short,” the man who had greeted Bobby and Rufus earlier says, “but we need to get out of here.”

“Who are you?” Jo asks, eying not only him but the rest of the people gathering around.

“He’s a friend. We’ll have to explain later,” Bobby says, turning back towards the man who had introduced himself as Charles Holloway, “You said you’ve got more people stuck on the floor below us?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where we’re headed then.”

Charles nods, turning to the group at large. He tells them to head out, disperse, and to meet back up at their designated locations. Ellen comes up to Bobby while the guy is talking, leaning in.

“Who is this guy?” Ellen asks, voice low.

“We ain’t the only hunters up here.”

The crowd of people start to file out as Charles makes his way back over to Bobby and the rest, “This way.”

They follow him down the stairs, Bobby picking up his bag, still left abandoned in the hallway. The two guys that caught Bobby and Rufus earlier are waiting for them on the second floor, but they’re out numbered despite their better weapons. While Charles and the others are getting the door open on the second floor apartment, Jo grabs the angel blades from where they had fallen during the scuffle. She nudges Bobby, pointing at his bag. He helps her slip them in unnoticed.

While Bobby’s initial instinct tells him this Charles guy is on the up and up, it never hurts to err on the side of caution. Once they release the rest of the souls trapped in the building, everyone takes turns leaving. It’s less noticeable if a small batch bleeds out into the crowd every few minutes verses a whole herd.

“You remember where I told you to meet?” Charles asks Bobby and Rufus before heading out the door himself.

“We’ll be there,” Rufus says, “We’ve got a couple other people to pick up first.”

“Make it quick,” Charles says, “It won’t take long for them to figure out what’s happened here.”

“We will,” Bobby says.

With that, the guy and the last of the souls leave, mixing in with the massive crowd of souls outside. Bobby and the rest wait a few minutes before heading out, sticking close as they make their way towards Ash’s place.

Chapter Text

Dean, Sam, and Castiel move in after midnight. It turns out Crowley hadn’t been lying through his teeth. His information is spot on. Dodging what security demons are still skulking around the place, they make it all the way to the basement where the ‘kids’ are being held undetected. It’s almost too easy. Dean keeps looking around, waiting for some booby traps to spring out at them. Maybe some razor sharp blades that slice out of the walls or a big boulder barreling down a hallway, Indiana Jones style. They find eight people ranging from their early twenties to their mid-thirties sitting in a cold holding cell surrounded by stone walls and bars made of steel. The rest of the twenty Crowley had seen before must have already been weeded out.

It takes some rubbing of salt and splashing of holy water to convince them that Dean, Sam, and Castiel are here to help and are not demons screwing with them for kicks. None of the prisoners question them further, though Dean notices a few of them look suspicious even as they follow the directions Sam and Castiel give them. He wonders how many times they’ve been teased with freedom only for it to turn out to be another game cooked up by Abaddon. They make it back up to the main level. The exit is in sight when all hell breaks loose and a horde of demons descends on them.

“Guess we weren’t as stealthy as we thought,” Dean says, running a demon through with Ruby’s knife.

“You think?” Sam says, gripping the angel blade in his hand tight as he tackles a burly looking mook.

Dean dispatches five demons in a matter of minutes. He takes the time to assess his surroundings during a lull in the action near him. Castiel has a pile of bodies scattered around him. He has another demon on the ropes, pinned between a wall and the fallen angel’s blade. Sam has taken out a few more, the wall of muscles he’d had to deal with earlier taking him longer than normal.

He sees some of the 'kids' fighting too. No, reacting. There’s no fight in them. Nothing in their eyes. They just attack, demons being flung around the room or held at bay with a flick of a wrist. It’s like watching a rerun of what Dean had seen with Sam only it's a different cast. It seems like only one or two are strong enough to send demons back to Hell, however, the rest apparently not having the right juice for that kind of stuff. Yet.

Dean’s first thought is Crowley double crossed them and let the demons know there would be a rescue attempt made tonight. It’s too much of a coincidence they made it all the way to the door before getting caught. Their luck isn’t that bad. While Dean wouldn’t put it past Crowley, what he sees before being slammed to the ground by another demon absolves Crowley from any possible wrong doing. A few of the people they’re in the middle of rescuing stand off to the side of the fighting, fingers against their temples as they mutter something Dean can’t make out from this far away. They’re controlling the demons.

“Sam,” Dean shouts, as he tries to keep the long-limbed, demon possessed chick currently straddling him from ripping his damn head off, “Get them!”

Sam glances at the kids, but he can’t get there, his hands already full with two new demons. Castiel is just as distracted. At this rate, they’re going to be overrun. Dean doesn’t know how far out their demonic bat signal can reach, but if it’s got any kind of range on it, all the demons who’d been sent out for the night could be popping back in any second. Worse still, Abaddon could make an appearance and then they will be beyond screwed.

Dean throws the brown haired woman off of him long enough to stab her in the gut. She’s still flashing orange as he pulls the knife back out. He cuts down two more, letting them fall to his feet. He looks up to see if he can make a break for the ‘kids’ controlling the demons, but he’s too late. Dean watches as one of the older looking demon blood kids takes the three traitors down, slicing through their throats and sides, blood pouring out of their wounds as their bodies collapse in a heap. Without the call to arms going out to the reserves, they make quick work of what’s left.

“What the hell was that?” Sam asks rounding on the guy as he comes to stop in front of the remaining five 'kids', “You didn’t have to kill them.”

“Would you have preferred they keep sending in more demons to kill us?” the tall, blonde haired man asks, staring Sam down.

“No, but --”

“They were helping our enemies, therefore they were no friends of ours.”

Sam looks outraged. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Dean stops him, grabbing at Sam's arm to get him to keep his mouth shut or hold his little brother back, whichever becomes necessary.

“We can talk about this later,” Dean says, “Preferably far away from here.”

The man nods at Dean in approval, “It’s hard to say how far their reach extended. We should get moving.”

**********

Sam leads the way through the diner door. It was decided the warded building would be the safest place to lie low, at least until sunrise. Sam stands near one of the boarded up windows, keeping a look out along the deserted road while Dean hides the Impala in a dilapidated barn less than a quarter of a mile back. The further away they got from the warehouse Abaddon had kept her prisoners, the less rigid the five had become. Well, everyone except for the man who had killed his fellow hostages. Silence reigns as they all cram into the Impala to make the uncomfortable journey back to the diner. 

Dean makes it back, taking longer than Sam would have liked. He slides in the door as Sam barricades it behind Dean, checking the salt lines as he follows his brother through the diner. The people who’d been held hostage found seats at the back of the kitchen, gathering around a red painted wooden table. They are murmuring amongst themselves, but stop to look up as Sam and Dean enter the room.

There are two women and two men besides the guy with a penchant for stabbing, who decided to take a seat on the floor a few feet away from the rest of his group, keeping his distance. Castiel sits perched on a rusty metal counter, uncomfortable. That changes to relief when he sees Dean and Sam join them, Dean moving to take a seat next to the fallen angel. Sam leans against a counter opposite them, arms crossed as he tries to think of a good conversation starter.

Sam is having a hard time keeping his emotions in check. He glances over at his brother. Dean’s face is unreadable, but he doesn’t get the feeling his brother is too shook up about the evening's events. Sam can't understand how Dean is managing to stay so calm. All of this is bringing up memories Sam thought he’d long since dealt with. But it’s not just that. 

The guy who killed the other demon blood kid bothers Sam in ways he can't begin to describe. There’s a single mindedness about him that sets Sam on edge. The man scans the room and the people in it, evaluating everything. Calculating. He doesn’t see people, he sees variables and means to ends. He reminds Sam of himself back when he’d been so dead set on killing Lilith. And finding Dad after Jessica had been killed. And how he’d acted when Castiel had left his soul back in the Cage. The list goes on. Sam has to stop himself from grinding his teeth.

“I guess we should get to know one another a little better,” Dean says, wading into what’s sure to be an awkward conversation, “I’m Dean and that’s --”

“Your brother Sam and the angel Castiel. Yeah we know,” the guy in his early twenties says, absently brushing dark brown bangs out of his eyes, “We kind of had a crash course on you guys. We know Sam’s one of us too.”

“Used to be,” Sam says, quick to correct him.

He can see Dean give him a look from out of the corner of his eye. Sam refuses to acknowledge him.

“You still have the demon’s blood in you, don't you?” the guy asks, everyone turning to look at him.

Sam makes himself stand still, eyes locked on him, “So far as I know.”

“Then you’re one of us.”

“Simon,” the girl with short, blue hair hisses, glaring at the man sitting on the ground before turning to Sam, “Sorry he’s a little uh, intense.”

“I’ll say,” Dean says, crossing his arms.

“I meant no offense,” Simon says, voice even, “I was simply clarifying the facts.”

“Yeah, all right chuckles, thanks for that.”

“It’s fine, Dean,” Sam says, not wanting the conversation to deteriorate further because his brother feels a need to defend him.

An awkward silence falls for a few moments. The blue haired woman looks around, rolling her eyes as he shakes her head. She turns back to look at Sam.

“I'm Tracy Wilkins. I was a paralegal at a law firm before I was taken. Been stuck in that hell hole for about a year. I’m 28,” Tracy says, pausing in thought, “Or well... 29 now, I guess.”

Sam tries to give her an encouraging smile. The guy with the bangs looks like he’s trying to decide if he should stand up as if he were a kid getting ready to give a speech in school. In the end he remains seated, eyes looking somewhere off over Dean and Castiel’s heads.

“Um, Ted Horner. 22. I was a volunteer firefighter back home and a college student.”

“I’m Sandy Iverson and I’m 25,” the tall blonde woman says, flipping her ponytail back off of her shoulder, “I’m an accountant.”

“Cody Ewing. 31.”

Cody doesn’t elaborate, arms crossed as he slouches down his chair. Simon doesn’t offer his own abbreviated bio.

Dean hops off the counter, “Okay, obviously we’re going to have some questions for you guys.”

“Why should we tell you anything?” Sandy asks, “You’re supposed to be the bad guys.”

“We risked life and limb to break you out of that warehouse, and you’re questioning whether or not we’re the enemy?” Castiel asks, stunned.

“I’m more concerned about motive,” Sandy says.

“Do you guys know why you were being held?” Sam asks.

Ted shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing around, “There used to be a lot more of us, but they said they had to cut us down. Get the best of the best. We’re supposed to be some kind of vessels for angels to fight a war?”

“Half right. They’re fallen angels, and probably more demon than anything holy,” Dean says with a shrug, “Guess that's not good PR though, huh?”

“Yeah, no. That sounds much worse,” Ted says, "Not that any of it ever sounded good."

“How much demon blood were they making you drink?” Sam asks.

“Blood?” Tracy asks, confused, “Do we look like bloodsuckers to you? I mean, demons are one thing, but vampires? Please.”

Sam and Dean share a look. Sam tries to think of a good way to break the news to her, but he doesn’t get a chance.

“...Are you telling me vampires are real?”

Dean shrugs, “Among other things.”

“Great.”

“No, not really.”

“Why did you think we'd be drinking blood?” Simon asks.

“That’s not important,” Dean says.

“Because I did,” Sam says before Dean even finishes his sentence, eyes on Simon, “It made my powers stronger. Made me stronger.”

“And, by extension, a stronger vessel?” Simon asks. Sam only nods in reply, “Do you still drink it?”

“No,” Sam says, shaking his head, “not for a long time now.”

Simon studies Sam like he is some kind of museum exhibit.

“This has been fun and all, but I’d like to go home if it's all the same to you,” Cody says.

“Do you really think you can go back now?” Tracy asks.

“Why not?”

“War’s coming whether you like it or not,” Dean says.

“He’s right. Those things went through all that trouble to keep us there. How many people did we watch them kill? How many did we --” Tracy says, looking away for a moment, “They’re not going to let you go.”

“The demons had a purpose in taking us we have yet to fulfill. If you go out on your own, they will hunt you down and kill you," Simon says, standing.

"If you're lucky," Dean adds.

Cody glares at Simon, “So I stay here and get myself killed fighting? I’ve at least got a shot running. What’s the worst they can do to me that they haven’t already done?”

“You’d be surprised,” Sam says, voice quiet.

Every eye in the room turns to look at him. Dean steps forward, breaking the silence,

“Look, we’re not out to hold anyone here against their will. We’re going to need help. Lots of it. If you want to fight, fine. If you don’t, we’ve got a safe place you can stay until this all blows over. If you want to go out on your own,” Dean says, staring Cody down, “We’ll drop you off in the closest town with enough cash to get where you need to go. It’s up to you. You’ve got until morning to decide.”

***

Sam wanted to leave them alone to discuss amongst themselves what they would want to do. Dean and Castiel came to the same conclusion, the three of them taking up spots throughout what would have once been the customer side of diner to keep an eye out for any potential trouble. The others remained in the kitchen area.

Sam sits in a broken down booth along a side wall, with a good view of everything east of the building through the openings in the boarded up windows. Glancing at his watch, he realizes the sun should be rising soon. He doesn’t look up again until he hears someone take a seat across from him. It’s Simon.

“Who did you lose to all this?” Simon asks, without preamble.

“What?”

“You and your brother. You have this look when you talk about anything related to the demon blood we’ve all been afflicted with. It’s affected the two of you deeply. Much more than the rest of them.”

“How would you know that?”

“I lost my husband, Greg. When the demons came to take me, they killed him right in front of me. Made me watch,” Simon glances down at his hands, clasped together on the counter top, “I know the look.”

“Our mom and my girlfriend,” Sam says after a pause, “Killed by the demon that infected us. Our Dad too. Dean and I spent most of our lives hunting the thing.”

Neither one of them say anything for a moment.

“Did you kill it?” Simon asks, his voice softer and more human than Sam’s heard from him so far.

“Dean did.”

“Did it help?”

Sam sighs, looking back out the window, “Some days it feels like it did.”

“I suppose that’s the best you can ask for.”

“We lost a lot to get there.”

“Vengeance is never cheap,” Simon says, leaning towards Sam, “But I wonder, why do you still fight?”

Sam turns back to look at him, “It’s the right thing to do.”

“There’s plenty of things that are good and right in this world, but people don’t do them. Simply doing the right thing is rarely enough of an incentive to get people involved,” Simon says standing, “From what I understand, you’ve been tempted from the path more than once, Sam.”

“Yeah, I guess. So?”

“So I find it interesting you fight so hard to do what you feel is right when you aren’t sure what you’re fighting for anymore.”

“What about you? Are you going to fight?”

Simon considers him a moment longer before nodding, “Yes. I have a score to settle.”

“I thought you said vengeance isn’t cheap.”

“It’s not, but I’m willing to pay that price.”

**********

Abaddon is predictably pissed when Crowley returns to home base a day later to check in. From the looks of the blood splatters on the walls, she’s killed more demons while throwing her temper tantrum than the Winchesters did during their rescue mission. A drop of blood plops down on Crowley’s suit jacket from the ceiling as he makes his way towards the sound of Abaddon’s screaming. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he swipes at the spot, getting as much off as he can before entering the expansive atrium connected to the warehouse.

Bodies and blood are strung everywhere, Abaddon standing in the middle of the chaos. Crowley doesn’t particularly wish to be here right now. Abaddon may very well kill him before he even gets a word out. Before she even realizes who she’s killing.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Crowley says, tone mild.

“You,” Abaddon says, rounding on him as Crowley picks his way towards her, “Those three stooges slipped in here last night and stole what was mine.”

“I told you they were wrenches.”

Abaddon slices through yet another demon, blood spurting from the clean cut in his neck. The demon flashes out. Crowley tries to get a look at the weapon Abaddon has, but between her hand, her sleeve, and how fast she moves, he can’t see it. She holsters whatever it is as the remaining demons finally do the smart thing and beat feet away, leaving Crowley and Abaddon alone.

“Did you have anything to do with this?”

“I haven’t spoken with the Winchesters in over a week. On your orders, I might add.”

Abaddon stares at him, her eyes terrifying even to Crowley. It’s hard not too look away under the blazing scrutiny.

“The plan moves forward. They’ve made things more difficult, but they haven’t stopped us. Find out what they know. Find out what the vessels told them, if anything.”

“Consider it as good as done.”

Crowley takes his leave, but Abaddon stops him, her blood drenched hand clenching his forearm. There will be no getting the blood out of that stain.

“When the time comes, you will lead them to me, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I will kill them before this is all over. Slowly, painfully,” Abaddon says, dragging him towards her until she can whisper in his ear, “And if I find out you were helping them, you’ll wish for death long before I give it to you.”

Crowley can hear the smile the her voice as she releases him, pushing him back towards the door.

**********

In the end, Sandy and Cody decide to cut and run. To be honest, Dean is glad to see Cody ride off into the sunset. He just hopes they stay out of trouble and under the radar. Sam had shown them a few tricks to help keep them covered, demon-wise. Crowley calls in with the bad news. Abaddon's plan is still on, but she'd switch to plan B in her campaign to raise the lords of Hell. Crowley didn’t have any info on what that is yet, but he’d heard rumors Abaddon’s demon recruiting drive had kicked into overdrive. If that doesn’t spell impending demon army, Dean doesn’t know what does. It becomes clear to them that while Tracy, Ted, and Simon deciding to stay on gives their numbers a boost, it’s not going to be enough. Not by a long shot.

Which is why Dean is standing in the Men of Letters’ garage, rummaging through the supplies and weapons he and Castiel had packed away in the hidden compartment in the trunk of the Camaro. Much to Dean’s displeasure, it had been decided Castiel should go out and try to bring some of the fallen angels in on their little band of mismatched soldiers. A phone call to Joshua had given Castiel a good place to start and he had started packing before he’d even ended the conversation.

“I should be going with you,” Dean says, closing the Camaro’s trunk after checking for the fifth time to make sure it’s fully stocked.

“You need to be here,” Castiel says.

Dean rolls his eyes, shifting his feet, “You sure you’re going to be all right?”

“I have no reason to believe Joshua would lead me wrong.”

He can’t argue with that. As much as Dean doesn’t want Castiel to go, he knows the fallen angel needs to do this for a whole lot of reasons other than just finding them help. It doesn’t mean Dean has to like it, though.

“First sign of trouble, you call.”

“First sign,” Castiel says with an indulgent nod.

“And, ya know, you can just call,” Dean says, moving closer to wrap his arms around the fallen angel’s waist, “If you want to.”

Castiel smiles, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Dean is having trouble keeping eye contact because, contrary to all his years claiming otherwise, he is a complete sap and Castiel seems to make it a thousand times worse. He looks beyond the man in his arms, to the shiny, deep blue car gleaming in the lights of the garage, the two black stripes running down the middle of it from the hood to the tail end. They’d been able to finish the paint job on Bobby’s old Camaro a couple days ago. Dean guesses he’ll have to start thinking of it as Castiel’s new Camaro.

“Just,” Dean says, stopping himself. He keeps trying, but the words he has been wanting to say to Castiel keep getting stuck somewhere in the back of his throat, “Just -- don’t get any scratches in the new paint.”

God, he’s an idiot.

“I’ll miss you too, Dean,” Castiel says with a grin, leaning forward to kiss Dean.

Dean forces himself to let go of Castiel a minute later, standing in the garage as the fallen angel turns the ignition. Raising his hand in a wave, Dean watches as the Camaro drives away from him, carrying Castiel with it.

**********

Instead of bringing the new recruits into the Bunker, Sam had found an old, underground barracks halfway between the Bunker and the end of the safe zone surrounding it. From what he could tell from the map of the land surrounding them, it had been used to house the hunters the Men of Letters trusted enough to let in on some of their secrets. Even though they trusted them to some extent, The Men of Letters hadn’t wanted any of those hunters snooping around the Bunker while they were crashing with them. While Dean had taken great offense to this news just like he had when Henry expressed a dislike for hunters, even Dean had to admit that he was glad to have the option right now. Keeping the Bunker safe is always at the back of both of their minds, and Sam figures that’s exactly what the Men of Letters had been thinking too.

They can’t trust Tracy, Ted, or Simon. Not yet, anyway. Sam had trusted Ava back in Cold Oak and she’d turned out to be full on evil by the time they had been reunited. She’d put on a good show. Who’s to say the three of them aren’t pulling the same stunt? Sam takes one of the few cars that had been left behind in the garage when the Men of Letters met their sudden extinction, running the three of them out to the Barracks with Kevin in tow. The prophet had agreed to help Sam get their three new guests settled in and keep an eye on them.

The Barracks, much like the Bunker, was left just as it had been back in the 1950s. It’s smaller, and less luxurious, but there’s running water and electricity. Hell, they even get WiFi down here. There’s a well stocked library and a game room. The kitchen is a smaller replica of the one in the Bunker, and empty. Sam sends Kevin out on a grocery run to stock it. All and all, it’s not a bad little hole in the ground. The bedrooms are much the same as the ones in the Bunker and there’s tons of them. Henry had said the Men of Letters were very selective about which hunters they shared their secrets with. Considering the number of rooms down here, Sam wonders how many active hunters there had been in the past.

Crowley calls while Kevin is gone. Abaddon had given him orders to stay on the Winchesters for the time being. He meets up with Kevin while he’s out shopping in one of the nearby towns. When they get back, Crowley walks down the stone steps, arms loaded down with bags of groceries, grumbling. Kevin comes in behind him with only a couple bags and a smirk on his face. Sam doesn’t ask.

Sam gives Tracy, Ted, and Simon space to try to settle in, but he spends the night in the Barracks along with Kevin and Crowley. Dean calls to say Castiel had headed out on his recruitment mission. Dean sounds grumpy, to say the least. Sam is glad when he tells him he’s staying at the Bunker to try to get some sleep, and not just because he doesn’t want to deal with Dean’s mood. His brother doesn’t look the best. Castiel told Sam he suspects Dean still isn't sleeping as well as he should be, and Sam feels like he’s constantly pushing food at Dean, which is disconcerting on so many levels. Sam thinks Dean is holding his own, but there’s no way of knowing for sure.

For his own part, Sam feels fine. He hasn’t had any symptoms of anything trial related in almost a month. If he had to guess, he’d say he was healed. The situation with Castiel is different though. While the other angels still have some kind of muted version of it to draw on, Castiel had lost his grace completely. Sam doesn't know if Dean will ever be able to stop being a lifeline for Castiel and who knows what that could do to his brother if it becomes a long term thing. Sam tries not to worry as he settles in to watch Kevin and Crowley play a game of chess. The bizarre sight of those two squabbling with each other in such a good-natured way is almost enough to distract him. Almost.

Chapter Text

Pressed back against the wall of the cave he calls home, Dean watches as the angel fights off a mob of demons. He can feel the raw power radiating off the angel, despite the fact that it's this far down in Hell. If circumstances were different, these demons would be no match for the angel. Instead, the angel takes a beating. It must be too far down for its powers to work right. Dean sees the angel's confusion as it attacks, like it doesn’t understand why the demons haven't been annihilated from its presence alone. To be honest, Dean isn't sure either. He’s awestruck just looking at the thing.

The angel is outnumbered 20 to 1. The demons cascade around it like a black wave trying to sweep it back out to the writhing sea of condemned souls far below the jagged cliffs. The angel clings to the entrance wall of Dean’s shelter, its silver blade flashing in the candle light as it hacks away at the demons. It’s a hard fought victory, but the angel comes out on top. It slumps against the cave wall, breathing hard, its blade slipping from its grasp. Dean can see the bright gleam of blue light shining through the angel’s exterior where the demons managed to injure it.

Dean eyes the angel. By all rights, he should drag it off to Alastair. He would be rewarded for bringing in such a fine prize. Maybe Hell’s torture master would even let Dean have a go at it. The thought sends a thrill through Dean as he watches the bright blue of the angel’s blood seep out through the wounds it sustained. At least he assumes it’s blood. He has never seen anything like it before, so he can’t be sure. Either way, Dean would love to see how an angel works. He would strip away every inch of it, piece by piece, drenching himself in that blue light as it poured out of the angel.

Even from a distance, purity radiates off the stuff as it forms a small, glimmering pool on the ground next to the angel. It's addicting.  Dean wants to drown in the angel as much as he wants to destroy it. Bring it down to his level. The angel is gorgeous. Its form shifts constantly from something almost human to animal to shapes Dean can’t begin to describe. Time passes. As he continues to study the angel, Dean is struck with the urge to avert his eyes. Something like Dean shouldn’t be allowed to see a thing like this, he decides. The angel is too beautiful to be stuck down here in the muck with him.

He will never understand what makes him do it in the end, but with a resigned sigh, Dean gets up and moves towards the angel, reaching a hesitant hand out to help the creature to its feet. The blue seeping out of it touches Dean’s skin as he lets the angel lean against him for support. It burns. Dean cries out in pain. He has been in Hell too long to touch something so good. 

“Dean?”

“Shut up,” Dean says through gritted teeth once he grows used to the burning.

He drags the angel to the opening of his cavern. Looking out, he doesn’t see anyone else nearby. Dean shifts the angel, holding it tighter, his whole arm on fire from touching it. The atmosphere is thick with the cries of souls being tortured. The combined weight of all those souls’ sins and regrets in life has a gravity all its own. It stifles the very air Dean still pretends he needs to breathe. He is shocked something as good as the angel is able survive this far down.

Having been here for decades, Dean knows a few of the back ways through Hell. He has never ventured more than a few levels up, but he thinks he can find his way. They’re quiet for a long while, and meet no one along the pathways Dean picks. The further up they go the better Castiel seems to feel. The shiny blue stuff is still coming out of him, but it's less than before.

They’re at the midway point when Dean stops to take a break. He thinks he can hear the sounds of a battle going on somewhere far above their heads. Either the natives are more restless than usual or there are more angels slumming it in Hell. He loosens his grip on Castiel, letting him slide down to rest against the wall. Dean plops down next to him, trying not to fidget.

Dean isn’t allowed to be this far up. When Alastair finds out, Dean will be punished. When Alastair finds out what Dean let escape, the demon may find a way to kill him, which all and all wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He isn't sure what would happen to a soul if it died down here or if that’s even possible, but it would be better than actually being here. Anything is better than Hell.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Castiel says, staring at Dean like he a puzzle he needs to figure out.

“No, I didn’t,” Dean says, “And damned if I know why I did.”

“Because you’re --”

“If you say ‘the Righteous Man,’ I swear I’ll walk you right back down and toss you in with the rest of us damned souls.”

Castiel huffs, but the amusement is clear in his voice, “I was going to say that it’s because you’re a good man.”

Somehow that’s even worse.

Dean looks away from him, “I’m not either one of those things. Not anymore.”

“Dean --”

“Quiet.”

He can hear something coming at them. More than one something. The sound of trampling feet echo throughout the carved out pathway, pounding against the rocky ground beneath them. Souls and demons don’t have enough weight or physical strength to cause the kind of vibrations radiating through the rock surrounding them. Only one thing down here does - Hellhounds.

Dean jumps to his feet, looking around, wild eyes searching for some kind of escape. There’s nothing, just the path they’ve been walking along.

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

Everything. Everything is wrong. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be helping this thing. Why does it always have to be freaking hellhounds?

“Can you walk, or better yet, fight?” Dean asks, wide eyes settling on Castiel.  

Castiel tries to stand, but only makes it to his knees, before sliding back against the wall. There’s no way he's going to be able to fight off a slew of hellhounds. They can’t run. They can’t hide. For a second, Dean considers bolting himself. If he leaves the angel as a distraction, he might be able to get away.

Castiel blinks up at him, face emotionless. Resigned. 

“You can go, Dean. I’ll hold them off.”

Dean stays frozen on the spot, the howls of the hellhounds now audible as they echo through the corridors. Castiel is willing to stay here and die just to let him escape. Dean starts to turn. He takes a step away from Castiel, but stops.

“Damn it,” Dean says.

He grabs Castiel, shoving the angel back into a small niche in the black stone of the wall. At least there he will be a smaller target.

“Stay here,” Dean says as he takes the angel’s blade from him.

He straightens, walking a few feet away, closer to the sounds of thundering feet and snarling, snapping jaws. Dean watches, hand gripping the hilt of the angel's blade tighter. The hellhounds come tumbling over each other as they turn a corner, barreling straight at him.

**********

Dean goes to bed after seeing Castiel off on his mission to recruit more fallen angels to the anti-Abaddon cause. He tries, but he doesn’t get to sleep until sometime after 2 a.m. He’s up and running to the bathroom less than an hour later. He almost doesn’t make it to the toilet before he’s throwing up whatever was left in his stomach from dinner. This has become a new thing for him in the last couple of weeks. It doesn’t happen all the time, but it’s starting to look like it might turn into a nightly ritual.

When the dry heaving stops, Dean scoots himself into a corner, leaning back as he rests his head against the cool, white tile. His stomach is still rolling, but he thinks he’s safe. He shivers as the cold sweat he’d woke up in starts to dry, leaving his skin feeling clammy. His body aches. His body has always ached and made weird noises, starting earlier than is probably normal for most people his age. His knees have been cracking for years now thanks to hunting. Most of the time, Dean can ignore it or at least the down time between hunts gives his body enough rest that it goes away for a while.

He can’t ignore this, though. It’s like the ache goes straight down to his bones and no amount of rest or sleep will get rid of it. He gets some reprieve during the day when he is up doing something or is distracted by the people around him. Nighttime is a different story. He misses Castiel. On the other nights this has happened, Dean would wait out the sick feeling, wash himself up a bit, then head back to bed. It's a comfort having Castiel lying in their bed, fast asleep. It was something worth dragging himself back to. Now, he doesn’t have that incentive.

Dean falls asleep leaning against the bathroom wall. He doesn’t move until dreams or something else jerks him awake, gasping for breath. Grabbing at the sink, he uses it to haul himself up off the floor. He makes it back to his room, flopping down on the bed, the foam mattress and covers not much more comfort than the tile had been. At least not to Dean. With one bleary eye open, he looks at the clock near his bed. 5 a.m. Daylight is still a couple hours off. Punching the pillow before laying his head down again, Dean tries to settle in, hoping that maybe if he lets his body lay here long enough he’ll start to feel better. He doesn’t.

**********

Castiel hadn’t told Dean the complete truth before leaving the Bunker. Yes, Joshua had setup a meeting for him with some of their fallen brothers and sisters. And yes, it was true Castiel was going to meet them in Crawfordsville, Indiana. The only part Castiel had neglected to mention was the kind of angels he had requested an audience with.

He doesn’t remember everything about his past, but Castiel does remember at least some of his time locked up in Heaven’s version of prison. It was during his retraining sessions after he’d been forced back to Heaven for trying to warn Sam and Dean about Lilith and the angels’ plan to start the Apocalypse. As a result, he had met and got to know some of the angels being held there. Most of them Castiel had never known outside those cell walls. They had all been there for as long as Castiel could remember. He knew the stories about these angels. Everyone did. Gossip about the terrible misdeeds and disobedience committed by those who were locked away made regular rounds amongst the garrisons. They became morality tales. The angelic version of urban legends, meant to scare the rest of the Host into obedience.

As it had turned out, most if not all of those tales were untrue. The angels kept away from the rest of Heaven were there not because they had disobeyed God’s law or their primary functions as angels of the Lord. They were there because they had disobeyed their superiors orders. While Castiel would have found that to be a damnable offense at one point in his existence, by the time he had ended up locked away with the rest of them, he had already learned of the treachery running rampant among the higher-ups in Heaven’s Host.

So far as Castiel is concerned, none of the angels kept in those cells should have been there. Most were there for trying to help humanity despite being given direct orders to look the other way. Even the charges against the angel known as Gadreel had seemed trumped up at best, and he was an angel that had long been used as a cautionary tale for the rest of the Host due to his shameful distinction of being the first angel to ever be imprisoned.

Even though Castiel had been convinced these angels were trustworthy, he knows if he had told Dean he was going to meet with those who had been freed from Heaven’s prison during the angels’ expulsion Dean would not have been pleased. The hunter would have demanded to come with him, fearful for Castiel's safety. It had been a fight when Dean thought he was meeting with angels from his former garrison. While it pains Castiel to be away from Dean, he much prefers he stay at the Bunker and try to get some rest. Dean is going to need whatever strength he can muster in the coming weeks, and gallivanting off with Castiel won't help him. Besides, as noble as Dean's intentions would be, Castiel has been taking care of himself for eons.

It’s mid-morning when Castiel arrives at the designated meeting spot. He stopped somewhere in the middle of Illinois to get some sleep before finishing his trip. They meet in a park. Castiel isn’t sure what the exact numbers Heaven’s prison held, but there had to have been least 30 or 40 angels there during his time. Three angels arrive soon after Castiel. Gadreel approaches first, with two other fallen angels flanking him.

“Hello brother,” Gadreel says with a smile, “I hope your trip went well.”

“It was fine, thank you.”

Castiel nods at Zarall and Jael in greeting before all of them take a seat at a picnic table shaded by a cluster of tall pine trees. The branches sway back and forth through the light breeze. They spend time catching up, Castiel telling them of his adventures with the Winchesters since he’d last seen any of them, at least as much as he feels comfortable divulging. Gadreel tells him of what they have been up to since falling. Most of those who had been held in Heaven’s prison had stuck together. They have built something of a life for themselves in the nearby towns and cities, performing minor miracles and helping humanity where they can. Castiel is reminded of Jophiel and his group of angels. They had chosen much the same path.

“Joshua has told me you are not here on a peaceful endeavor,” Gadreel says.

“Unfortunately, no,” Castiel says, “We have a rouge knight of Hell on the loose and we believe she is building an army to unleash the lords of Hell.”

“What would you have us do?”

“Fight. We have some help, but nothing close to matching what Abaddon will have at her command. Without your assistance, we will have no chance of stopping her.”

Gadreel crosses his arms, considering Castiel, “Why do you ask this of us?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are not the first to ask for our blades in battle.”

“Who else has asked?”

“I do not know who the angels I met were representing,” Gadreel says, troubled, “But, suffice it to say, their intentions did not align with the duties our kind was entrusted to carry out by our father.”

Gadreel does not elaborate, but his words are unsettling enough. There are too many players on the board for Castiel to hazard a guess as to who else would be soliciting help from fallen angels.

“All I can give you is my word our intentions are just,” Castiel says, sitting straighter, “We want only to defend humanity from those who would seek to destroy it.”

Gadreel studies Castiel a moment longer before rising from the table. Castiel and the other angels follow suit.

“We must discuss this amongst the rest of our brothers and sisters.”

“Of course.”

“You will have our answer before the day is out,” Gadreel says, shaking Castiel’s hand, “It is good to see you again, brother.”

“And you,” Castiel says, as the three angels leave.

He heads back to his Camaro, driving until he finds a small diner in town to get some lunch and to wait for his brothers’ verdict.

**********

Dean comes barging into the Barracks’ small library just after noon. Sam looks up from his laptop. He would say his older brother looks like death warmed over, but having met the guy, Sam knows Death looks leaps and bounds better than Dean does right now.

“Are you --”

“Don’t ask me if I’m okay, Sam,” Dean says, waving him off as he sits down at the table, across from him, “You already know what my answer is going to be. It’s going to be the same every time you or Cass asks, so can we skip that part and get on to something important?”

“It’s important whether you want it to be or not,” Sam says, frowning, “Did you eat?”

“Yes.”

Sam gets up and goes to the kitchen to make Dean a quick sandwich. He plops the plate down in front of him with more force than necessary as he sits back down. He watches him, eyebrow raised until Dean takes a bite and glares at him as he chews.

They’re spared another argument over Dean’s health when Tracy and Simon appear from the hallway. Ted trails after them.

“Sleep well?” Dean asks, using the distraction to his advantage.

“Better than I have in I don’t know how long,” Tracy says, sitting at the table next to Sam as the other two take the remaining seats, “Those mattresses are amazing.”

“Right?” Dean asks, brightening.

He beams at Sam as he takes another small bite of his sandwich, taking far longer than Dean usually would to chew. Hell, he's actually chewing. Under normal circumstances Dean inhales whatever food is in front of him. Sam glowers at his brother for another second before turning to their guests. They all look better than they did yesterday. Sleeping in a safe place will do that for you. Even so, Sam can still see the bags under their eyes. 

“We wanted to speak to you about your powers and how the demon blood affected them,” Simon says to Sam, skipping the small talk, as usual.

Sam gives an awkward shrug, still uncomfortable talking about it, “It made me stronger.”

“As a vessel or your abilities?”

“Both.”

“Then why weren’t they force feeding us the stuff too?” Tracy asks, through a yawn.

“What were they training you to do? I mean, it looked like you guys had some kind of handle on things, the way you were flinging demons around back there,” Dean says, putting his sandwich on his plate as he slides it off to the side.

It’s only halfway gone.

“When I first realized I had abilities, they just kind of came out of nowhere when I was about 22,” Sam says, letting Dean go for now.

“Don’t know about you guys,” Ted says, looking at Tracy and Simon, “but I wasn’t doing anything special until we were taken.”

“I wasn’t either,” Tracy says, as Simon shakes his head.

Dean crosses his arms, leaning towards them, “Then what changed once Abaddon took you?”

The three hadn’t volunteered anything from their time spent with the demons. Their silence on the subject wasn't a surprise. Sam's experience in Cold Oak was bad enough and that hadn’t been anywhere near as long as these guys had been held.

“I don’t know exactly how it works,” Tracy says, “and I don’t think the demons did either. At least not the whole story. But it’s something to do with our souls.”

“Your souls?” Dean asks, trying for nonchalance and missing the mark by a mile, “You mean like the demon’s blood tainted those too?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Ted says, “It’s more like our souls are the batteries to our Energizer Bunnies.”

“They were trying to teach you how to tap into your soul’s power,” Sam says, turning to Dean, “We’ve seen that before.”

Dean looks confused, “When?”

“Henry. When he traveled through time. He said he’d used his soul to power the spell.”

“Abaddon took over that chick, what was her name?” Dean asks, closing his eyes and snapping his fingers as he tries to remember.

“Josie,” Sam says.

“Josie, right. Abaddon possesses a person who’s got an in with the Men of Letters,” Dean says, getting excited, “Ganks everyone the night of Josie’s induction ceremony. Or almost everyone.”

“Her memories would have given Abaddon access to some of the Letter’s more sensitive information, but it was limited.”

“She’s got a few chapters, but not the whole damn user manual,” Dean says, smiling, “But I know who does.”

**********

It takes Sam and Charlie an hour to hunt down everything they can find about souls and using them as a power-up. Sam brings it back to the Barracks and they get to work, trying to figure out how much Abaddon knows and how to help Tracy, Ted, and Simon get more control over their abilities without harming themselves. 

“This stuff isn’t anything like what we were doing,” Tracy says, flipping through the weathered pages of one of Sam’s files.

“How were they getting you guys to access your powers?” Sam asks.

“They manifested out of necessity, rather than by choice,” Simon says, tone soft.

Sam does a good job keeping most of the information away from Dean, much to Dean's dismay. His little brother is smarter than he would like sometimes. Sam sets Dean up nearby with the tattoo gun, taking turns inking their three guests up with anti-possession tattoos. They’ve got no idea if it’ll work on half demon half angel douchebags from Hell, but it can’t hurt.

It’s meant to be a distraction, but Dean can do two things at once, despite what Sam may think. He pays as much attention as he can to what’s going on in the room around him. Sam may not like it, but the way Dean sees it, he’s better off learning how to control his graced up soul rather than let it get the best of him like it did the night him and Castiel went up against those demons.

Some stuff is spell work, but most of it seems to be different phrases spoken for different commands, concentration being the key more than anything else. Sam fills the role of teacher well, giving them the exact pronunciations until they’ve got it down. Too bad they don’t have a full-fledged demon lying around to test drive some of this stuff out on.

Despite Sam’s efforts, Dean is still able to catch and learn a few things. He mutters the words under his breath, committing them to memory. He tries out a couple when he gets back to his room in the Bunker. It takes him a couple hours, but unlike the last time he’d tried to access any powers he might have, Dean gets the pen he’d put on his desk to move. It flops down on the floor, halfway to the bed where Dean is sitting. It’s a start.

**********

Castiel sits on a wooden bench in the town square watching people pass. Some of them are in a hurry, phones to their ears as they bustle around completing their errands. Some are solitary, pausing to look in store windows at the various items on display. He spots a few couples as he waits, walking hand and hand as they wander through the streets, enjoying the last rays of sunlight. Castiel absently fiddles with Dean’s ring in his jacket pocket.

Considering the potential sacrifices Castiel is asking of his brothers and sisters, Gadreel does not make him wait long. The sun is starting to dip towards the horizon, the store fronts and buildings casting deep shadows as warm, welcoming lights glow out through the shop windows. Castiel sees Gadreel come around the bend, walking along the sidewalk and making his away over to Castiel once he spots him.

“Hello again,” Gadreel says, sitting down.

“Have they come to a decision?”

“They have,” Gadreel says, looking at Castiel, “Not everyone agreed to come along on this mission, but most did. It seems you and the Winchesters still have a friend or two amongst the angels.”

“Wonders never cease,” Castiel says with a relieved sigh.

Gadreel chuckles, “Especially considering your history.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, we haven’t accomplished anything.”

“You’re willing to try. For that alone you deserve my gratitude.”

“Well,” Gadreel says, eyes scanning the people passing them by, “what you ask is only to continue what God meant for us to do.”

“We haven’t done a very good job.”

“Hopefully this will go a long way towards making that right,” Gadreel says, pausing as he turns back to Castiel, “While we were conversing, I received a call from Jophiel.”

Castiel furrows his brow, “Jophiel?”

“Yes, he expressed an interest in helping with your endeavor.”

That is unexpected news. Jophiel had been adamant about not being involved in fighting of any kind.

“How did he find out?”

“He didn’t say, but word travels fast, especially if the demons are moving as much as you say.”

That’s true. Jophiel is also in contact with Joshua. It’s not a stretch to think Joshua might have mentioned it to him.

“What did he propose?”

“Only a few of his fellows agreed to come with him, but Jophiel suggested they meet up with us here before following you out,” Gadreel says with a shrug, “It is something to think about. At any rate, it will take us a day or two to prepare for departure. You are welcome to stay with us in the interim.”

Castiel nods, “Thank you, I'd appreciate it. I have one or two things to finish up here in town, but then I’d be happy to join you.”

Gadreel gives him the address then heads off. Castiel waits until he is out of sight before heading back to his Camaro, phone out of his pocket before he gets the door unlocked. It only rings once before his call is picked up.

“Hey Cass,” Dean says, “how are things in Hoosierville?”

Castiel can’t help but smile hearing the man’s voice, “Fine. I believe we have some angels willing to help us.”

“Some good news for once.”

“Yes, it is," Castiel says, pausing before he continues, "One of my brothers informed me that Jophiel has expressed a desire to join our cause.”

“Pacifist Santa? I thought he was against doing anymore fighting.”

“That’s what he said,” Castiel says, playing with the keys in his hand, “Something seems off.”

“Maybe Jophiel grew a conscience and couldn’t sit by while innocent people died.”

Castiel sighs, “Perhaps.”

“You got any reason not to trust the guy?”

No, that is the problem. Jophiel hadn’t led them astray and he had helped them when they needed information. Still, the look in his eye when he all but accused Castiel and Dean of being war mongers, looking for a fight...

“Nothing concrete, just a feeling.”

Castiel can almost hear Dean thinking.

“We need all the help we can get.”

“I know.”

“If you don’t want him here, then tell him to take a walk,” Dean says, “Or we can see how it goes. First sign of trouble and we show him the door.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Castiel says, hand picking at a tear in the leather covering of the driver’s seat.

They still need to replace the seats in the Camaro. The thought makes him miss Dean all the more.

“You all right?”

“Yes, just tired.”

“Uh huh. Come on Cass, you can say it,” Dean says, mischief in his voice, “You miss me.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips, “No, I’m fairly certain it’s fatigue.”

“There's nothing to be ashamed of,” Dean says, “Who wouldn’t miss me? I’m awesome and adorable and devastatingly handsome.”

“And stubborn and exasperating and --”

“We’re getting off track here,” Dean says, interrupting him, “I’ve got a much more important question to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“What are you wearing?”

“I am not answering that,” Castiel says, feeling a blush creep across his cheeks despite the relative privacy of the Camaro.

“Dude, phone sex is like the only perk of being away from each other.”

“I’m in my car, Dean.”

“So? We’ve had plenty of fun in the Impala.”

“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel can hear Sam ask in the background, “You are not having phone sex with your boyfriend in the freaking library.”

Castiel ducks his head as he slumps down in the driver seat.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Dean says, petulant.

“Yet,” Castiel can hear Sam say as sounds of a minor scuffle drift through to him over the phone.

Castiel puts his hand over his eyes, unsure if he wants to burst out laughing or hide from embarrassment.

“Sorry, Cass, but my little brother can’t keep his noise out of other people’s business,” Dean says with a huff.

He hears Sam shout in the background followed by a dull thud as whatever Castiel assumes Dean must have thrown at the younger Winchester hits the floor. Probably a book, considering their location. Castiel can’t help but chuckle as he listens to the Winchesters argue. It’s not the same as being home, but it’ll have to do for now.

Chapter Text

Bobby has never been more relieved as he barges through Ash’s door and sees him and Henry working on Ash's numerous gadgets. They gather up what Ash says they can't live without, then make their way back out into the streets. Bobby and Rufus lead the way, shepherding their group through the packed sidewalks and roads before darting off into some of the more obscure alleyways.The tolling of four bells reverberates through the air around them. The deep bell sounds herald a shift change or some imminent announcement. It's Heaven's version of a school wide intercom. The souls of Heaven that had been bustling around them come to a stop where they stand, some whispering in confusion.

“A new shift shouldn't be starting right now,” Rufus whispers to Bobby.

“We would appreciate everyone reporting to their various stations at this time,” a pleasant, but automated female voice says, booming out across the expansive city, “Thank you for your cooperation and we apologize for any inconvenience.”

Some of the people grumble but, for the most part, the human souls react like the well trained workforce they’ve been turned into. They start their journeys towards their respective stations, the souls forming almost straight lines in a matter of seconds.

“That doesn’t sound suspicious,” Ellen says, raising an eyebrow at Bobby.

“Come on,” he says, leading the way down the last few alleys.

Charles had given them directions so they could meet back up with his merry band of outlawed hunters after retrieving Ash and Henry. Bobby knocks on a weathered green door down one of the alleyways. A tattered blue and white striped awning blocks most of the sun. A man with graying brown hair and a mustache opens the door. It creaks as he pulls it open. He asks Bobby three hunting related questions to gain access. After giving the correct answer for each, the guy leads the way to a rickety set of wooden steps that go much farther down than what could be considered basement level for normal buildings. They come to a steel door at the bottom of the steps. Their guide opens it for them, waving them through.

Bobby has seen pictures of the catacombs under Paris. This place reminds him that, only instead of a labyrinth of narrow passageways, they’re standing in a cavern. The walls are filled with skulls and bones of every shape and size, fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. The group makes their way down the few stone steps to the dirt floor. They walk through the souls, trying to avoid any collisions as the other hunters bounce from table to table. There are too many people for Bobby to get a good look at anything they're messing with, as everyone rushes around in various degrees of chaos. He spots Charles, smack in the middle of the hubbub. From what Bobby has seen of the guy so far, that doesn’t surprise him.

Bobby and Rufus had filled Ellen, Ash, and the rest in on their new friend as they made their way here. Charles had been a hunter in the early 1900s. Bobby recognized the name from a few books and hunter journals he had collected over the years. The guy was kind of famous in the hunting community back then. He was taken out saving a family from a wendigo. The family had gotten away, but Charles and the wendigo hadn’t been so lucky. Charles looks up as Bobby and the rest as they approach. Jerking his head to the side, he leads them away from the noise and commotion to a quieter section of the vast room.

“I’m glad you were able to make it,” Charles says, smiling and nodding at everyone in greeting.

“Glad to be invited,” Bobby says, “I got a feeling we wouldn’t have lasted long up there after the stunt we pulled.”

“What is this place?” Jo asks, fingers running along the eye socket of one of the skulls inset in the wall.

“A good question someone better schooled in the ins and outs of Heaven could probably answer,” Charles says, “We found this place by accident. Whatever it is, it seems to provide at least a minimal amount of protection against Metatron and his goon squad.”

“So far,” Rufus says.

"And at least for a little while longer, we hope," Charles says with a smile.

Henry stands next to Jo, nose almost touching the walls as he studies the bones and the surrounding stone, “There are symbols etched into the wall.”

“What kind of symbols?” Charles asks.

“It’s hard to say. They’re tiny,” Henry says, straightening, “Whatever they are, they’re old. Older than anything I’ve seen.”

“Well, I say we don’t worry about what isn’t broken and get on with what’s happening now,” Ellen says, putting the box of Ash’s equipment she’d been carrying down, “What’s with all the commotion?”

Ash for his part, is crouched down nearby, still fiddling with his machine. Bobby looks out over the crowd. There are at least 200 souls in here. It can’t be every hunter that ever lived. It's a troubling thought wondering where the rest could be. Either stuck in Hell or caught in the crosshairs of what's going up here. Bobby isn't sure which is worse at this point.

Charles sighs, “Once news gets out we escaped, we believe Metatron will push his plans forward.”

“He might have already fired the opening shots,” Ellen says, “Did you guys hear the call to work down here? Sounds more like he’s rounding everyone up for something.”

“We did, and I believe you’re right,” Charles says, “I don’t know if this was always part of his plan or if our escape is partly to blame for speeding his timeline up. Either way Metatron knows we have weapons.”

“You’re getting ready to fight a war,” Jessica says, quietly.

Charles nods.

“And you guys got the skinny on what Metatron’s up to? How?” Rufus asks.

“Vigorous interrogations,” Charles says.

“Torture?” Bobby asks.

Charles shrugs, “I wouldn’t be too appalled. We only questioned those things Metatron has running around doing his dirty work."

“What are they? They can't be angels,” Karen says.

“They're a failed experiment, and the first test stages of Metatron’s plan,” Charles says, crossing his arms, “Those creatures are a mix of Heaven’s human souls and a few select demons.”

“Like the demons are possessing the souls?” Jo asks, disgusted.

“In a manner of speaking, but from what we've gathered, the process is far more grotesque than a simple human possession on Earth.”

Bobby shudders at the thought. That’s saying something. Possession wasn't a thrill ride at an amusement park before.

“If it makes you feel any better, the souls used were the ones already working for Metatron,” Charles says, “Though, I doubt they’d make the same choice now. The demons control the resulting monstrosity, using the human soul as a power source.”

Charles continues, looking just as disturbed by the prospect as everyone else, “Not only does it make them stronger than your average demon, it also allows them to stay in Heaven. They’re not supposed to be up here. They need that extra boost just to manifest themselves.”

“Do our greatest hits still work on them?” Bobby asks.

“Things like holy water? Not that we’ve seen and besides, if you haven’t noticed, demon hunting paraphernalia is conveniently hard to come by up here.”

Looks like Bobby’s book collection wasn’t the only thing on the censured list under Heaven’s new regime.

“What about devil’s traps?” Ellen asks.

“They walk right through 'em,” Charles says, “The only thing we’ve found that works so far are angel blades.”

Rufus shakes his head, “Great. There are shelves filled with those up here, but I doubt we get invited to that going out of business sale.”

Charles smiles, “We’ve already raided the weapons vault. That's why so many of us were captured.”

Gesturing towards the tables, Bobby watches. The crowd is thinner back here and he can see flashes of silver. When a few of the souls move out of his line of sight, he can see a number of angel blades left scattered across the tabletop.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Rufus says as they look around.

“There weren’t as many blades as we would have liked. We took what we could and used some of the angelic armor to make our own weapons. They seem to work just as well.”

Bobby can see less polished and refined knives and blades fashioned from a variety of odds and ends intermixed among the angel blades. He even thinks he sees a few souls messing around with some kind of spear.

“Have you guys figured out what the endgame is here?” Bobby asks.

“We’ve learned that whatever Metatron is doing, it requires a lot of power. The machines the souls have been building in the stations are designed to collect power, then send it along to two central hubs.”

Charles motions for them to follow him over to a table where a map is laid out, held flat by bits of metal sitting on each of its four corners.

“Are these all the stations?” Rufus asks, gesturing along the outskirts of city.

Charles nods, “And these two are the main ones. Both receive the influx of power from the other stations, but we’re not sure what they’re running there or why.”

“You said they were drawing power out,” Jo says, looking up from the map, “Where are they drawing it from?”

Charles glances at her, a sad and haunted look in his eyes. Bobby had already guessed the answer, and from the look on their new friend's face, he'd guessed right.

“The souls,” Ellen says, voice quiet, having come to the same conclusion, “They’re using the souls up here as their own personal batteries.”

“More like billions of mini nuclear reactors, but yes,” Charles says, “The amount of power we’re talking about here is astronomical. Whatever Metatron is up to is bad news and probably not just for Heaven, but for Earth as well.”

“So what’s the plan?” Bobby asks.

“Originally, it was to split into groups of three or four and shut down the factories in one, synchronized attack. Now that Metatron has gathered all of Heaven’s souls into each station, we’re looking at a large scale rescue mission as well.”

Bobby nods, “How can we help?”

**********

October 29th rolls around, bringing the full moon with it. Castiel makes it back a few hours before sunset. Sam and Dean meet him at the Barracks to get Castiel's new found angel buddies setup in their new digs. Dean suffers through another overly jolly greeting with Jophiel. From what Castiel had told him over the phone, everything seemed fine with Jophiel and the four angels he’d brought with him during the day they’d spent with Gadreel's group prepping to leave Indiana. There are too many people to even try to make introductions, but at least everyone seems to commingle without incident. Sam says it reminds him of moving day at college when everyone is new and stuff is being dragged into their assigned dorms rooms. Dean figures that's a pretty accurate description if you take away all the weapons. Crowley and Kevin stay behind to keep an eye on everyone. Dean doesn’t envy them that job.

Dean, Sam, and Castiel head back to the Bunker to get ready to summon Jack. Had it been up to Dean, they would have been out performing the ritual as soon as the moon cleared the horizon line. As it is, Sam makes them wait until the moon is high overhead. They head out a quarter to midnight. Dean parks the Impala under a cluster of trees, obscuring her from anyone or anything that might pass by while they’re gone. They stand in a clearing just outside the safe zone surrounding the Bunker. Sam is crouched down over a large brass bowl, lit candles surrounding it as he adds ingredients and murmurs Latin under his breath. Dean and Castiel stand off to the side watching. The cool autumn air swirls around them, sending dead leaves rustling through the field. They’re standing close enough Dean feels a chill run through the fallen angel as he gathers his black leather coat tighter around him.

“Cold?” Dean asks.

“A little,” Castiel says, digging his hands into his pockets, “I’m not used to these temperature changes. I suppose I’ll need to start wearing more layers.”

Castiel has a dark blue, long sleeve button up shirt on under his jacket, but the material is thin. Dean puts an arm around him, closing the couple of inches left between them. Castiel smiles up at him, wrapping his arms around his waist, careful to stay under Dean’s jacket. This close, with the help of the moonlight, Dean can see one of the marks he’d left along Castiel’s collarbone from earlier. Dean had went to help Castiel unpack when they arrived back at the Bunker. Castiel’s mostly packed bag is still lying where it had landed, having been pushed off when Dean all but tackled Castiel, both of them landing in a heap on the fallen angel's bed. Dean can’t help the stupid grin that pulls at his lips just looking at the mark.

“God, you two are like lovesick teenagers,” Sam says as he stands, stepping away from the dying fire, the ritual complete.

“You’re a lovesick --,” Dean sputters as Sam smirks at him, “Shut up, Sammy.”

“How long did it take for Jack to show up last time?” Sam asks.

“About two hours,” Dean says, running his hand up and down Castiel’s arm, “so it’ll be a while.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

The three men turn to see a woman in a long, form fitting black dress walking towards them. Her brown hair is a riot of tangles and waves, falling just past her shoulders. Chains wrap around her waste like a makeshift belt, jangling as she moves. She comes to a stop in front of them.

“Uh, can we help you?” Dean asks, shocked as he glances around wondering where in the hell this chick could have popped out of.

“I believe that’s why you called me,” she says with a wink.

Sam turns toward Dean, “This is Jack?”

“What? No!”

“The very same,” the woman says with a laugh.

“Last time he was some old dude!” Dean says to Sam then turns to point an accusing finger at the woman, “You’re supposed to be some old geezer not a -- A --”

“A beautiful woman?” Jack asks with a grin, enjoying the joke.

“Yeah!” Dean says, outraged.

Jack just shrugs, “You see what you expect to see.”

“Who the hell here was expecting to see a chick?”

“In my line of work, I can take all sorts of shapes to lead people astray. Things that’ll entice them the most,” Jack says, leering at Dean from underneath her long, dark eyelashes, “Take you, for example. If I wanted to lead Dean Winchester off the path, I think I’d take... Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a form with dark, messy hair. Maybe a pair of bright, blue --”

“I think we get the point,” Dean says as Sam bursts out laughing.

“At least one of the Winchesters appreciates my sense of humor,” Jack says, grinning at Sam, holding out a hand for him to shake, “Name’s Jack.”

“Sam.”

“If we could get back on task,” Castiel says.

“All right, if you insist,” Jack says, “But I would like to point out that it’s you two who are starting this off on the wrong foot by bringing along an extra passenger, so I’ll take no sass from either of you.”

"That won’t be a problem will it?” Sam asks.

“Since I like you, no,” Jack says with a wink, “Now, the deal was I smuggle you through to Heaven, then get you into and out of Angel Heaven. After that you’re on your own. While all this petty squabbling over who gets the most tinker toys in the sandbox might be a huge inconvenience to me, so long as I’m left to my own devices, I don’t particularly care who comes out on top.”

Dean crosses your arms, “You might want to change your tune on that one. Abaddon and Metatron are both loose cannons.”

“Aw, thanks for the concern Dean, my dear,” Jack says, pinching Dean’s cheek, “but I can handle myself. Now where was I...? Oh yes! Rules. The big one. Well, really the only one --”

“Are you coming to a point anytime soon or should we order out for pizza?”

“That attitude right there is the reason you’re known as the difficult brother amongst us supernatural creatures.”

Dean glares at Sam who looks entirely too smug. Castiel’s only response is to roll his eyes.

Jack takes a dramatic breath, “The only rule you must remember is, if you should die in Heaven, there’s no coming back from that.”

“Wouldn’t our souls just go where ever they were meant to go?” Sam asks.

“Normally yes, but you three are making the trip while still in your bodies. Humans don’t die in Heaven or Hell, those who are there are already dead or were never alive to begin with, at least not in human terms. There’s no setting for such a thing, which means you die, you cease to exist.”

“That’s mildly disconcerting,” Castiel says.

“Just mildly?” Dean asks, staring at him, “I don’t know, I feel like that’s a pretty big downside.”

Dean would be all right risking himself, but Sam and Castiel?

“I know what you’re thinking and you’re not going alone, Dean,” Sam says, frowning at him.

“It's not as if you haven’t been on this rodeo before, Dean,” Jack says, “Word is you and Castiel spent a year kicking it in Purgatory. Had you met an untimely demise there, the rules would have applied then as well. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, it’s all the same, just different desktop wallpaper setting. Now, are we ready to get this sideshow on the road?”

“Yes,” Castiel and Sam say at the same time, Sam jabbing Dean with his elbow when he starts to protest.

With a grin, Jack turns her back to them as she snaps her fingers. They jump as Jack-O’-Lanterns spring to life in a circle around them, flames blazing out through the carved faces before returning to a normal flicker. Jack bends to pick up one of them, cradling it in her arms.

“I remembered you had a penchant for pumpkins,” Jack says to Dean over her shoulder before facing forward again.

Dean can hear Jack murmuring something, but he doesn’t recognize the language. The air around them seems to change. The gentle fall breeze that had been blowing through the tall grass of the field comes to a stop. Sounds disappear. There are no crickets or the distant sound of a dog barking. He is acutely aware of Sam and Castiel’s breathing. Of the rustling sound their clothes make as they shift around. It’s like someone pressed the pause button on the world. He sees something start to appear in front of Jack.

At first, Dean thinks the spirit is conjuring whatever it is, but then the world in front of Jack begins to fracture. A crack taller than Sam runs in a jagged, vertical line, obstructing the view of the field and sky in front of them. Light starts to filter through the break, peaking out in more places as the crack spreads like shattering glass. It goes until the light can’t be held back, the break happening all at once as the field is engulfed in blinding white light. Dean throws an arm over his eyes, unable to look straight at it until they adjust. Once they do, he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Watch your step, gentlemen,” Jack says as she steps aside and waves them forward.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean asks, in awe, "There’s a literal stairway to Heaven? Sam, look!”

“I know, Dean. I see it,” Sam says like he's talking to an overexcited child.

Dean takes the first step in, hand coming to rest on a golden handrail. He looks up. The thing seems to go on forever. He can’t stop grinning.

“This is so awesome.”

**********

“This is the worst thing ever!” Dean shouts over the tumult of wind.

Castiel is surprised he can hear anything besides the air ripping by them as they careen upwards. Or at least it feels like falling up. Castiel is used to experiencing travel between Heaven and Earth from an angel’s prospective. It’s confusing and less nuanced now that he is human, everything passing by in a blur. They collapse in a field the exact opposite of the one they had just been standing in. Green grass tickles his cheek as Castiel struggles to catch his breath. After a few tries, he is able to get his legs under him, his breathing coming easier. It’s a gorgeous, summer day. The sun shines overhead as clouds drift by. A few miles off, Castiel can see a glimmering city. He doesn’t recognize it.

“What -- in the hell -- was that?” Dean asks still panting from his sprawled position on the ground.

“Express route,” Jack says with a shrug.

“Were we required to climb every step, we would have died of old age long before reaching the halfway point,” Castiel says as he walks over to the hunter holding out a hand to help Dean up.

“A little warning woulda been nice,” Dean says, as he grabs Castiel’s hand.

Sam is up and taking in his surroundings while Dean is still unsteady on his feet. Castiel holds on to him until he becomes more stable. It’s not long before he seems to be back to normal, squeezing one of the hands Castiel has resting on Dean's arm to let him know he’s all right.

“This way kids! Try to keep up,” Jack says with the cheery disposition of an overzealous tour guide, “No really, keep close. You’re hard enough to conceal when you’re right next to me. Get a little distance and it’ll be impossible.”

Jack leads them around the outskirts of the city, keeping along the shadows of the outer buildings. They walk for what feels like hours. It occurs to Castiel that by now, they should be hungry and thirsty, but by either Jack’s magic or Heaven’s, their normal human requirements seem to be on hold for now. In the distance, Castiel can see small tendrils of smoke rising from a large building just off from the outskirts of the city.

“Is that where we’re heading?” Castiel asks Jack.

The spirit nods, “I haven’t quite worked out how we’re going to get in yet.”

“Awesome,” Dean says.

“But first, we’ve got to see a guy about opening our next door,” Jack says, beaming as she ducks down one of alleyways leading into the city proper.

The streets are empty, and while it’s true they’re on the outskirts, Castiel is surprised they pass no one as they wind their way through. It feels like the city is deserted. Considering the amount of souls in Heaven, Castiel has a hard time believing the city is abandoned. He hopes Jack is keeping any wandering souls from coming their way and not something more ominous.

“What’s with all the stealth? I thought Angel Heaven was top secret,” Sam asks.

“It is, but that doesn’t mean you three are the only ones trying to get in,” Jack says with a grimace.

**********

Dean isn't sure what he was expecting, but a dude trussed up like a worker cashing in chips from a shady Vegas casino wasn’t it. He’s even sitting inside a gated window, flipping through a newspaper when they walk in the door. The only other decoration in the tiny room is a metal folding chair that looks like it would collapse in on itself the second you tried to sit down on it.

“Jack,” the guy says, behind the bars of his cage, arms spreading wide as he sees them come in, “I didn’t expect to see you popping up here after everything that’s gone down.”

“Howdy Pete.”

Pete eyes Dean, Sam, and Castiel before turning back to Jack with a frown, “Are these the souls you owe me? They don’t look like much.”

“I need a favor,” Jack says, sliding up to the counter, “Well, technically they need a favor, I’m just asking on their behalf. We need passage into Angel Heaven.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What do you think, you just buy a ticket like you’re going to Disneyland?” Pete asks, leaning in, “Besides, you know what’s going on up here. If Metatron finds out I’ve still got that kind of pull --”

“Pete, no one’s gonna know. It’s just between us,” Jack says, smiling.

“What’ll I get in return?”

“My undying love and affection,” Jack says with a wink and a smile. When Pete doesn't react, Jack shrugs, “I owe you already, what’s it matter if we tack a few more charges onto my tab?”

Pete grumbles, but starts digging through a drawer. Dean stands on his tip toes, trying to see what’s in it, but Jack blocks his view. Pete slides something over to Jack, who pockets it.

“Now that’s it. No more favors. Not until I get my payment.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Petey, you know I’m your favorite,” Jack says with a grin before turning to leave.

Pete is grumbling something, but he’s smiling. The man glances up at Dean, Sam, and Castiel, looking them over.

“And good luck to you lot. You’re going to need it.”

They follow Jack back out of the dingy room, spilling into the still deserted street. Jack looks around before deciding on a direction.

“Who was that guy?” Dean asks as they start down a nearby alley whose architecture looks like it would be more at home in Ancient Greece.

“Is Saint Peter and the Pearly Gates not a tale you tell downstairs anymore?” Jack asks.

“You’re kidding me,” Sam says, turning to look back in the direction of the run down building they'd exited, “That was Saint Peter?”

“Well, I said it was a tale, didn’t I? I mean, his digs are a little less posh these days, but the gates were never all that pearly. Cutbacks, you know.”

“You mean Metatron,” Castiel says.

Jack only nods as they make their way back outside the city limits. 

Chapter Text

Bobby makes sure everyone in his group gets an angel blade, unwilling to gamble with the makeshift weapons whipped up by their fellow hunters. He has seen first hand what kind of damage the blades are capable of causing while he was on Earth. He knows what to expect from them. As far as busted up of pieces of angelic armor and shields goes, not so much. When they go to grab their blades for the first time, none of them are able to pick them up. Charles has to give them a crash course in how to use the angel blades.

“It’s like the rope we were tied up with,” Jessica says as she grabs for her blade again, brow furrowed, “If you loose concentration, it’s like it just slips through your hand.”

“Normally, an angel blade draws power from an angel’s grace. It's not a substantial amount and it goes unnoticed most of the time, but there is a connection between angel and blade. Down on Earth, it would be the same for a human where they to use it,” Charles says, “Only their soul would provide the necessary energy instead.”

It’s harder now that they’re souls without bodies. Everything in Heaven, at least up until now, had existed in some part because the souls had created it. Anything they interacted with in their own personal Heavens reacted the same way it would have down on Earth because they expected it to act that way. Because they created a version of it that would. Things that were made for the angels and by the angels exist outside of what the human souls can create. They’re not part of what they experience as Heaven in the same way that everything else is. As a result, there’s a ton of clanging around as angel blades drop from rookie fingers or through the hands of veterans having a momentary lapse in concentration.

The frequent sound of metal smacking the ground sets Bobby's nerves on edge. They’re getting ready to send hunters out, like Jo and Pam, who really don’t have tons of experience to draw on. There has to be a few souls here who are in the same boat as Jessica and had never been out on a real hunt when they were alive. One glance around the room tells him he's right. Bobby can spot a rookie a mile away. Most seasoned hunters can. There's a tension running through every movement. They're all stiff lines and their eyes stay just a little wider than they would be under normal circumstances. Then again, Jessica is able to pick up and hold on to her blade long before Bobby can, so what the hell does he know?

They mobilize as fast as possible, their timeline pushed up now that the souls are being rounded up and corralled in the work stations. In the end, it's decided their group will split up to start out with. Bobby, Ash, Henry, and Karen are given the task of disabling the smaller of the two hubs. Charles had been unsure about sending them off to take care of one of the main hubs, but once he learned that Henry had been part of the Men of Letters back when he was alive, his trust in them had seen a spike. Ellen, Rufus, Jo, and Jessica head off to take care of a couple of the smaller, nearby stations. The plan is for them to meet up and help Bobby and the rest keep control of their assigned station.

Charles and a select group head off to the larger main hub. Word has it Metatron calls that station home. Bobby argues Charles should wait for some of the other souls to arrive to provide some backup, but he doesn't listen, convinced the element of surprise will be enough to catch Metatron off guard. The rest of the hunters break up into groups and head out to the other stations setup along the outskirts of the city. With any luck, Metatron and his army of abominations will be too busy trying to suck the souls of Heaven dry to notice they’re being attacked.

That assumption holds true as they arrive at the station. The city is deserted. Bobby wouldn't be surprised to see tumbleweeds blowing through the streets. He tries to be as quiet as possible opening the door to the place. For all the good it does him, he may as well knocked on the front door of the imposing factory, the blue steel door set in the red brick of the building giving an almighty creak as he opens it. Despite the noise, no one shows up to attack them. He leads the way inside, the others following in after him.

The entrance empties into a grated metal walkway that runs along the walls of the entire building. There are steps leading up to the next floor where the offices are and steps heading down to the factory floor. Looking over, Bobby can see the masses of human souls milling around the empty floor below them like cattle. Through the tall windows lining the walls, he can see part of whatever machinery they had been working on here gleaming in the sunshine outside. Part of it is attached to the building itself.

“You think that’s where they’re feeding the souls into?” Ash asks in a whisper.

“I’d imagine so,” Bobby says, “We need to get these people out of here.”

“We’ll have to go through those things to do it,” Karen says, pointing out the creature guards stationed at the four corners of the factory floor.

Bobby is willing to bet there are more of them upstairs. He can hear the machinery already running. Whatever it’s doing, they're getting it warmed up and ready to go. Someone needs to get out there and disable it.

“The souls should give us enough cover to sneak down there and kill those things," Bobby says, looking back at them, "Henry, Karen, you take out the two in the front then help shepherd the souls out of here.”

“What about you and Ash?” Henry asks.

“We’ll take care of the back two mooks, then head outside to see if there’s a big enough wrench we can throw into that machine of theirs.”

“We’ll keep you covered until the others get here,” Karen says, squeezing Bobby’s arm, “They shouldn’t be long.”

He doesn’t like leaving Karen in here alone, even if Henry is going to be with her. Bobby puts his hand over hers for a moment before letting her go. The four of them split up, sneaking down to blend in with the rest of the human souls. Bobby can feel the anxiety in the air. Slipping through the people, he tries his best not to make it look like he’s going straight for one of the creatures. It's a difficult task considering the rest of the souls are doing everything in their power to get as far away from the creatures as possible despite the cramped accommodations.

Bobby is within arm reach of one of them when all Hell breaks loose. There wasn't a good way to time their attacks, and it appears Henry and Karen must have already gotten to one of their marks. The thing in front of Bobby screeches as its fellow crashes to the ground. The souls around him start to panic, pushing towards the door. Bobby lunges at the creature before it can take off, its wings already spreading. He manages to wrestle it to the ground, more due to its shock than from his strength. Gripped tight in his hand, he feels the blade push through, digging into the charred flesh of the creature. Dark, almost black blood oozes out of the thing as orange flashes from underneath its skin. Bobby pushes the body away of him.

By the time he gets back to his feet, half of the room is emptied out. There are six creatures lying dead on the floor, the others having already taken care of the extra two that must have popped up during the confusion. Ash calls to Bobby from across the room, motioning to him from the backdoor. Bobby runs towards him, following Ash out into the bright sunlight. They make their way over to the huge machine.

“Any ideas?” Bobby asks.

“About what this thing is or how to shut it down?” Ash asks, studying it as he makes his way around the thing.

“Both.”

“Well, from the looks of this pit, I’d say what we have here is some kind of drilling device,” Ash says, pointing at something hidden by the sheer mass of the machine.

Bobby moves over to where Ash is standing. Below is a crater of rock and dust. It's huge, spanning at least a city's block in width alone. There are a few different pathways leading down into it carved out of the steep walls.

“As far as how to turn this thing off,” Ash says, turning back to the machine, “I’ve got no idea.”

Ash puts his scanner thing down, climbing up to take a look at some of the finer details. He had insisted on bringing the thing, strapping it onto his back like a backpack. It's supposed to detect some kind of signals. He had explained what those signals were, but Ash had lost Bobby after the first few words. From what he was able to gather from the rapid fire lecture, Ash is hoping to track the movements of not only Metatron, but also these demon/soul hybrids with his gadget, among other functions. As far as Bobby is concerned, it looks more like a CB radio strapped to a microwave. He has yet to see it do anything other than emit a series of annoying high pitched squeals.  

Bobby keeps an eye out while Ash starts pulling parts and wires out of the gigantic machine. He can’t hear anything that sounds like a scuffle going on from inside the building, which he counts as a good sign. He doesn’t hear much of anything besides the low hum of the machine. Minutes pass before he catches something echoing from somewhere in the crater. It sounds like a rock falling.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?” Ash calls back, head deep in one of the machine’s panels, wires and hunks of metal flying out behind him like a dog digging up dirt.

Bobby moves back around the contraption, squinting to see if anyone or anything is trying to sneak up on them. What he sees would have stopped his heart if he still had one that was beating.

**********

Jack leads Dean, Sam, and Castiel towards a building set just off the outskirts of the city. The brick looks brand new. It’s at least a few football fields in length and three stories tall. Dean expects Jack to lead them into the building, but is surprised when the spirit skirts them around the exterior. They creep along the walls, hidden in the deep shadows cast by the imposing structure.

There’s a huge machine behind the building. It sounds like the thing is running, but it doesn’t look like it’s doing anything.

“What is that?” Sam asks.

“None of our concern at present,” Jack says.

Sam glances at Dean. Something is going on up here and Jack knows more than the spirit is letting on. None of them are naive enough to believe Metatron had been resting on his laurels while they’ve been busy chasing after Abaddon. It was a matter of prioritizing and going with what they knew to be a concrete threat. With Castiel and the other angels grounded, there was no way to know what is happening in Heaven. From what they've seen now, whatever Metatron has been up to, it can’t be good.

Jack leads them down into the crater, using one of the smooth access paths carved out of the rock. Dean is willing to bet that machine is at least in part responsible for this hole in the ground. He doesn’t see anything that looks like a drill, but he figures angels have better equipment than humans do. It is Heaven after all.

They are halfway down the path when Dean hears something. Footfalls pound against the rock. Someone or something is running after them. Dean whips around, ready for whatever might be coming to attack them.

“Boys?”

Dean lowers the angel blade he had raised when he sees Bobby half running, half stumbling down the slopped pathway towards them.

“Bobby?”

He looks the same, though maybe a little younger than Dean remembers him being when he’d died. His eyes are less haunted. His smile brighter. Wider. It reminds Dean of the Bobby he’d known back when he was still a kid. Back when Dad would drop him and Sam off to stay at Bobby's place for weeks, or sometimes months, on end.

Bobby comes up, dragging Dean into a hug, gripping him tight. He hugs him back. It’s a weird sensation. Dean remembers being up here before when he and Sam had died and went looking for Joshua during the Apocalypse. Everything felt real enough to him, even though he knew it wasn’t. Now, trying to hold on to Bobby’s soul is like grasping at silk. He can feel him, can feel the mass of him under his hands and in his arms, but it’s fleeting.

The old hunter doesn’t seem bothered by it, releasing Dean to latch on to Sam, then Castiel. The fallen angel looks shocked to be receiving a hug, but he returns it with the same amount of vigor as Bobby gives it. He looks at the three of them like a man dying of thirst, eyes shining even as his brow furrows.

“You three idjits didn’t get yourselves killed did you?”

“No Bobby, we’re still alive,” Sam says.

“Thought you felt weird,” Bobby says, looking them up and down, “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to spring an archangel from Angel Heaven.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow, “Why in the hell would you want to do that?”

“We don’t really have much of a choice,” Sam says, “Abaddon --”

“Is a knight of Hell and can only be killed by an archangel,” Henry says, jogging towards them, Karen following close behind him, “It’s good to see you two again.”

“You too,” Sam says, smiling.

“The building is as secure as it’s going to get,” Henry says to Bobby, who simply nods at him.

Dean wishes they had time to catch up. They’ve lost so many people over the years and here some of them are, standing within arms reach of him, but they can’t linger. There’s always something.

“I hate to break up this touching family reunion, but we need to get moving,” Jack says, behind them.

“Who’s she?” Bobby asks.

“Long story,” Dean says, “She’s our ticket into Angel Heaven.”

Bobby’s eyes go wide, “That’s what they’re digging for in here? Metatron must be trying to bust through the door.”

“What?” Sam asks, "Why?"

“Another long story and to be honest, we don't got all the details yet. Whatever you got going on down on Earth is probably just as bad as what we’ve got going upstairs. We’re here to dismantle this place, and the other ones like it.”

“There's --” Sam starts to ask, but never gets to finish his question.

An explosion goes off somewhere near the giant factory. Dean can’t see any smoke or damage, but it didn’t sound like it was too far off. It takes him a second to realize he can't hear the low hum of the machine anymore. He'd gotten used to the background noise. He sees Ash crest the small hill, running down towards them, arms full of some kind of machine.

“We’ve got incoming!” Ash shouts as he sprints towards them.

Dean looks up. Horrible half human, half monsters appear over the edge of the crater. Wings spread, they let out a high pitched screech as they dive for the group gathered at the bottom of the hole, but their leathery black wings aren't enough to carry their weight. They flap and flail, managing to land in a heavy heap nearby, angel blades flashing in their hands.

Dean turns to Jack, “Get whatever it is we need ready to go while we deal with these guys.”

Jack runs off towards the towering rock wall at their back, the brown stone streaked through with streaks of gold and a light blue, making it shimmer in the sunlight. Dean turns, taking on the first one of whatever these things are that gets close to him. They’re strong. Whatever it is must be part demon, the eyes flashing between normal brown human eyes and the pitch black he’s all too used to seeing when someone's possessed.

He buries the blade deep in the thing’s stomach, the creature flashing out just like any other run of the mill demon. How anything demonic would have managed to make it into Heaven is beyond Dean, but he doubts he’ll have time to find out. He looks over to his right to see Sam pinned on the ground, the blade he’d been carrying knocked off to the side. He's holding the creature’s arm, trying to keep it from driving its own blade into his chest, but Sam is losing the fight. Dean has time to take a step toward his little brother before he’s sent flying as another one of those things tackles him to the ground.

**********

Sam grabs at what he assumes is some kind of demon’s face, trying to gorge its eyes out or claw at anything that might distract it long enough for him to get the upper hand. He’s not having much luck. The angel blade in its gnarled hand keeps inching its way closer, the tip pressing into the fabric of his shirt. He tries to kick out, but he can’t get at the thing’s legs. He’s stuck. Sam puts all his effort into keeping the blade from digging deeper when the demon rears up as a hand grabs onto its thick, brown hair, pulling its head back as the tip of another angel blade pokes through the charred skin of its neck. It flashes out, mouth open in a silent scream.

Sam expects to see Dean or Castiel standing above him as the person shoves the body off to the side. Instead, he sees Jessica standing over him. Sam stares at her, his mind having trouble catching up with the fact that not only is he getting to see her again for the first time since that horrible night back at Stanford, but that she also just killed a monster.

“Jess?”

“Hi Sam,” Jessica says with a grin as she holds out a hand to help him up.

Just like with Bobby, she’s there, but since he’s stuck in his body he can’t feel her properly. It’s like trying to talk to someone on a radio frequency and you’re not tuned into the right channel.

“How did you -- I don’t -- What?”

“I’ve learned a few useful tricks while I've been up here.”

“Obviously,” Sam says, running a hand through his hair as he scans the area.

Most of the rest of whatever those things are have been taken care of. Henry and Bobby are putting down the last few stragglers. He sees Ellen, Rufus, and Jo making their way over, having taken care of some of the creatures too. He's not sure when they got here, having lost track of things during the fight.

“Bobby came and found me," Jessica says, "He introduced me to everyone.”

“So...you know everything?”

“Yes.”

Sam can’t look at her, “Jess, I’m so sorry. I should've --”

“Hey,” Jessica says, putting a hand on his cheek to turn him back towards her, “What happened to me wasn’t your fault, Sam.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth,” Jessica says, “Besides, I wouldn’t trade my time with you or the friends I’ve made in Heaven for anything in the world.”

Sam can’t help the tears that fall as he hugs Jessica. Holds her close. It’s not the same, just like everything else up here. What he wouldn’t give to be able to touch her for real.

“Hey Jess,” Dean says, somewhere off to Sam’s left.

“Hey Dean,” Jessica says, voice muffled against Sam’s chest.

“You look good.”

“I’d say the same, but I can’t actually see you right now,” Jessica says. Sam can feel the vibration of her laugh as she pushes against him, “Sam, release.”

Sam is reluctant to let her go, but does. He keeps a point of contact with her though, holding her hand as she hugs Dean with one arm, beaming up at him as the rest of the group joins them.

“Ash has something on his scanner. We need to get heading towards the next station,” Rufus says, “You guys going to be good here?”

“Go on ahead, we’ll hold down the fort,” Bobby says, a raised eye brow directed toward Ash and his machine.

Sam has no idea what they mean by stations. Quick plans are discussed between the gathered group as Sam feels a tug on his hand. He looks at Jessica.

“I need to go with them,” she says.

“What? No.”

Sam pulls her a few feet away from everyone. He just got her back, he doesn’t want her to leave now. Somewhere in the rational part of Sam’s mind, he knows he’ll have to leave Jessica sooner rather than later. He’s not dead. Not yet anyway. He can’t stay here, and she can’t come with him. Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.

"Sam --"

"I don't want to lose you again."

“You haven't lost me," Jessica says, "I know you, Sam. I've got a feeling you’ve been carrying me around for far too long. You have to let me go.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know,” Jessica says with a sad smile, “I don’t want to either, but that’s how this works. I’ll be here when you get back. Just, don’t get in any big hurry to get up here, okay?”

There’s so much Sam wants to say to Jessica. He has rehearsed it in his head so many times, but it all seems so small now. There aren't enough words to encompass what he needs to say. He kisses her instead. It’s the goodbye he never got to say. It’s not the same. It’s not nearly enough. But it’s all they’ve got, and he’s grateful to have that.

Sam lets go of Jessica’s hand. She grins at him as she heads back up the hill, away from him. Rufus, Henry, and Karen leading the way.

“You all right?” Dean asks, coming up to stand next to him.

Sam doesn't know if he has ever been all right. Not since that night. But this is the closest he's been in a long time.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“We need to get moving.”

Sam nods, following Dean. 

**********

Dean leads the way towards the wall where Jack has been busy painting intricate designs along the smooth surface while Castiel watches. Bobby, Jo, Ellen, and Pam follow them. Ash hangs back a little, keeping an eye out for a new wave of would be attackers. Dean studies the symbols Jack is drawing, but he doesn’t recognize any of them.

“What is that stuff?” he asks.

“Demon’s blood,” Jack says, closing the lid on the jar Peter had given her, “Special vintage.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Do we need anything else?” Sam asks.

“I provided some of my own mojo, but we still need a human and an angel to willingly hand over some of their soul and grace to power the spell.”

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re a little light on angels around here,” Bobby says, “And even if we weren’t, I don’t think there would be a long line to help any of us out.”

Jack smirks, eyes settling on Dean, “That’s all right. We’ve got a two for one special standing right there. I think we’ll be fine.”

“What’s she talking about?” Jo asks.

“Uh...” Dean says, unable to get anything intelligible out.

“Dean’s soul contains some of my grace,” Castiel says.

Pam looks between the two of them as she crosses her arms, a smile forming, “That sounds...intimate.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Sam says under his breath.

Dean punches him in the shoulder. Pam just grins, eyebrow raised like she knows something. She probably does. Sam looks like he's about ready to bust a gut trying to hold in his laughter, but Dean ignores them all.

“Can we go already?” he asks.

“Sure sweet cheeks, step right up,” Jack says, looking between Sam and Castiel as Dean moves closer to the wall, “And which of you two lunkheads are making the trip with him?”

“What?” Dean asks, turning towards Jack, “But --”

“But nothing. We agreed on two people. Heaven is one thing, but I can only get two through this door.”

“Sam should go," Castiel says without hesitation, "I can stay here.”

Sam glances between them, “You sure Cass? I mean, I can --”

“Heaven was my home. I know the ins and outs better than any of you. I can help hold the line here.”

Yeah, sure. That makes sense, but Dean doesn’t care about making sense. He wants Castiel with him. He doesn’t want to leave the fallen angel out here alone, just like he wouldn't want to leave Sam. Castiel is looking at him, waiting for Dean to start yelling. For him to throw a fit. Dean doesn’t do either of those things, even though he'd like to.

“We good here?” Jack asks.

Dean just nods. Castiel is a big boy. If he wants to stay and help out Bobby and the gang, Dean can’t argue with that. From the looks of things, they’re going to need all the help they can get. Besides, it's not like he has much of a choice in the matter. Sam comes to stand next to him.

“Got everything you need? There’s no rest stops between here and angel paradise.”

Sam still has an angel blade in his hand. Dean feels around in his jacket and the back of his jeans looking for his. It hits him that he had dropped the stupid thing during the fight. Castiel is next to him before Dean can start looking for one, reaching out for his arm. Castiel presses the hilt of his own blade into Dean’s hand.

“Here. I can find another one.”

“You sure?”

Castiel smiles, “Yes, it will help keep you safe.”

Dean starts to say something extraordinarily sappy as he stares at Castiel. He can feel the eyes of all his friends and family watching them as Sam mumbles stuff to Jack, oblivious to Dean and Castiel. He’s probably immune to this sort of thing by now. Castiel is still staring at him, but he’s starting to pull away. Dean grabs him, pulling him back by the lapels of his leather coat, their lips crashing together.

He can hear Jo, Pam, and Ash alternate between cheers and catcalls. Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s neck and waist, bringing him closer as he uses the hand behind Castiel’s back to flip them all off. The cheering just gets louder.

“Be careful, Cass,” Dean whispers against his lips.

“You too, Dean,” Castiel says with a dazed grin on his face.

“Ahem, if you two are done,” Jack says as Dean lets go of Castiel.

Dean straightens out his jacket as he turns back toward Jack, Sam, and the wall, “Yeah, yeah.”

“Keep an eye on your watches. Time in there moves slower than it does out here. You’ll have an hour to get your archangel and head for the door,” Jack says, “I’ll keep the way open on this end. Between that and Dean you shouldn’t have any trouble getting back through. Got it?”

“Yes,” Sam says, looking at his watch.

“You know how to tap your soul for power, chief?” Jack asks Dean.

Dean nods, ignoring the surprised glare he gets from Sam. Jack instructs Dean to put his hand against the wall right in the center of the symbols. Jack feeds Dean the words he needs to say to open the door. He can feel the demon blood heating under his hand as it starts to glow a dull orange. Sam’s hand circles around Dean’s other wrist, holding tight as the sigil glows brighter. The wind picks up, sending dust flying in the air around them. Jack shouts the last few words over the roar of the wind. Dean repeats the words, then everything goes black.

Chapter Text

Over the months, Kevin’s hatred of Crowley deteriorated to a vague dislike, then eventually into what Crowley would describe as a lukewarm camaraderie. Crowley would be damned, again, if he could figure out how it had happened. As far as he is concerned, the prophet has every reason in the world to hate him. Crowley himself has hated people for centuries on end for transgressions on a much smaller scale than what he has put Kevin through. He had forgotten that about human beings. Their capacity for forgiveness. It’s something Crowley was never able to master, even before going to Hell.

He dismisses it, chalking it up to being a weird quirk of humanity that has nothing to do with him. A human weakness, a forgetfulness and lessening of emotions brought on by the passage of time. Time being the much lauded healer of all things painful. Crowley has never been one to believe that. If anything, for him, time has always acted more as an infection, making a wound worse. Whether it’s because Kevin, like Sam and to a lesser extent Dean, has found a way to believe in Crowley’s rehabilitation or the staggering amount of energy it takes to continue to hate a person you’re forced to live with has become too much of a burden to bear, Kevin seems to have let bygones be bygones. It’s a fact that both fascinates and disturbs Crowley to his very core.

Chess becomes a nightly ritual for them, born out of boredom during those days and nights they were left to their own devices while the Winchesters went off gallivanting after angels and information. Sometimes company that loathes your very existence is better than no company at all. At first, they’re quiet as they play, both intent on destroying their opponent, expressing their dislike through a heightened sense of competitiveness. The silence becomes too much though, insults and goading spill out, filling the gap between them. Neither of them gain an upper hand, both winning and losing their fair share of rounds. Not that either of them would admit they are keeping track.

Somewhere along the line, insults turn into actual conversation, though the topics never stray far from their research or the Winchesters’ movements. It’s not until Kevin starts asking questions about Crowley, and he finds himself answering without malice or sarcasm, that Crowley knows something significant has changed between them. Kevin doesn’t ask him about Hell or the things he has done since becoming a demon. Those questions would hit too close to home to do any good for the truce they’ve somehow stumbled upon.

Instead, he asks about Crowley’s likes and dislikes. His favorite movies. His favorite music. No one has asked him about himself in centuries. Demons aren’t supposed to care about such things, but Crowley has always been a little different, taking the time to enjoy the finer things in life. He’d had his mansion for decades, carefully curating his collections of books, films, fine wines, and the oldest bottles of whiskey he could find. It had been his sanctuary away from the dreariness of Hell before he’d had to vacate it after giving the Winchesters the Colt during the Apocalypse.

They start to branch out from chess, going so far as to sit down together to watch the movies they’ve talked about. Crowley is impressed Kevin knows about anything that's happened before 1990. The kid shocks him by picking out films like ‘North by Northwest’ and ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ for them to watch. It shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Kevin is a smart kid. Besides, being young doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the old as much as the new.  

“Did you have a family?” Kevin asks as they sit up playing chess in the Barracks.

Sam’s new friends have long since went to bed. Crowley has never been one for babysitting, but at least the Winchesters had left them with adult charges to watch over. The angels can bugger off for all Crowley cares. Old rivalries die hard.

“My father was never in the picture,” Crowley says, keeping his voice light, “but I did have a mother.”

They’re treading towards territory they have skirted around for obvious reasons. Kevin had long since told him that his own father had died in a car crash when he was still a toddler. Mrs. Tran and a handful of extended family he rarely saw were all the kid had growing up. Crowley studies Kevin, watching for a flinch or a twitch of an eye. Kevin’s face remains stoic, eyes intent upon the chess board in front of him.

“What happened to him?”

“My mother always said he left before I was born. The people in our village whispered that she’d cursed him, driving him insane.”

That gets a reaction. Kevin looks up at him, eyebrow raised. Crowley laughs.

“I suppose I should have mentioned she was a witch,” Crowley says.

“Like a real witch or a fake, Salem witch trials kind of witch?”

“Who said those were fake?” Crowley asks, laughing again when Kevin stares at him, mouth open.

They take turns moving their pieces, sitting in companionable silence as the conversation finds a natural lull.

“What was that like? Being raised by a witch?” Kevin asks, eventually.

“Worse than what you’d expect,” Crowley says, moving his rook, “She was abusive on the good days, on the bad... Well, add in a bit of vindictive magic to that, and you can imagine they weren’t the best of times. Time outs and spankings were the lest of my concerns.”

“Did you have your own family? You know, before you became...” Kevin asks, trailing off as he gestures towards him.

“Yes, and no,” Crowley says, moving one of his pawns, “I had a wife and a son, but I didn’t have much to do with either of them.”

“Why?” Kevin asks as he studies the pieces.

Crowley pauses, “Let’s just say the nuclear family bit wasn’t something I was cut out for. Especially the wife part.”

He has never spoke of William to anyone and Crowley doesn’t see any reason to start now. That wound will never heal.

“Oh,” Kevin says, sliding his knight up and over, removing Crowley’s pawn, “Guess it probably wasn’t any easier back then than it is now.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“But it wasn’t easy for you?”

“I set my own trap, and I couldn’t escape it,” Crowley says, moving his bishop to take one of Kevin’s pawns, “My wife was a way out for me. A step up in status, and her family had money. More than I had, anyway.”

“You were trying to escape from your mother.”

The way Kevin says it is unsettling. He can hear the sympathy in the prophet’s voice. It isn’t something Crowley deserves.

“Yes, some horrible things were done to me, but I’ve more than offset that over the centuries. What I did to you pale in comparison to all the other crimes I’ve committed. I made those choices. Me. Whatever my past, I could have chosen differently.”

“I get that,” Kevin says, “It’s not an excuse, and it doesn’t make what you’ve done all right but... I understand now. Kind of.”

“Does that make you feel better? Understanding me?”

Kevin simply shrugs.

“Look kid, I was an awful human being, but that’s what makes an excellent demon.”

“What are you now?”

For the life of him, Crowley can’t find an answer to that one.

**********

The blackness and silence closing in around Sam is oppressive in a way he has never felt before. It’s what he imagines being locked inside a coffin would feel like. He wants to scream, but can’t fill his lungs with enough air to make the sound. His breathing is slow and steady despite his building panic, like his body and mind are two separate entities functioning outside of one another. He still can’t see anything.

Dean. Dean should be here somewhere. Sam isn’t holding on to his older brother as he had been before they made the trip to angel Heaven, but he can sense someone sitting next to him. With any luck, it’s Dean. Sam tries to move, but can’t. It’s hard to even feel his body, let alone get it to do anything. It takes time, but Sam becomes more aware of his surroundings, like whatever makes him Sam is being slowly poured back into the shell of his body. As he becomes more alert, he feels the tingle of sensation and movement begin to return.

Sam opens his eyes. His head is bowed, hands folded in his lap. He sits on something hard, his back straight and pressing against the back of it. Sam’s eyes glance up. From what he can see, there are a few rows of pews in front of him. That must be what he’s sitting in. The white cloth of a hood lies draped over his head, blocking him from seeing anything else. When did he get a hood?

“Sammy?” he hears Dean whisper next to him, “Can you move?”

It takes Sam a minute to respond as he tries to remember how to coordinate his mouth, tongue, and jaw, “Not much. You?”

“More than I could before.”

It starts getting better. As Sam concentrates on moving his toes inside his boots, then his feet, then his legs. He finds that once he gets his legs back under control, his arms come back right along with them. He turns to look at Dean, who is busy taking his arms for a test drive.

Dean is wearing a white, cotton robe just like Sam’s. It covers most of his brother’s face, his hands the only parts of him that are completely visible. Sam looks around. They’re in a church of some kind. It’s a dilapidated building. Ornate, painted figures of saints and angels fill the walls, parts of them chipped and pealing away. Some of them are so faded it’s difficult to make out the outlines. Pieces of drywall are missing. He can see huge chunks lying on the ground, left to crumble.

“Where are we?” Dean asks, looking around, voice low.

“A church, I guess.”

“What would dead angels need a church for?”

Sam shrugs, “How should I know?”

He looks to the other pews. The old wooden benches creak as Sam and Dean stand, making their way out into the main aisle. There are other figures here, all dressed in the same white robes. None of them move. Dean takes his off, throwing it down on the pew they vacated. Sam does the same, readjusting the plaid shirt he’d been wearing before they’d made this trip.

“Should we ask them where we are?” Sam asks, as they move forward, studying some of the figures seated closest to them.

Sam bends down to look under the hood of one of the figures. A woman sits, eyes closed, her face bowed and her hands folded, just like Sam’s had been when he first woke up here. She looks human, but that doesn’t mean much. He can’t see her breathing. She’s not moving at all. Still, there’s something alive about her. Something he can’t put his finger on.

“Sam, get away from her,” Dean says, an edge of panic in his voice.

He looks up at his brother, “What?”

“Can’t you feel that?”

Sam straightens up, stepping back, eyes glancing around the darkened church. The only light comes from what is able to filter in through the broken stained glass windows.  He can’t hear any noise coming from outside despite the absolute silence of the church. It’s like being in a vacuum.

“Feel what?”

“We need to get out of here,” Dean says, voice quiet as he grabs Sam’s arm and all but drags him down the aisle, “We shouldn’t be here.”

Sam follows after Dean, coming to a stop at the giant wood doors located at the back of the stone church. Dean winces at the groan of old hinges as he grabs one of the ring handles and opens the door. Sam spares the place one last look before walking out. There are less than a dozen figures sitting in the church and they still haven’t moved. All except for the woman. Sam swears it looks like her head has tilted to the side, as if she was listening to their retreating footsteps.

As Sam steps out, Dean closes the door behind them, gentle as he can. He makes a beeline down the stone steps, putting some distance between them and the old church before he speaks again. Sam follows, fast on his heels.

“You didn’t feel that?”

“No, what was it?”

“I don’t know, man,” Dean says, glancing back at the church like he expects it to attack them, “Some kind of warning. Whatever we got dropped into, we weren’t supposed to see. No one is.”

Dean looks shaken, almost pale. Sam can't tell if it's from fright or due to Dean using his mix of soul and grace to beam them here. While that couldn’t have been a good thing for his brother’s health, whatever those things were back in that church were bad enough to scare Dean. There’s not much on Heaven, Earth, or in Hell that can do that. That thought alone quickens Sam’s pace.

He wants to be mad at Dean for listening in when he went over how to power spells by tapping into a human soul back in the Barracks, but it’s not going to do him any good. Dean had been their ticket into angel Heaven. He would just shoot down any argument Sam might have with that fact alone, regardless of what ramifications he might endure down the line. Dean has always been bad about taking care of himself.

They start walking. The church, now far behind them, seems to be the only thing out here. The rest is all desert. Huge dunes tower over them, creating something of a maze of valleys for Sam and Dean to make their way through. There’s no breeze and still no sound except for the noise they make themselves. The rustling of their clothes and their breathing is deafening.

“Any ideas how we’re going to find Gabriel?”

Sam shrugs, “He’s an angel. I guess we could try praying.”

“And put an APB out on our asses? What if the other angels hear it?”

“Cass was the only one who heard you when you prayed to him right?”

“I think so.”

“Well, if you pray directly to Gabriel it should be the same thing.”

Dean stops walking, “Me? Why do I have to do it?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who usually does the praying to angels around here.”

“Yeah, to Cass. Gabriel was your idea. You do it.”

Sam rolls his eyes, “Does it really matter?”

“I am not praying to that asshat.”

It’s funny how defensive Dean is being about a stupid prayer. Sam is tempted to ask him what kind of prayers he was sending Castiel back when he was still an angel or make some crack about where prayer sexting an angel falls on the hierarchy of sins. Whatever Dean’s deal is, he’s stressed enough as it is, so Sam lets it slide.

“Fine,” Sam says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Closing his eyes, Sam searches for something to start with. He was used to doing this kind of thing in a quiet motel room before he falls asleep at night, back when he still prayed. Sam has never prayed to anyone specific. It’s not like he called out to God or anything. He’d talk to Jess or Mom sometimes, but mostly he just sent his prayers out to whatever or whoever might be listening. He isn’t sure how to start.

“Uh... Gabriel? It’s Sam. Winchester --”

“Like there’s anyone else who’d be dumb enough to break in here.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says, frowning in Dean’s direction, his eyes still closed, “Um, we've come to bust you out of here. We’ve got some problems back on Earth --”

“Maybe you shouldn’t lead with asking the guy for favors. It makes us rescuing him from retirement seem a little disingenuous.”

“Do you want to do this?” Sam hisses, irritated as he opens his eyes to glare at his brother.

Dean holds up his hands, but from the look on his face, he seems to enjoy watching Sam flounder around like an idiot.

“Anyway, we’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind. If you can even hear me...”

Sam and Dean look around, waiting for the sound of wings flapping, announcing the arrival of an angel. There’s nothing. Just sand. 

“Guess we keep walking,” Sam says, a little let down.

“It was worth a shot. We’ll find him.”

Sam glances down at his watch. There’s just under 15 minutes gone from their hour. It feels like they’ve been here longer than that. They probably have, at least on this side of the wall. Jack said time moved different here, just like everywhere else. With no other choice, they start walking again.

Winding between the dunes, they pick their way through the valleys, the walls of sand trapping them in. Sam glances back. There’s nothing there and nowhere for anything to hide if there was something tracking them. Their feet aren’t even leaving footprints in the sand. The press of their boots dent it as they step, but it’s like an invisible broom comes through, sweeping the imprints away as their feet lift up off the ground.

“You think they’re doing all right out there?”

“I’m sure they’re fine. Didn’t seem like any of them have missed a step.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, distracted.

Sam sighs, “I’m sure Cass is fine, Dean. Bobby will keep an eye out for him.”

“I know. It’s just --”

It’s just if he dies out there he’s toast. Dean isn’t worrying needlessly. Sam can’t tell his brother not to be concerned about it. Blinking out into nothing doesn’t sound like the greatest thing in the world. Heaven is screwy right now, but it’s better than nothing. Sam would take existing over not existing any day of the week.

“He’ll be fine. Cass was a trained soldier long before met us. It’s not like he doesn’t know how to take care of himself in a fight,” Sam says, “And you heard him, he knows the lay of the land. He’ll be able to see what’s coming.”

Dean stops abruptly, cursing.

“What?”

“Trained soldiers? Trained soldiers who know their surroundings and can see what’s coming?”

Sam’s eyes widen. They’ve been wandering around with no idea where they are or what they’re doing. The only fact they know about this place is there are more than an army’s worth of angels stuck in here with them.

“You think we’ve walked into a trap?” Sam asks, keeping his voice down, eyes scanning the tops of every dune.

“I got no idea, but my money’s on yes,” Dean grumbles, doing the same, “Damn it, did that church put some kind of whammy on us? What in the hell were we thinking?”

“You weren’t, clearly,” a deep voice says from behind them, “as is usual for you two.”

Sam and Dean turn toward it, coming face to face with Uriel.

***

“Seriously? You’re our welcome wagon?” Dean asks, Castiel’s angel blade already in his hand, “I gotta say, the hospitality around here sucks.”

Dean wants to keep him talking. They need time. Time to formulate some kind of plan. From what he remembers of Uriel, the guy liked the sound of his voice. It shouldn’t be too hard of a task. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam scanning the area, searching for a way out of here.

Looking beyond Uriel, Dean can’t see an end to the valley. They’ve been walking for a while now, so retreat isn’t an option either. Up is out of the question. There’s no way they can climb these walls without some kind of assistance. So unless Dean can manage to sprout wings in the next few seconds, that's out. He doubts that was one of the fringe benefits Joshua was talking about anyways. Besides, Dean has never been much for flying.

More angels appear behind Uriel. They all seem to be in vessels, or at least they’re presenting themselves to Dean and Sam that way. Dean remembers a few cracks made about how limited they were as humans and therefore could never see an angel’s true form. He’d prefer to see none of their forms, because while Dean doesn’t recognize any of the other angels behind Uriel, they all look pissed.

“How did you find us?” Sam asks.

“You stick out like sore thumbs here. Your humanity,” Uriel says the word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, “contaminates this sanctuary our Father created for us. We’re here to remedy that.”

“This club must not be too exclusive if you're here,” Dean says, “Either that, or God forgot to program in an angel version of Hell.”

“Hell is torment enough for any being, or have you already forgotten?”

“Old news, asshat. That was a few seasons ago. You’ve been outta the loop too long.”  

Uriel smiles, “Not long enough to save either of your hides.”

It’s six against two, and the numbers aren’t in their favor. When are they ever? This fight is going to be short and bloody. Dean thinks of Castiel waiting for them on the other side of that wall. He will be watching for Dean to come barging back through. He wishes there was a way to tell him they failed. Maybe Jack will know somehow. If not, Castiel will wait until Heaven comes crashing down around his ears before he leaves without Dean. He has done it too many times before, whether Dean wanted him to or not. That's not a comforting thought.

The angels swarm them, separating Dean from Sam and taking away the only advantage they might have had. Dean falls back against one of the walls, sending sand cascading down around him. It covers him, blurring his vision. He tries to swipe it out of his face. He can’t see a damn thing, but he can feel hands on him. Slashing at the angels with Castiel’s blade, he grazes one of them as the others step back. He can hear the guy shout out as Dean struggles to his feet. He makes it as far as his knees, the angel lunging for him again. Dean tries, but he can’t swing the blade around in time. The angel has him.

Preparing for the blow, Dean is shocked when he feels something push him sideways, sending him crashing down to the ground and back against the wall. Through another shower of sand, he catches a glimpse of long, blonde hair as the angel he’d been fighting is sent packing. The sand stops falling. Dean looks up as the woman standing above him turns towards him.

“Mom?”

Chapter Text

Sam looks around. It would be like any other bright, summer day if there were trees or grass or any ground to speak of. Instead, they’re standing in a sea of white clouds. How they’re standing in these clouds is beyond Sam. Since falling through them would be their alternative, he's not complaining.

He had been too shocked to move as he watched Mary helping Dean up off the ground. Their mother looked just like the younger version he'd met when Castiel had helped Sam and Dean travel back in time to save their parents from Anna. Dean had dragged Sam to his feet, hauling him along as all three of them ran away from Uriel and his cronies. However Mary had been able to find them, she hadn’t came alone. More angels arrived while Sam and Dean were being attacked and acted as a diversion, allowing them enough time to make their way out of the valley of sand dunes.

Mary had drawn something in the sand. The symbols looked a lot like Enochian, but there was a twist to it Sam couldn’t quite place. It had opened a door for them, much like the one Ash had once used to send them to the Garden to meet Joshua the last time Sam and Dean had found themselves in Heaven. The doorway had dumped them out here.

“Why am I wearing a dress?” Dean asks.

“It’s a toga,” Sam says, letting his hand drag through the wisps.

There’s nothing here. It's just the three of them standing together, the clouds swirling between them along a breeze Sam can't feel.

“Does it look like I care?” Dean asks as he looks down at his hand, “Where the hell did this come from? What am I supposed to do with this?”

Sam watches his brother wave a golden harp around, “I don’t know, play it?”

Dean glares at him as if he’d like nothing more than to slam the thing down over his head and let Sam wear it as a necklace.

“Gabriel, will you please stop messing around?” Mary asks, eyes cast upward and voice exasperated.

It’s like listening to a mother chastising a misbehaving child, and Sam can’t help but grin. Mary is using her mom voice on a damn archangel. Since she is the only one still dressed like a normal person, Sam would be willing to bet this isn’t the first time she’s used that tone up here.

“Wrong angel, darling,” Balthazar says, peaking out from around a bright fluffy cloud, “I thought I’d give your boys a warm welcome.”

He looks much the same as the last time they had seen him. Same deep V-neck shirt under a jacket and a glass of whiskey in his hand. He swaggers towards them, smarmy grin and all.

“By dressing them up for a frat party?” Mary asks, raising an eyebrow.

Balthazar shrugs, “Isn’t this the stereotypical Heaven by Earth standards?”

“My Heaven would have a lot more beer and burgers and a whole lot less of you,” Dean says, “And pants. Definitely pants.”

Balthazar gives Dean a disbelieving look. Sam isn't buying it either. At least as far as the pants goes.

“Give us our clothes back, asshat,” Dean says.

“Dean, language,” Mary says, turning towards him, brow furrowed.

Dean’s eyes go wide as he stammers out an apology. Sam laughs, enduring a withering look from Dean.

“Sam, don’t laugh at your brother,” Mary says, turning back to Balthazar, “And will you please take us back to something more normal?”

Balthazar nods and with a snap of his fingers, Sam and Dean are back in their regular clothes. The landscape shifts around them. They find themselves in the living room of the house John and Mary had shared back in the early 1970s. The same one Sam and Dean had visited.

“Better?” the angel asks.

“Much,” Mary says with a smile, “Where’s John?”

“John?” Sam asks.

“Still out looking for these two. Shall I...?” Balthazar asks gesturing towards the door.

“If you don’t mind,” Mary says.

Balthazar disappears.

“You’ve gotta teach us how you get these angels to hop to on command,” Dean says, taking a seat on the sofa.

Mary rolls her eyes, “You get more with honey than you do vinegar, sweetheart. It looks like you need some practice at that.”

Sam sits next to Dean as Mary takes a seat across from them. It’s almost exactly how it had been when they’d gone back during the Apocalypse. If John were here, it would be.

“Dad’s here too?” Sam asks.

Mary nods, “I found myself here after our run in with the poltergeist you boys were hunting. Your father arrived sometime after he escaped from Hell.”

“Why this place?” Dean asks, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

“An angel named Zachariah,” Mary says with a sigh.

“Wouldn't have thought he'd have that kind of pull. I always thought he was more of a middle management kind of guy.”

“He brought us here on someone else’s orders.”

“Whose?”

“No one seems to know. Whoever it was, I think we were kept here as bargaining chips,” Mary says, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, “to get you two to say yes to Michael and Lucifer. At least initially.”

“You know about that?” Sam asks.

“We’ve been kept up to date by various angels. First Anna --”

“Anna?” Dean asks, moving like he’s about to stand to ready himself for an attack, “Why have you been talking to her? She tried to kill you guys.”

“I know that,” Mary says, tone dry, “Whatever brainwashing they’d put her through in Heaven didn’t stay with her when she arrived here. The threat of Zachariah and whoever was pulling his strings was enough to keep us safe among the other angels, but once he ended up here himself, all bets were off.”

“Anna helped protect you,” Sam says.

“First Anna, then when Gabriel came --”

“Gabriel is keeping you guys safe?” Dean asks, stunned.

Mary laughs, “Without Gabriel, I don't think any of us would have made it. Some of these angels aren’t nearly as bad as you seem to think they are, Dean.”

“That hasn’t been our experience.”

“From what I hear that’s not entirely true,” Mary says.

There’s a sparkle in their mother’s eyes as she studies Dean that makes Sam suspicious. There’s mirth there, like she knows something. He wonders what else Gabriel and the other angels have told their parents that had nothing to do with hunting or the Apocalypse. Dean either doesn’t catch on or is doing his best to ignore it.

“I’m glad they’ve been looking out for you.”

“Why are you two here? You’re not dead.”

“You can tell?” Sam asks.

“Honey, I’ve been here for a long time now. I can tell the difference between a soul and a live human being.”

“We’re looking for Gabriel.”

“Look no further, kiddo,” Gabriel says, popping in behind Mary’s chair, their father in tow.

John’s feet barely touch the wood floor before he’s coming towards them. He appears to be about the same age as Mary. It’s strange, seeing the younger versions of their parents recognize them. Sam and Dean both stand as John closes the distance, jumping to their feet on instinct. Their father stares at them for a moment before pulling Sam into a hug. It takes Sam a second to register what’s going on. John had never doled out hugs like this when he had been alive. Any comforting contact Sam got as a kid had come from Dean. Everything from drying tears when he fell and hurt himself on the playground all the way up to hugging. Not that Dad never did, but usually all hell was either breaking loose or getting ready to when Sam would find himself in his father’s embrace. Sam recovers quick, wrapping his arms around his father in return.

“I’m glad you two are okay. We were out looking.”

“Yeah, we’re fine, Dad,” Sam says, releasing him.

John turns towards Dean. He holds his older son tight, Dean closing his eyes for a moment before he allows John to let him go.

Gabriel clears his throat, “Sorry to break up the touching family moment...”

“Right, yeah,” Sam says, taking the pressure off Dean who looks a little overcome having both of their parents in the room, “We need your help.”

“So I heard,” Gabriel says, wiggling his eyebrows at Sam, “We have got to work on your praying skills.”

Dean smirks at him, but Sam ignores his brother. At least Sam hadn’t acted like he was talking on a damn CB radio when he prayed.

“Abaddon --”

“Knight of Hell, Abaddon?” Gabriel asks, cutting Sam off.

“Yes?”

“Boy, you two really have been busy while I was gone! Well, I know why you want me then. I gotta say, I’m a little hurt you weren’t just trying to break me out because you missed me,” Gabriel says, grinning at Sam, “Who dug her up?”

“We don’t know, she just kind of uh,” Sam says, glancing at John, “appeared.”

“Wait,” Dean says, glaring at Gabriel, “You knew she was still out there? Why in the hell didn’t you guys kill all of them before?”

Gabriel shrugs, “We did our best and the rest we buried deep in the Pit.”

“Does that mean we’ve got more out there to worry about?”

“I said buried deep,” Gabriel says, crossing his arms, “It’s not like we left them down there with a map and a shovel. Someone got Abaddon out. There's no way she made it back topside without help. That’s who you should be worrying about, bucko.”

“Could it have been one of the other archangels?” Sam asks.

“I don’t remember you guys being this slow before. We’ve all been locked up.”

“No, one of the other archangels,” Sam says.

Gabriel stares at him like he has lost his mind, “There are no other archangels. Just Mikey, Luci, Raphael, and little old me. I’ve had Raphael tied up for a while now, and you know the other two can't be your problem. Unless you two knuckle heads have managed to majorly mess things up.”

“Sam isn't talking about you guys. Joshua told us God made more archangels, but He put a recall out on their asses a long time ago,” Dean says.

When Joshua’s name is mentioned, Gabriel goes still, the grin dropping from his face. Sam has never seen him stay in one spot for so long. The guy is one big ball of boundless energy when he’s calm.

“That’s news to me,” Gabriel says, tone serious, “and it’s not exactly good news.”

“Why?”

“Think about it. They’re supposed to be as dead as the rest of us, right?”

“So...if they’re not in angel Heaven, then where are they?” Sam asks, running a hand through his hair.

“Bingo.”

“Just one thing,” Dean says, dragging a hand down his face, “Can’t we have one thing that doesn’t go completely off the rails?”

“You have met yourselves right? Everything goes wrong when you two are involved. You’re like the walking, talking, human versions of Murphy’s Law,” Gabriel says.

“Not helping,” Sam says, glaring at Gabriel.

“Just stating the facts, kiddo.”

“Are you going to help us or what?” Dean asks, irritated.

Sam has always been able to tolerate Gabriel more than Dean ever could. Dean likes to blame it on all those Tuesdays back at the Mystery Spot, but Sam had never bought that excuse because he doesn’t remember any of it. Dean can only recall that one Tuesday when Sam had called ‘the Trickster’ out on his crap and the next day when Gabriel had finally left them alone. He didn’t have to watch and remember his brother dying for what felt like an eternity.

As far as Sam is concerned, if anyone should have a problem with Gabriel it’s him, and surprisingly enough, he doesn’t. It's more likely that Dean hates he and Gabriel have more in common, personality wise, than he’d like to admit. Dean has been known to get a kick out of some of the Trickster’s games in the past. Those that didn't involve him or Sam at any rate.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, considering both of them, “Sure, why not? Beats sticking around here.”

“We’ll have to get back to that church or whatever it was. That’s where we came in,” Sam says.

Dean blanches. Sam isn’t thrilled at the prospect of going back there, but at least this time they have Gabriel with them.

“They're going to come after you,” Balthazar says from his spot leaning against the front door.

Sam jumps. He'd been so involved with their conversation that he hadn't noticed anyone else popping back in.

“Uriel?” Gabriel asks, turning.

“Among others,” Balthazar says with a shrug, “If you throw in Mary and John trying to escape as well, which I'm sure they won't be willing to enjoy our hospitality any longer if there's a way out of here, then every angel will be wanting a piece of the action.”

“You, Anna, and the rest could buy us enough time,” Dean says, “If you guys have been fighting Raphael and all the other winged dicks up here, you’ve got to have some angels on your side.”

“True enough,” Balthazar says, “but all the distractions in the world will mean nothing if Gabriel doesn’t have enough juice to get all four of you out of here.”

“Jack said you’d be able to help power our way back out of here,” Sam says, turning back to Gabriel.

“Sure, but you’re talking about adding another two passengers,” Gabriel says, glancing at John and Mary, “None of us are at full power in here. It’s going to drain me.”

“We’re not leaving our parents in here,” Dean says, all but getting up in the archangel’s face, “What chance do they have with you gone?”

“There are other angels --”

“None as strong as you,” Sam says.

“They’re going to be a target anywhere they go.”

“At least out there they have friends that can help them.”

“Do we get a vote in all this?” John asks, "We are talking about where we're going to spending the rest of our eternity, right?"

Everyone stops talking, Sam and Dean both turning to look at their father.

“Sure why not? Let’s hear from the peanut gallery,” Gabriel says.

Sam is shocked John doesn’t punch him in the face, but the sarcastic tone doesn’t seem to register with him. Maybe Heaven really has fixed some of the broken parts and smoothed out the rough edges left over from before John had made it here. John looks at Mary. She nods at him, but Sam gets the feeling the rest of them have missed out on some form of communication no one outside of the two of them are privy to.

“Wherever our boys are going, we’re going too,” John says, “Whatever’s going on out there, we can help.”

“You Winchesters kill me, you know that? You have killed me, but whatever,” Gabriel says, holding up his hands as he looks back to Sam and Dean, “Just know I’m going to need some recharge time when we get out of here.”

“Fine,” Dean says.

Gabriel gives them a skeptical look, but shrugs, “All right, everyone grab a hand. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

***

Gabriel beams them out to the front steps of the imposing stone church Dean and Sam had found themselves in when they first arrived here. Just looking at it fills Dean with dread. One glance at Gabriel tells him the archangel feels the same way. Angels pop in around them. Dean turns to see Anna standing at the front of the group. He spots Alfie a few rows back, Weiner Hut outfit and all. He thinks his real name was Samandriel. Dean is glad Castiel isn’t here to stand in front of some of these angels. He’s not sure how the fallen angel would have reacted.

“Dean... Sam,” Anna says, offering them a small, apologetic smile.

“Hey Anna,” Sam says, smiling back.

Dean grunts out a ‘hey.’ He’s glad Anna is back to normal and he hopes she stays that way, but forgiveness has always come more naturally to Sam. Dean has always had to work at it. There will come a time when he can think back on Anna and not feel that sense of betrayal, but not now. Not yet.

“We’ll hold the line,” Anna says, looking up at Gabriel, “Just get them out of here.”

“I’m starting to feel like a glorified chauffeur,” Gabriel says, grumpy.

Anna smirks at him, “Good luck, brother.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel says, waving her off, but Dean sees him wink at her as the five of them start up the stone steps of the church.

Sam glances at his watch, “We’re right on time.”

“Huh. Wonders never cease.”

Gabriel pauses as they reach the wooden door, “Be as quiet as you can. We don’t want to disturb what’s been trapped in here.”

Dean can feel Sam itching to ask what those things are inside the church. He’d be happy if he never has to find out.

“When your buddy Jack opens the other side of the door, we’ll only have a short time to get back through. We’ll need some of my grace and --”

“Some power from a human soul, we know,” Dean says, “I can --”

“I’ll do it,” Sam says, interrupting him.

Dean starts to argue, but Sam is pushing past him, coming to stand next to Gabriel as the archangel opens the wooden doors. They creak more than Dean would like, just like last time. He closes them again once they’re all inside, locking the doors. They follow Gabriel up the aisle, mimicking his quiet, confident strides until they’re standing behind the altar, staring at a blank stone wall. If Dean were to turn around now, he’d have a perfect view of all the robed figures still sitting silent in their pews. He keeps his eyes trained on the wall.

They wait. The sounds of fighting can be heard from outside the walls of the church. It feels like forever. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up. He feels like those things behind them are staring at them. He chances a glance back, but all their heads are still bowed. They need to get out of here.

“Shouldn’t something be happening?” Mary asks, her voice almost inaudible as she leans over to whisper into Dean’s ear.

He nods, watching as Gabriel whispers to Sam. His little brother gives a shrug, shaking his head as he holds up his watch, pointing at it. Dean can see the seconds ticking away, slower than they ever would on Earth or even in Heaven. They were right on time when they walked through the doors of the church, but the minute hand is getting closer to ticking over past their allotted hour and Jack still hasn’t opened the door. Something’s wrong.

**********

Castiel is no stranger to feeling out of place. He has had to endure Dean calling him ‘the awkwardest angel in the garrison’ on more than one occasion, and Castiel has always been loathe to admit how accurate that comment might be. Over the years, Castiel has grown more comfortable navigating humans interaction. Still, standing here among these people he'd called friends back when they were alive, Castiel is at a loss.

Pam and Ellen hike back up out of the carved out pit to stand as lookouts. Jack moves off out of the way to wait for the boys' return, while Jo helps Ash with his machine. That leaves Castiel and Bobby to stand silent watch over the bit of wall Sam and Dean had disappeared into. In all honesty, most of Castiel’s current unease stems from Bobby.

They had always been on good terms when Bobby was alive, especially as the Apocalypse had wore on. Castiel had seen how much affection and love there was between Bobby, Sam, and Dean. While he’d never expected to be brought in that close, Castiel found a part of him would have liked to have that level of approval and acceptance from Bobby. But that was before Castiel had destroyed everything.

“Any idea how long it should take them to find Gabriel?” Bobby asks, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know.”

“It is angel Heaven, right? Don’t you guys have some kind of in on it?”

Castiel sighs, “I only recently learned there was such a place.”

“What did you think happened when you died, then?”

“Nothing,” Castiel says, with a shrug.

There’s a moment when neither of them moves. Castiel can feel Bobby staring at him, but he refuses to look at the man. He has been reluctant to look Bobby in the eye since they’d met up with him.

“You’re tellin’ me, you flung yourself into all those messes, stuck you neck out time and again, and all the while you thought you’d just poof out of existence?”

“Yes?”

“You’re as bad as Sam and Dean,” Bobby says, shaking his head, “Be glad I didn’t know that before, or I woulda been on your ass to take better care of yourself. And trust me, that wouldn’t have been pleasant.”

“What?”

“Ask Dean, he knows. He’s been on the receiving end of it more than once.”

“No, I mean...” Castiel starts, finally looking up at Bobby, dumbfounded, “Why would you care?”

“You’re family, Cass, of course I care.”

“How can you say that? I’m the reason you’re dead.”

The words hang in the air between them. Bobby looks just as confused as Castiel feels.

“I’m the reason I’m dead. A hunter knows anytime you go out on a job, you might not be coming back. It’s part of the deal.”

“Had I not gone off on my own. Had I just listened --”

“Hey,” Bobby says, putting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, “You don’t know what would have happened if things were different. No one does. If you’re looking for me to blame you, Cass, I don’t. If you want me to be angry at you, I ain’t.”

“How can you not be angry?”

“Life’s too short to hold baggage you don’t have to,” Bobby says with a huff and a wry grin.

Castiel looks at Bobby’s hand still on his shoulder. He wishes he could feel it as he would have been able to back on Earth, if Bobby were still alive.

“Dean took me back to the salvage yard to pick out a car for me to drive,” Castiel says, looking back up at the man, “I picked your old Camaro.”

Bobby smiles, “I always meant to restore her when I got the time.”

“We have. Did. She looks brand new.”

“She’s a good car. She’ll last a lifetime, if you treat her right.”

“I do,” Castiel says, solemn, “I will.”

“I know you will,” Bobby says with a gruff laugh, “I’m glad you've got her, Cass.”

Castiel smiles as Bobby drags him in for a one-armed hug. He'd like to stay like this, enjoying this feeling, but the moment doesn’t last. It never does. Explosions erupt nearby, shaking the ground under their feet.

“What the hell was that?” 

Eyes searching the area once the ground beneath their feet settles, Castiel sees Pam and Ellen running back down towards them. Neither of the women have to say word as they come to a stop in front of Castiel and Bobby. Even Jack has rejoined them, eyes trained on the building. Castiel sees the shadows moving along the sides of the factory looming far above their heads. Wings spread as shrieks fill the air around them causing a shiver to run up Castiel’s spine. They’ve got company.

Chapter Text

The Winchesters have been gone for a couple days when Crowley gets a call from Abaddon, leaving Kevin stuck at home babysitting. The kid is outnumbered, but the natives have been behaving better than expected, especially for angels. Crowley doesn’t relish this meeting. He doesn’t have much in the way of leverage to help keep her on the line. With no word from Heaven and everything at a standstill, they’re all stuck in a holding pattern.

But Crowley has other reasons to loathe this particular visit. Months ago, when he had gone about securing an escape hatch for himself, Crowley had never envisioned becoming so conflicted about things. Business has always been just business, after all. Crowley has destroyed countless alliances and friendships at the drop of a hat for new deals or better positioning. It was all in a day’s work when he was a demon. As whatever he is now, however, things aren't so cut and dry.

He has grown attached to these moronic humans. The very idea is appalling to him, but nonetheless it’s true. Trudging along a muddy back road 40 miles northwest of Kansas City in the middle of the day, Crowley finds that, for the first time in centuries, he doesn’t know what to do. Abaddon summons him to a crossroads of all things. It’s fitting considering his current state of mind, however the former king of the crossroads finds no humor it. Abaddon is waiting for him, standing in the middle. Her eyes bore into him as he closes the distance between them.

“You’re late,” she says by way of greeting.

“It’s not easy to slip away unnoticed when everyone is up and about. That's why most wicked deeds are committed under the cover of darkness. It has the added bonus of being more dramatic that way too. Not that you're in for that sort of thing.”

The sun passes behind a denser cluster of clouds, dulling the scenery surrounding them more than the passage of autumn already has. Crowley would prefer it darker. Sunset. Midnight. Anything other than being trapped out in the daylight. It leaves him feeling exposed.

“We move out tonight,” Abaddon says, ignoring his sarcasm as she studies her red painted nails for imperfections, “I want you to lead the Winchesters' band of misfits out into the open.”

“All right.”

“There’s an abandoned town ten miles down this road,” Abaddon says, pointing to Crowley’s right.

“Abandoned?”

“Well, it is now.”

“Is that where the gate is?”

Abaddon’s plan, so far as Crowley has gathered, is two-fold. Yes, she wants to open a gateway to Hell to release the lords, but how she plans on doing that remains a mystery. When the gate opens, all manner of things evil will be waiting on the other side chomping at the bit to be released. Sometimes chaos can be a friend, and in this case, it will provide an excellent cover for the lords' escape.

Abaddon smiles, “The humans built a library of all things over it. The Winchesters' friends won't be making it that far I'm afraid. Lead them in, and my army will take care of the rest.”

“What about Sam and Dean?”

“The Winchesters won’t be making the return trip from Heaven.”

Crowley tries to cover his surprise. He hadn’t told her the Winchesters were up in Heaven yet. He must not manage to school his features quick enough. Abaddon laughs.

“Oh Crowley, you didn’t think I’d trust you completely did you?” Abaddon says, tutting at him.

“Who told you?”

“That doesn’t concern you. You have your orders. Carry them out, and you will have proven you are all that you promised you would be,” Abaddon says, getting in his face, “Cross me, and there will be no place for you to hide on Earth or in Hell where I won’t be able to find you. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.”

Abaddon disappears, leaving Crowley reeling. He starts back the way he came at a faster pace than before, spurred on by the sinking feeling in his gut. There’s too much going on. Too many moves being made. He can’t see the playing board clearly anymore. Right now, the only fact he knows is he is not the only rat sneaking around in the Winchesters' inner circle.

**********

Relief washes over Castiel when he spots Dean and Sam emerging back into Heaven. Jack had been distracted by the intruders every bit as much as the rest of them had. Whatever sense that told her the boys were ready to come back, must have jolted her out of her distraction. Jack had made a beeline to the wall where the sigil was still visible, scrambling to reopen her end of the door. It had started to glow as soon as her fingers touched it. The next thing Castiel knew, the boys were walking out with two other souls in tow along with Gabriel.

The archangel collapses upon reentry. Sam is only able to cushion his fall, half catching him by the scruff of his jacket. Gabriel looks worn out. They knew it would take a toll on him, but it is disconcerting to see his brother weakened to this degree. The only bright spot is, now that he’s back in Heaven, Gabriel should recover quickly. At least in theory. To Castiel’s knowledge, no angel has ever come back after death. They’re in uncharted territory here.

“What’s going on?” Sam asks as he helps Gabriel over to them.

Castiel’s eyes find the ridge above them again. There are at least thirty standing among the shadows cast from the building behind. The creatures haven’t moved. They stand along the edge as if waiting for a command to move. Or waiting for something else to arrive.

“Hell if we know. They just showed up and started the statue bit,” Bobby says.

“Waiting for us?”

“That’s what we’re guessing,” Ellen says, handing Dean two extra blades to give to the two new souls joining them.

It takes Castiel a second before he recognizes them as Dean and Sam’s parents. How John and Mary Winchester managed to find themselves in angel Heaven is beyond Castiel, but however it had occurred, he is glad Dean and Sam were able to get them out. It could not have been pleasant being the only two human souls trapped among Castiel’s brothers and sisters. Castiel gives Dean a probing look as he hands his parents the blades. Dean seems to be in good health, but he looks tired. The trip hadn’t served him any better than it had Gabriel, even if Dean is still on his feet. Dean must feel his eyes on him.

“This is my mom,” Dean says to Castiel, as a distraction, “Mom, this is --”

“So this is Castiel,” Mary says, smiling up at him as she gathers Castiel up in a hug.

His is slow to reciprocate, shocked to receive such a warm greeting from someone he hasn’t met before, “Hello Mary.”

Mary takes a step back to study him, hands still on Castiel’s shoulders, “I hope you’re taking good care of my boy.”

She jerks her head in Dean's direction, Castiel's eyes flicking to Dean before he looks back to Mary.

“As much as he’ll let me.”

Mary laughs, “Keep it that way.”

Dean has turned a shade of red Castiel would usually associate with a fire engine.

“Why’s he taking care of Dean?” John asks, looking Castiel up and down, appraising him.

Castiel stares back.

Mary smirks, patting John on the shoulder as she releases Castiel, “I’ll tell you later, honey.”

“How do you know?” Dean asks Mary, stuck somewhere between awe and embarrassment.

“A mother always knows,” Mary says, “That, and the angels kind of let the cat out of the bag.”

Dean’s eyes fall to the archangel resting on the ground near Sam, since Gabriel is the only one present to account for the others' actions as well as his own, but whatever he is going to say is interrupted by movement from up top.

“We’ve got incoming,” Ellen says.

Angels start popping up inside the crater less than 20 yards away from their gathered group. The winged creatures move after them, clambering down the rock paths, wings stretching. They stay stop, keeping their distance between them and the angels, almost like they’re afraid of them.

“Is that Jophiel?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel says.

Castiel grips the angel blade he had acquired after giving Dean his tighter, barely registering the other two angels as he glares at Jophiel. Heaven is shutdown to all angels. If an angel is here the only way they could have come home would be if Metatron allowed it. As if on cue, Metatron appears. Dean starts towards him like he’s going to attack him right then, but Sam grabs the arm of his jacket before he can do something stupid.

“Hello again.”

“You --” Castiel says.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m the bad guy here. You all hate me. Blah, blah, blah,” Metatron says, rolling his eyes, “As much as I’d like to indulge my dramatic tendencies --”

“More like douchey,” Dean says.

“-- with, what I assure you, would have been a masterful monologue, we’re on a bit of a time crunch. You know how it is. It’s hard to find good help.”

“Is that why you created those things?” Bobby asks, gesturing towards the creatures standing behind the angels, “Needed a little muscle?”

“They were an experiment,” Metatron says, glancing back at the charred looking beasts behind him, “Unfortunately, it wasn’t very successful.”

“That’s what you get for splicing together a demons and souls. It’s unnatural.”

Metatron shrugs, “What can I say? I’m a writer, not a scientist. We did learn a lot though. As it turns out, a more direct application of a soul’s energy is required.”

Bobby’s eyes go wide. Castiel isn’t sure what exactly is going on in Heaven, but Metatron's words struck a cord with him. Whatever it is, it must involve boosting a demon’s power. An army of demons running amok in Heaven with Metatron at their head is a sobering thought. It would have been a hard sell trying to recruit fallen angels to Metatron's side, even with the incentive of being allowed back home. Besides, lower level demons would be easier to control. The only thing worse than Metatron pulling their strings would be Abaddon controlling them...

“You said you were under a time crunch. What do you mean by that?” Castiel asks.

He thinks he already knows, but he wants Metatron to confirm it.  

“What I want to know is why are you here now?” Dean asks, before Metatron can say anything, “We’ve been trekking around Heaven for a while and I’m assuming Benedict Arnold over there told you we were here as soon as we touched down, if not before. What the hell do you want?”

Metatron only smiles at him, the lines around his vessel’s eyes creasing as it grows. He doesn’t answer either of their questions. He doesn’t move. Metatron stands still, the serene eye of a storm, as the rest of the world springs into action around him.

The angels attack first, the mass of hybrids quick on their heels to fill in any blank spots as they run towards them. It’s a whirlwind of slashing blades and flapping wings. Castiel finds Jophiel fighting with Bobby and Ellen. He had been the one to bring Jophiel in on their mission. It's his fault Metatron was alerted to their presence. He had left them open to this attack. It’s fitting that Castiel buries his blade deep into the angel’s back. Bobby and Ellen both hide their eyes as Jophiel flashes out, mostly out of habit, but Castiel watches. 

He lets the body drop to his feet, turning to find something else to fight as Bobby and Ellen meet another group of creatures. He keeps hacking his way through. It's tough going. Under normal circumstances demons are difficult to dispatch. These things are faster, their changing form making them hard to keep an eye on. A few times, Castiel swears he can see the face of the once human soul screaming as its form flashes across the face of the demonic monsters. The barrage of creatures is relentless. Metatron must be summoning more of them to him. There appears to be more now than there had been stationed along the ridge, keeping guard over them. Castiel’s blade strikes through another one, but two more are on him before he has time to turn away from the last, dragging him to the ground.

Struggling, he looks up, realizing too late he has fought his way farther from his group than he intended. A line of the creatures separates him from Dean and the others. He sees Dean’s head peak up over the line, eyes wide as he catches sight of Castiel sprawled on the ground. One of the creatures wrenches the blade from Castiel's hand, turning him over so that he’s lying on his back. They hold his legs and arms. Metatron comes into view overhead. It’s the first time he has moved since the fight began.

“You and I have an appointment to keep, Castiel.”

Metatron reaches down, grabbing hold of Castiel’s shoulder. The last thing he hears is Dean shouting his name before they disappear, flying away to points unknown.

**********

When he arrives back at the Barracks, Crowley finds Kevin sitting in the library finishing up the last of the demon bombs from the ingredients Charlie had been able to secure for them. He informs Kevin, the small tribe of what amounts to the leadership among the angels, and Abaddon's three former hostages a version of the Abaddon's plans, telling them where her army will be touching down. The news sends everyone into a suitable uproar as they scatter around the Barracks, readying themselves for battle.

“Have you heard from Sam or Dean yet?” Crowley asks the prophet.

“Not yet. Why?”

Crowley doesn’t answer. Grabbing Kevin, he drives them back to the Bunker to let Charlie know what’s going on. That isn't his primary goal, however. He convinced himself during his return trip from meeting Abaddon that he should give the Winchesters and their friends a fighting chance. It’s the sporting thing to do after all. And besides, he he owes them that much.

“We’ve got problems,” Kevin says, as he bounds down the Bunker’s stairs, Crowley following after.

“What’s up?” Charlie asks.

“Abaddon is moving in,” Crowley says.

“I thought you said we still had time.”

“Yes well, apparently Abaddon isn’t one for patience. Where are the Hardy boys and their wingless sidekick?”

Charlie glances between the two of them, “They’re not back yet.”

“When will they be back?”

“How should I know? It’s not like they gave me an itinerary for their Heavenly raid.”

“This is bad,” Kevin says, “This is really bad. What are we going to do?”

Kevin and Charlie have an edge to their voices, both on the tipping point of panic.

“First, we’re all of us going to take a deep breath. Relax,” Crowley says, watching as the two of them stare at him while they suck in air, “We need to get a message through to the great beyond. Ideas? Thoughts?”

“The angel tablet had stuff about sending messages from Earth to Heaven,” Kevin says slowly, “but that was mostly how angels are able to do it.”

“Anything we can replicate?” Crowley asks.

“I’m not sure. There are different kinds of spells, but the angels use their grace to broadcast somehow. It's all a matter of frequencies. Plus we’d need something powerful enough to get the signal out.”

Charlie smiles, “You’re speaking language, Kev. This place is old, but I think I can MacGyver some tech together. We need specifics.”

He looks on as the two of them get to work, running back and forth across the Bunker, bouncing in and out of various rooms and supply closets. Crowley glances down at his watch. It’s already late afternoon. They’re on the clock.

**********

“Cass!” Dean shouts, running through another one of these souled up demon things with Casitel's blade as he makes a break towards the spot where the creatures had been holding the fallen angel, but Metatron and Castiel are already gone.

“Dean, stop,” Sam says, grabbing at him.

Most of the other soul/demon hybrids are down as are the other two angels. The rest scurry off, beating a hasty retreat now that their master has flown the coop.

“Metatron has Cass!” Dean says, fighting against his brother's hold.

“I know.”

“He --”

“You’ve got to calm down, son,” Bobby says coming over to help Sam.

Dean must look like a wild animal right now, because that’s how Bobby is talking to him. He feels like it. He doesn’t know if it’s their connection or Castiel’s grace that’s stuck inside him or just Dean himself, but it’s like his body is screaming at him to move. To get to Castiel. To do something.

“We have to get him back,” Dean says, pushing against the hold Sam has on him.

Sam shakes him, making Dean look at him, “You’re not going to help Cass by running after him without a plan.”

Dean gets what Sam and Bobby are trying to tell him, but it’s Castiel’s life on the line and he can’t be rational about that. He has to be though, if he wants him back. Dean keeps his eyes on Sam, letting his brother’s steady presence anchor him. Dean stops pushing back.

“You good?” Sam asks, voice lowered and eyes watchful.

“No.”

“Stupid question,” Sam says with a half hearted smile, “You got it under control?”

“I think so.”

Sam lets him go. Bobby pats his shoulder giving it a firm squeeze as they both steer him back over to the rest of the group. John and Mary had been getting a quick introduction to everyone while Dean was having his breakdown. Ellen, Jo, and Pam have already moved off to keep a watch out for anymore attackers, leaving only Ash and Henry. Unfortunately for them, Dean isn’t the only Winchester in meltdown mode.

“You must be Mary,” He hears Henry say as his grandfather sticks out a hand to shake his mother’s hand, "I've heard a lot about you. Or read, rather."

“I’m sorry, have we met?”

Their grandfather had been helping Ash when they had arrived back. He’d been too shocked to see John to say anything before. He must have gotten over that.

Henry glances away, “I’m afraid not. I’m --”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. John lashes out at him, punching Henry square in the jaw. It sends Henry stumbling backwards. Dean grabs him before he falls to the ground, helping him right himself as Sam latches onto John. It’s weird having Sammy be the calm person in all of this. Out of the three of them, Sam had always been the one with the quick temper. Dad came in at a very close second.

“You son of a bitch,” John spits out.

If looks could kill, Henry would be dead again. Mary puts herself between the two of them, standing in front of John to try to help Sam get him back under control.

“What’s going on?” Mary asks.

“That’s my father,” John says, seething as he looks past her, “If you want to call him that. He ran out on me when I was a kid.”

“Dad, that’s not --” Dean starts, but Henry puts a hand up, stopping him.

“No, he’s right. I did leave him,” Henry says, pulling away from Dean, “But it wasn’t by choice.”

“Don’t give me that,” John says.

“He’s telling the truth,” Sam says, “We met him a year ago. He traveled through time, but he died before he could return."

Everyone is quiet for a moment. John turns to glare at Sam, breathing hard, but no longer struggling. Turning back, John studies Henry.

“That true?”

Henry only nods, eyes wide like he’s begging John to believe them.

“He was all set to go back, but I stopped him,” Dean says, “Abaddon had Sam, and Henry here died helping me save him.”

“Son --” Henry says.

John stiffens, “Don’t call me that.”

“John,” Henry says, correcting himself as he holds his hands up in a placating manner, “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I do not believe I deserve it. I left you. I didn’t want to, but that doesn’t matter. Your life was hard, and that was my fault. There are no words for how sorry I am.”

“John...” Mary says, putting a hand on John’s arm.

He flinches at the contact, turning to look at her. Something passes between them. Dean isn’t sure what it is, but John nods at her.

“You can let me go, Sam. I’m fine,” John says to Sam.

“You sure?”

John nods as Sam releases him. The five Winchesters stand there, staring at each other. Dean can’t imagine a more awkward family reunion.

“How do you know Mary?” John asks.

“He read your journal when he was with us,” Sam says.

It's silent and it's awkward and even under normal circumstances Dean would be looking for any exit out of this situation. These aren't normal circumstances.

“Look, we don’t have time for this,” Dean says, agitated.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Mary says, still watching John like he might go off again at any moment.

It’s not an unfounded assumption, but their dad seems to have come back to his senses, despite the glare he continues to throw Henry's way. Their grandfather, to his credit, ignores it completely and tries to keep a respectful distance. Dean knows what Henry wants most in the world is to grab hold of John and never let him go, everything else be damned. He can relate to that.

“We need to get to Metatron,” Dean says, turning to Bobby and Ash, “You guys know where he’s hiding out?”

“There’s another hub like this one, except bigger. We figured it was the main hub and most likely Metatron's base camp.”

“Can you get us there?” Dean asks.

“Gonna need some time,” Ash says, crouching back down to fiddle with his machine.

Minutes pass as Dean grows more anxious. Sam stays close by, like he’s afraid Dean might try to make a break for it. 

“This thing must be busted,” Ash says, hitting his contraption with his hand, “It’s picking up some weird signals.”

Garbled noises fill the air as Ash messes with the controls.

“The hell is that?” Bobby asks.

“I think it’s someone talking,” Sam says, leaning in closer.

Dean listens. It sounds like white noise to him, with blips of something interrupting the pattern periodically. With a twist of the wrist and another slap to the top of it, Ash manages to pick up the signal.

“-- your twenty? Breaker, breaker. That’s all the CB lingo I know. Um, ground control to Major Tom? Please tell me some of this is getting though.”

Ash grabs for the mic attached this his hodgepodge of a machine.

“Who is this? Is this coming from Earth? This can’t be coming from Earth,” Ash says, miffed, “Listen, you can’t just hack Heaven, sister.”

“Well apparently you can, because I did.”

“Charlie?” Dean says, taking the mic from Ash, “Charlie is that you?”

“Dean! We’ve got major movement down here. We need you guys back pronto. Have you found the archangel yet?”

“Yeah, but we’ve got problems up here too. Metatron’s using the souls to power something big," Dean says, refusing to mention that Castiel has been captured as well, "What’s going on?”

“Dean?” Crowley asks, taking over for Charlie, “Abaddon is making her move early. She’s heading towards the gate as we speak.”

“Damn it!” Dean shouts, throwing the mic to the ground as he stands up to pace.

Sam picks it up and gets more information out of Crowley while Dean does his best not to panic. They can’t leave. Metatron has Castiel and Dean is not leaving until that dick is dead and he has Castiel back. But they can’t let Abaddon get to that door, and they can’t be in two places at once.

Dean paces a while longer before catching sight of Gabriel standing off to the side. The archangel still looks a little green around the gills, but he had been able to make himself useful when they’d been under attack. Some of his mojo must be back or he wouldn’t have been able to get up off the ground let alone through a fight. After a moment’s deliberation, Dean marches over to Gabriel.

“Metatron’s a normal, run of the mill angel, right?” Dean asks, keeping his voice down.

“Sure. He might be a little off the scales as far as the megalomania goes, even by angel standards, but he’s no archangel,” Gabriel says, considering Dean, “Why? What are you planning, Dean-O?”

Dean ignores him, looking back to Sam, who’s growing more agitated by the minute.

“Look, you guys are going to have to hold them off until we get there,” Sam says running a hand through his hair.

“Tell them help’s coming,” Dean calls over to Sam.

“What? Dean --”

“Just tell them.”

“I guess Dean has a plan. Just hold tight,” Sam says, signing off.

“We need to talk,” Dean says, motioning for Sam to follow him.

They put some distance between them and where the others are gathered around Ash who is still fiddling with his machine.

Sam sighs, talking low, “We can’t be in two places at once, Dean.”

“I know. That’s why you’re taking Gabriel and heading down there. I’ll stay here and take care of Metatron.”

“What?”

“Sam --”

“You want to split up?” Sam says, shock and anger warring on his face, “I’m not leaving you alone to fight him, Dean.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Dean says, frustrated, “Sammy, listen, this is how it’s supposed to be. You were meant to lead an army of Hell, right? That’s what they kept preaching back when Lucifer and Michael wanted to hitch a ride with us. It's not exactly what they meant, but damn it if you’re supposed to lead an army, then lead one.”

"You want me to use my powers?"

"If it'll help. If it keeps you alive, yeah."

Shock wins as Sam stares at Dean, “You can’t mean that. After everything we’ve fought against. You want me to become a monster again just so --”

“No! Hell, no! That’s not --” Dean stops, trying to gather his thoughts, “You don’t get it, Sam. I’m not talking about going back on the demon blood or accepting Lucifer as your lord and savior or whatever. But I think we’ve been going about this the wrong way. All these years... We’ve been running from something we can’t out run. You’re not broken or unclean or whatever the hell else it is you think you are. Whatever's in you is still there, and I just...”

He trails off, not sure where he wants to go with all this. Too much is happening to quick.

“What do you want me to do, Dean?”

“Accept who you are,” Dean says, “And believe me, I know it’s hard. I’m not saying it isn’t. God knows I haven’t figured it out yet. But you’ve just-- Become what you want to be, Sam. Not what I want. Not what anyone else wants. Just you. You can’t choose the hand that life or Heaven or Hell is going to deal you, but you can choose how you’re going to play it.”

Sam shifts his feet, tears filling his eyes, “What about you? All those things you said. You’re not broken either, Dean.”

Dean snorts, “Jury’s still out on that one.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Sorry, it’s a knee jerk reaction,” Dean says with a shrug, “I’m supposed to be the Righteous Man, right? I guess I’ll know what to do when I get there.”

“Dean, I --”

“I know, Sam.”

Dean hugs his brother tight. They’re not stupid. They both know this might be the last time they see each other. He doesn’t want to let Sam go alone, but there’s nothing they can do. At least Dean is sending Sam with an archangel up his sleeve. He’s giving him the best shot he has to win. To survive. Dean lets him go. Sam heads over towards Gabriel, telling him the plan. The archangel shoots him a surprised glance as Dean approaches.

“You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Wonders never cease.”

Sam moves off to say a quick goodbye to everyone. Dean watches. Keeping his eyes trained on the sight of his little brother hugging Bobby and their parents as he leans towards Gabriel.

“Keep him safe.”

“I will.”

Dean expects a snappy comment, but Gabriel is as sincere as he has ever heard him. Dean gives him a weird look as Sam comes back up to them.

“Ready?” Sam asks Gabriel.

“Sure you two don’t need to hug it out one more time before we go? I wouldn’t want to cut short such a bromantic moment.”

Sam rolls his eyes, “Shut up.”

“I missed you too,” Gabriel says with a grin.

“Be careful, Dean,” Sam says, turning to look at him as Gabriel reaches out for his arm.

“You too,” Dean says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

There’s so much more he wants to say to Sam, but he figures his brother already knows everything he’d want to say. Sam’s lips quirk in a quick half-smile and then they’re gone.

Chapter Text

Crowley strolls down Main Street in his best black suit. It’s not the most expensive one he has ever owned. It doesn’t even make the top ten list. This particular suit is one of the last ones he had tried on that day all those months ago when he’d went shopping with Sam and Castiel. Abaddon hadn't been lying when she called this a small town. Easton couldn’t have had more than three hundred people living in it when she'd touched down and exterminated the townsfolk. The structures themselves were left untouched. Everything from the general store to the hometown savings and loan was left just as it was. It’s like a film set waiting for actors to fill it. Abaddon did some excellent work with this place. Even Crowley has to acknowledge her skill.

Behind him angels and the three humans tainted with demon blood follow his lead as they make their way through. Their footfalls against the paved road echo against the silent buildings, the only sound in this deserted place. They continue on, a solemn parade. It's the only kind one can have in a ghost town.

He isn't surprised when a mass of demons comes tromping out from one of the side streets, heading straight for them. There are too many to count, but it's clear the group behind him is outnumbered by a large margin. Crowley brings his flock to a halt. They stand, waiting as the demons saunter towards them, laughing and pointing at their diminutive ranks. Stepping forward to meet them, Crowley stops halfway as their leader puts a hand up for the demons to stand still. Veda is one of Abaddon’s favored lieutenants. She regards Crowley with contempt, coming out to the middle to meet him. She crosses her arms as she looks beyond him, taking in the ragtag team ready and waiting to fight. Veda laughs, tossing her long, black curls back out of her way.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. This is all the dreaded Winchester brothers could dredge up?”

Crowley shrugs.

“Step out of the way, Crowley,” Veda says, lips curling like a wild dog ready to attack, “I’ll take care of them myself.”

“You might want to rethink that. I know how pathetic they look,” Crowley says, gesturing towards the force gathered behind him, “but you know how hard it is to rally an entire army these days. There were scheduling errors. People didn’t show up where they were supposed to. And don't even get me started on finding transportation for all these people... Lets just say everything was a logistical nightmare.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“I’m saying this isn’t everybody.”

Veda sneers at him, “What? Is there another dozen people headed this way?”

“No, nothing that size,” Crowley says, leaning towards her, his voice dropping to a growl, “Try at least a hundred.”

“When will they be here?”

“Darling, it’s like I told you, scheduling issues... They're already here.”

Crowley smiles at the confused look on Veda's face. He always had a flair for the dramatic. With a flick of his hand, the store fronts and houses come to life. Doors fly open as hunters and angels file out, surrounding the horde of demons on all sides. Charlie had been on the phone ages ago, putting out the SOS call to every hunter in the Winchesters’ little black book and keeping them on call for this very moment. Crowley pulls an angel blade from his pocket and twirls it in his fingers, whistling a tune as more people file out of the buildings. When everyone is out, Crowley makes a show of doing a head count before turning back to Veda.

“What was that you were saying about taking them on all by yourself?”

**********

Sam hears the battle raging a few streets away. He’d sent Crowley as a diversion, leaving Sam and a smaller group of hunters and angels a clear path to the Eaton public library. It's not an impressive building, especially considering what's hiding inside. If there wasn’t a sign outside of it, you might not know the place was a library. The building is a simple, yellow brick rectangle of a structure with a small park situated next to it. Everything is still. The streets surrounding it are empty, just like they were when they'd arrived here hours earlier to prepare for Abaddon.

Kevin and Charlie walk along behind him, angel blades in their hands and demon bombs at the ready. There were only so many bombs to go around. Some of them went to Crowley’s barricade. The rest are split between Kevin and Charlie. They stop on the opposite side of the street, taking cover in one of the alleyways as they watch the library for any movement.

“Looks pretty quiet. Maybe nobody’s home,” Charlie says.

“We're never that lucky,” Kevin says.

“What’s the plan?” Gabriel asks from behind Sam, looking lively for a guy who’d been dead not that long ago.

Sam plans to find a way in through the back. It would make things easier if he could get himself and Gabriel in undetected. Sentries would be stationed outside, keeping watch for any stragglers making it out of Crowley’s fight or for any reinforcements Abaddon might call in once word hits they’re not fairing so well.

As if summoned by Sam’s thoughts, demons start pouring out of the library and into the streets. Apparently, Abaddon had the forethought to take out an insurance policy. It's not a surprise. Abaddon is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.

Gabriel leans towards him, “I’m guessing whatever Plan A was is a bust.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“You got a Plan B?”

Sam turns towards them, “Fight our way in?”

“That’s our plan?” Kevin asks, appalled, “That’s not a plan, Sam.”

“Go in guns blazing, huh? You Winchesters always were about as subtle as a hammer,” Gabriel says, smirking up at Sam.

“It always works out for us,” Sam says, “Most of the time... Some of the time.”

“Way to boost morale.”

“We know you’re out there, Winchester,” a voice calls out to them, drawing Sam's attention, though he can’t tell who it was through the crowd of demons, “Let’s get this over quick. We’ve got work to do.”

Sam looks back at the group gathered behind him. Some of the angels nod at him, while the rest watch, waiting for him to make the call.

“Kevin, Charlie, don’t let loose any bombs until you absolutely have to,” Sam says, “Gabriel and I will break the line and get through to the door. This might be all of Abaddon’s forces or there could be more on the way. Keep your guards up. Crowley and the rest will be here for backup once they finish up on their end.”

If there’s anyone left to join them. They had taken a gamble assuming Abaddon wouldn’t sniff out Crowley’s double cross and would send in most of her forces to meet that group. Between the bombs and their three new friends’ powers, they’d hoped it would give them enough of an advantage to take out the larger group of demons. Looking out at the mess standing between them and the library, they may have underestimated how many guards Abaddon would keep for herself.

The last rays of sunlight cast long shadows over the town. It will be dark soon, and without electric, harder to see. The demons had cut the power to the town long before any of them arrived. There will be no street lights on. No stray illumination will filter out from the windows of houses and businesses scattered along this street. It will make it harder to fight if this continues on into the night. The only light they’ll have is the moon, already up and just a little more than halfway full. It won’t be much, but at least it’s something. Sam takes a breath, turning back to the face the demons. He lets the breath go, and without another word, Sam steps out into the street.

**********

After Sam and Gabriel leave, Dean and the rest of their crew move out of the crater and back into the abandoned factory. Once everyone crossed the threshold, Dean is on Ash’s ass to get him an access point to Metatron’s main hub. While Dean and Sam had been scheming to get help to the others down on Earth, the souls of his family and friends had been doing their own planning. There are still stations to be taken down and now there is a whole army of those creatures on the loose in Heaven. They’re going to need everyone they can get to put all those things down. Much to Dean’s surprise Jack volunteers to help.

“You sure?” he asks her while he waits for word from Ash, “Thought this wasn’t your fight.”

“It’s not,” Jack says, “But what can I say? My schedule is free.”

Her voice is light, but a hard edge runs beneath the words. 

“Bingo,” Ash calls from his spot sitting cross-legged in front of his machine, “Give me a sec to write up the right angelic mumbo jumbo and you’ll be busting down Metatron’s door.”

Ash hops up, taking out a piece of chalk from the pocket of his jeans and starts drawing out Enochian on one of the steel metal doors. Dean takes a quick tour around, telling everyone goodbye. He wishes it didn’t have to be such a rush job, especially when it comes to Bobby and his parents. Mary hugs him tight, holding him longer than what would be considered normal. Not that Dean complains.

“Castiel will be all right,” she says in his ear, “From what I've heard, he’s a fighter.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Take care of yourself too. I don’t want to see you back up here for a good long while,” Mary says, pulling away from him, tears in her eyes, “You hear me?”

“Okay,” Dean says, forcing a smile.

“Be careful, son,” John says, grabbing hold of Dean, “Give ‘em hell."

“Yes, sir.”

“You ready?” Ash asks, finishing up the last few lines as he turns to look at Dean.

He nods as John releases him. Dean walks up to the chalk drawings as the others start heading down the hall and out the door that will lead them back into the city. Dean hopes they all stay safe. He doesn’t know what happens if a soul gets injured while in Heaven, if that’s even possible. It probably is, because why would their luck change now?

“Metatron is going to have warding up, but I doubt that dick thought to use anything strong,” Ash says, “Either way, you’re going to have to tap into some more soul power to push your way through.”

“Thanks Ash.”

Ash claps him on the shoulder, then gathers up his gear and joins the rest of the souls as they head off to fight. Dean faces the door, wrapping his hand around the cool metal of the doorknob. He closes his eyes when he opens the it, a bright white light blinding him. Drawing on whatever he has left in the tank, Dean steps through. He doesn’t feel too bad right now, but if he has to keep doing this, he’s going to wear out fast.

He can feel resistance. A physical pressure pushing him back. It takes more than it did to break into angel Heaven since he doesn't have the benefit of Jack easing his way through this time. Dean makes do, pushing harder. When he opens his eyes, he is standing at the bottom of a flight of stone steps. At the top is a towering building that looks like it was carved out of a humongous block of an ivory colored marble.

“I don’t get many visitors here,” Metatron says, standing in the dark doorway at the top of the stairs, “There’s a reason for that.”

“I’m just full of surprises,” Dean says, Castiel’s angel blade held at the ready in his hand.

Metatron descends the steps towards him, hands in the pockets of his gray, over-sized cardigan sweater.

“You’re really not that surprising, Dean. Of course you were going to come after Castiel. As far as narratives go, you showing up on our doorstep doesn’t qualify as a plot twist.”

Metatron is only a couple feet away. Dean rushes him, thrusting up with the blade as he goes, aiming for Metatron’s stomach. The guy might not be an archangel, but he’s no slouch. The angel dodges out of the way, producing his own blade as he makes his way down the last few steps. Dean turns, now a few heads higher than Metatron.

“What exactly is it you hope to accomplish here, Dean?”

“You bloody and dead at my feet for starters,” Dean says, descending the steps, eyes staying on Metatron.

Metatron backs away, blade held high, “My death isn't going to help you.”

“I think I’ll feel pretty damn good about it either way.”

“You don’t know what’s going on here. You don't have the whole story.”

“I know enough.”

“No, you don’t.”

The sounds of shouting can be heard echoing through the city, growing louder by the second. Far away, the hunters must be pushing the monsters back. What had once been a cacophony of shrieks coming from the creatures is almost inaudible now. The noise distracts Metatron for a split second. It’s all Dean needs. He launches himself at the angel, both of them crashing to the ground. Metatron’s blade goes skittering away. Dean keeps a tight hold on his.

“Sounds like you’ve lost your army,” Dean says, holding Metatron as Dean presses the blade against his throat.

“You think you’ve won.”

“Too bad you won’t be around long enough for the after party,” Dean says, ignoring him.

Metatron laughs as he tilts his head back. The sound sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. The movement gives Dean more access. It’s the last thing Metatron should be doing right now.

“You’ve got one hell of a cheery disposition for someone who’s about to die.”

Metatron looks up at Dean, “Kill me. The last image I’ll see is the look on your face when you realize just how badly you’ve lost.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Metatron says, grinning, “Where’s your angel, Dean?”

Dean presses the blade closer to Metatron's throat, “What have you done?”

Metatron just laughs. Dean rams the angel blade through, watching without blinking as the grace explodes out from his vessel. He stands, not sparing the body another glance as he takes off up the white granite steps. The ivory building looms over him, ominous.

“Cass?” Dean shouts into the darkness as he reaches the open door.

Silence greets him. Dean makes his way inside, cautious. There’s no movement amongst the deep shadows engulfing him as he makes his way. Blue lights shine at the end of the vast building. He knows what they are before he gets close enough to see them properly. He doesn't know why or how they got here, but Dean can feel the energy pulsing out from the lights. He sees the blue-white light of angelic grace shining out from tiny, individual compartments set into the stone walls. He starts running when he sees the outline of a body lying illuminated by the blue glow.

“Cass? Castiel!” Dean says, skidding to a stop as he crouches down next to the fallen angel’s prone form.

He feels along Castiel’s neck. There’s a pulse, and it’s strong. Some of Dean’s initial panic eases. Dean shakes him, but his body remains limp. He rolls Castiel onto his back, running his hand through the riot of black hair, pulling him into his lap.

“Dean?” Castiel murmurs, voice barely audible.

“Yeah, hey,” Dean says, smiling as he draws Castiel closer.

Dean is so distracted by the rhythmic raise and fall of Castiel’s chest, he doesn’t notice eyelids fluttering. A blazing blue light fills the room as Castiel’s eyes snap open. Dean is sent flying by a force he can’t see. He crashes back against a wall, the compartments rattle from the force of his impact. He lands in a heap on the ground, trying to get his breath back. By the time he gets himself sitting upright, Castiel is standing. He stares at Dean, the glow of his eyes less now, but the icy gleam in them raises every hair on Dean’s arms and the back of his neck. This isn’t Castiel.

“Oh, Dean,” the thing in Castiel says, smirking.

The voice is off. The gravely, low tones Dean is used to are gone. It’s lighter. Arrogant. There’s almost a lyrical quality to it.

“What are you?” Dean asks, trying to get his legs underneath him.

“Not what, who.”

“Who, then?”

“My name is Ramiel. I am one of the lost archangels.”

Dean uses the wall to stand, trying to hide how he’s holding his side, ribs throbbing, “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“So gruff, Dean. And after everything we’ve shared.”

“I wouldn’t share my French fries with you, asshat.”

Ramiel grins, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“What I am sure about is that you’re going to let Castiel go or --”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Ramiel asks, arms open as if inviting an attack, “You won’t hurt this body. I know you, Dean.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Of course I do. I’ve been around for all of it. From dragging you out of Hell all the way up to today. I've been here from the very beginning."

Dean stares at him, “So what, you were riding shotgun with Castiel all these years?”

“I've always wanted to give you more credit than you deserve, but you’re not the sharpest tool are you?” Ramiel says with a sad sigh, “There is no Castiel. There never was.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Castiel was a front. A screen for me to hide behind.”

“You’re lying,” Dean says, heart hammering in his chest.

There’s no way. There’s no damn way this thing standing in front of him was Castiel. Dean knows his angel. He knows Cass.

“Think about it. It’s the perfect situation. After Lucifer fell, there was a power struggle amongst the archangels. Why do you think Gabriel left?”

“He said he couldn’t stand all the fighting.”

“He left to save his own skin,” Ramiel says, “Raphael fell in line behind Michael. And the rest of us... Well, I was the only one that survived, and I did that by hiding in plain sight.”

“How?”

Ramiel smiles, “I think you already know the answer to that, Dean. You’re just unwilling to admit it.”

The memory wipes. Castiel didn’t remember whole sections of his past. Those memories had been taken from him to keep Castiel towing the company line. To control him. But what if it was because they didn’t want him remembering what he was? Who he was.

“Yes Dean,” Ramiel says, as if he’s reading his thoughts. Hell, he might be, “Metatron simply rebooted me.”

“No.”

“It was all part of the plan. With the other archangels out of the way, I can take over.”

“Gabriel’s still --”

“Down on Earth fighting a battle at half-strength. He’ll be easy to take care of,” Ramiel says, turning away from him, “Speaking of which, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut our little chat short.”

Dean watches as he moves along the wall, the blue glow casting dark shadows over his features. Ramiel bends once he makes his way behind the stone altar standing lone watch over these lost bits of grace. When he straightens, he’s holding a large glass jar, gleaming bright white. It’s filled to the brim with human souls. Bobby and the other hunters must not have been quick enough trying to shut those stations down.

“The hell are you going to do with that?”

Ramiel stares at the jar in his hands, walking out towards the exit, “That’s none of your concern.”

When he gets close enough, Dean tries to grab at what he can, be it Ramiel or the jar. He doesn’t make it. Ramiel sends him flying back against the wall again. Dean slides down, clutching at his left side. If his ribs weren't cracked before, they are now. A hand grabs at his hair, pulling his head up. Ramiel is right in his face, studying him. Dean tries not look at him. He doesn’t want to see this guy wearing Castiel’s face. Doesn’t want to see those eyes when it’s not Castiel looking through them. Dean doesn’t want to think that maybe he'd never really seen Castiel at all.

“We’ve been through much together, you and I,” Ramiel says, voice low.

It almost sounds like Castiel. Almost. Dean remembers him saying those words to him before. It’s crushing. He tries not to let it show just how much. Dean glares up at him as defiant as he can manage.

“Dean,” Ramiel says, and damn if that doesn’t sound like the Castiel he knows from all those moments in the Men of Letter’s garage fixing up the Camaro or their stolen moments in the back rooms of the Bunker.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you make me,” Ramiel says, “I have business to attend to. Be a good boy, and stay out of trouble. If you do, maybe I’ll call off my dog and let Sam live.”

“Your -- ?”

“Abaddon, Dean,” Ramiel says, like he’s talking to a particularly dimwitted pet, “Abaddon was a hired gun, right? My people hired her. There have been many recruited to the cause over the years. Metatron and Naomi were just the top of the list. Granted, she did try to defect at the last minute.”

“This plan has been in the works for centuries. We’ve had to call a few audibles, but for the most part,” Ramiel says, releasing Dean’s hair, letting his fingers slide down to caress Dean’s cheek, “everything has went off without a hitch.”

Dean turns away, Ramiel’s fingers ghosting along his jawline, tilting his head back up towards him. He waits until Dean looks at him.

“Will you stay here for me? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The way he’s looking at Dean... For a second, he can almost convince himself that he’s Castiel again. Dean doesn’t answer. He can’t speak. Can barely think. Those blue eyes are staring at him, like they’ve done so many times before. For a wild moment, Dean thinks Ramiel is going to kiss him. Blue eyes flick down to Dean’s lips for a moment, but then he’s gone. Dean lets himself drop the last few inches to the floor. He lies crumpled on the cold stone of this angel mausoleum, unable to move.

Chapter Text

Castiel’s connection to his body is fading. The longer the archangel possesses him, the less control he’ll have. For now, Castiel sees everything that’s going on. He feels everything Ramiel feels. He sees the look on Dean’s face when the archangel lies to him. The hurt. The betrayal. Dean looks lost as Ramiel turns away. Confused. Broken. And there is nothing Castiel can do. He screams inside his own head, trying to get out. Trying to get to Dean.

“Will you please calm down, Cassiel? You’re making it hard for me to think.”

Castiel had only learned of the existence of the other archangels a few short months ago. He had never seen his older brother before in either his true form or in that of a vessel. The archangel comes to him in a human form. He wonders if the image he sees in front of him is an image of a man from the line of vessels destined for Ramiel’s use had he ever been in need of one. Ramiel stands before him in a grey suit. His wavy brown hair slicked back as dark brown eyes stare him down, calculating.

“Why did you lie to him?” Castiel asks.

“To prove a point.”

“What point?”

Ramiel sneers at him, putting his hands in his pockets, “You saw Dean Winchester’s face when I told him you weren’t real. All that pain and sorrow, but did you see any disbelief in his eyes?”

“He didn’t believe you.”

Dean wouldn’t. He couldn’t, could he? After everything they’ve been through. After everything they’ve become to each other. Castiel refuses to believe Dean would give up on him now.

“You don’t know that for sure though, do you?” Ramiel says, coming closer, “I can access your memories, Castiel. How many times has Dean left you in the past?”

“Don’t.”

“He believes you were a lie. A dream. A figment of my imagination. Dean won’t come for you.”

Castiel glares up at him, “And that’s what you need isn’t it? If you’ve looked into my memories, then you know what Dean is capable of. You know what he and Sam have managed to do even when they’re up against the worst of odds.”

“Very good, Cassiel,” Ramiel says with a grin, “You always were one to think outside the box. Our Father was right. You really are different. Special.”

Ramiel says the last word as if it were a personal slight.

“What does God have to do with this?”

“What doesn’t he?” Ramiel asks, pacing back and forth in front of Castiel like a teacher at the front of a classroom, “I’ll forgive you your lack of understanding. Those memories were wiped from you a long time ago.”

“By Naomi.”

“By God,” Ramiel says, correcting him, “Everything begins and ends with our Father, Cassiel. We -- I just took his idea and ran with it.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Castiel asks as he tries to sit up straighter.

“Ask me a different question.”

Castiel furrows his brow as he studies the archangel. Playing Ramiel’s games might be grating, but it has kept him talking. It’s keeping him somewhat distracted. It’s the only advantage Castiel has at the moment. He can no longer see where they’re at. Ramiel is blocking any sensory input from his body.

“Why would God erase my memories? I was just a --”

“A what? A soldier?” Ramiel asks, tutting and shaking his head, a rueful smile pulling at his lips, “Oh my dear, sweet little brother, do you truly think God would go out of his way to bring you back so many times from the brink of oblivion if you were just a simple soldier?”

“I was helping the Winchesters. God always wanted the angels to help humanity, not usher them along the path to destruction. I was doing what He commanded. The majority of the time, anyway.”

“You always did love them. No matter how many times we wiped your memories or played with your factory settings, you always default to this. That right there is why you were his favorite,” Ramiel says, tone bitter, “For eons it was Michael and Lucifer. Then Lucifer fell and with him so did many of our brothers and sisters.”

“I know this story,” Castiel says, fighting to keep some level of control.

“God had been distraught after the fall and Michael’s self-imposed solitary confinement,” Ramiel says, ignoring Castiel, “He thought he’d try again. Create more life to fill the hole left by the ones he’d lost. He wanted to improve on the older models. Try to fix what had gone wrong, and thus a new archangel came into existence.”

“You.”

“Yes, I was the oldest of what would become the three newest archangels. But God, ever the mad scientist, felt the formula still needed some tweaking, which resulted in creation of the archangel Anael,” Ramiel says, “Who you knew quite well.”

Castiel tries to hide his shock. While the Anael Castiel had known had been a formidable angel and the leader of Castiel’s garrison, that did not equate to the level of an archangel. After eons of service, Anael chose to fall to Earth by tearing out her grace. She was reborn as a human child, who Castiel would later meet when she was an adult and come to know by her human name, Anna Milton.

“Anael never did take well to the memory alterations. Not even God’s. Our sister was broken long before she fell to Earth, I’m afraid. The retraining she received from Heaven after regaining her grace was enough to shatter her completely, which I believe you are to thank for that.”

Ramiel’s barb hits its mark, but Castiel doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. The blame falls on him for what happened to Anna. Whatever pain, torture, and brainwashing she endured was his fault. He handed her over. It’s just one more thing on a long list of regrets Castiel has to live with.

“But, even after Anael, God still wasn’t happy,” Ramiel says, continuing with his story after a pause, “You see, he’d given Anael just the tiniest streak of free will. It was an experiment, really.”

“Where is the third?” Castiel asks, tired of being strung along.

Ramiel smiles, opening his arms wide, “In here.”

“That’s why you keep calling me, Cassiel,” Castiel says, more annoyed than anything, “You think I’m him.”

“I don’t think, dear brother, I know,” Ramiel says, “The last angel to be brought into existence. Graced by God with the most free will out of any of us to do with it what he would. And my, the choices you have made.”

Castiel stares at him. Ramiel has been out of touch and not truly connected to his grace for who knows how long, clinging on to existence by the tiniest of threads. He isn't the most reliable or sane source of information. He can't be, because Castiel doesn't want to consider the implications. But how can he know if he's lying? There are so many holes in Castiel's memory. There's so much of himself he has been forced to question since the angels fell. In truth, he hasn't been sure who he was for a long time now.

“I always thought that’s why you were so infatuated with humanity. You see more of yourself in them than you ever have your fellow angels. Your family. You choose them every time. Memories or no, you will always pick humanity over your brothers.”

“I’m not him,” Castiel says through gritted teeth.

“The truth does not hinge upon your belief in it, Cassiel.”

Silence falls between them. Castiel searches for another train of thought. For some other question. The weight of Ramiel's claims about Castiel’s past makes it difficult. The confusion and panic work to scatter him further, and he can’t let that happen. He has to keep control.

“How did you get in?” Castiel asks, “I’m human now. I'm subject to all the rules regarding angels and their vessels. You would have needed my consent.”

Ramiel blinks at him, put off balance by the sudden change in the conversation.

“Metatron did not simply strip your vessel of your grace. He used it to power mine, and slipped me in during the process.”

“Why?”

“You mean, besides exploiting that obvious loop hole?” Ramiel asks, “Let’s call it an incubation period. I’ve been so long without a body of my own, corporeal or otherwise, I needed to ease back into it. I required another archangel’s grace. You were the only one left.”

"You were leeching off of me," Castiel says.

“Harsh words, but yes. Metatron left a small portion of your grace in you to keep you and your vessel going long enough for me to take hold. And, thanks to your human, I had all the time in the world to concentrate on growing stronger while he took the brunt of what would have been my part time job of keeping you on life support,” Ramiel says, leering as he leans in close to Castiel’s face, “I really should thank him for that, don’t you think?”

Castiel jerks towards him in an attempt to lash out at Ramiel, but his limbs feel like dead weight.

“Stay away from Dean."

Ramiel laughs, “What are you going to do? You’re a ghost trapped in the back of my mind now, Cassiel.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“And soon you won’t even be that. What’s left of you will burn away, and I'll be the only one left. As it should be.”

Castiel puts all his strength into lunging at the archangel. Instead, he falls face first back down against the inky black surface he’s lying on. There are no surroundings here to speak of. It’s all void. Ramiel stoops down next to him, as Castiel raises his head up enough to glare at him.

“You’ve been such a good host, Cass. I suppose I could keep Dean as a pet after I’m done consolidating the different planes of existence. Would that make you feel better? After all, even if I kill Dean, his soul will still belong to me, as will all the souls spread across these realms.”

“Don’t --”

Ramiel stops him, grabbing his throat. Even in this projected form of existence the lack of air hurts. The archangel is baring down on what’s left of Castiel’s grace. How could it not?

“Imagine Dean Winchester in chains at my feet. I can see from your memories that you’ve found him very diverting over the last few months,” Ramiel says, sneering, “Perhaps he can amuse me in much the same way.”

“You won’t touch him,” Castiel manages to choke out.

Ramiel releases him, turning away, “I will do as I please.”

**********

Castiel watches as Dean stands waiting for the hellhounds to come around the bend, angel blade gripped in his hand so tight his knuckles have turned white. He can sense Dean’s fear. These are the beasts that had hauled his soul down here, leaving his body tattered and torn. Castiel would not have blamed Dean if he had runaway and left him here alone. He expected it. There existed no loyalty between them. They’d only just met a few hours ago by Hell’s time standards. But Dean stayed behind, and Castiel has no idea why.

This is more than he would have expected, even from ‘the Righteous Man.’ Yes, he had anticipated a certain level of bravery and decency, but this goes beyond that. This human soul has been beaten, tortured, and trained to do the same to others. He should be beyond help or repair. Instead, here he stands, still willing to fight to protect another because he thinks it’s the right thing to do. Heaven may not believe this man is worth saving no matter the cost, but Castiel does.

The hellhounds charge at Dean as the pack tumbles into their part of the tunnels. Castiel and Dean had made it far enough up through the layers of Hell that Castiel can feel himself getting stronger as each second ticks by. He tries to gather what strength he has as the hounds descend upon Dean, knocking him to the ground. He recovers quickly, slicing through the first two hellhounds, killing one and injuring the other. The beasts move with more caution on their next attack, sensing this particular denizen of Hell will not go down without a fight.

Dean runs at them, using the element of surprise to catch one of the hounds off guard. It falls to the ground as the remaining beasts attack Dean all at once. He yells out as they slam him to the ground. Castiel can no longer see him, his soul obscured by a writhing mound of dingy hair and snapping jaws.

“Dean!” Castiel shouts, struggling to drag himself off the ground.

Two more hounds go down. Dean keeps fighting despite his disadvantage. The hellhounds clamber over the bodies of their fellows, desperate to get at their prey. Castiel can see flashes of his angel blade and Dean’s arm as he attacks. The fact that their meal is putting up such a fuss seems to confuse the hounds.

Castiel stumbles over, throwing one of them off Dean. He flings it down the corridor, the beast crashing against one of the stone walls with a thud before collapsing to the ground. Castiel hears Dean scream as claws tear through one of his arms, the fallen hunter still slashing away, despite the pain. He manages to kill one more as Castiel smites another two. Sensing a turn in the fight, the rest of the hounds run off. Castiel falls to his knees next to Dean, watching as the beasts retreat, their growls and snarls now reduced to yelps and whines.

“You’re not too bad in a fight, Castiel,” Dean says, looking up at him, “Coulda used you a few times when I was topside.”

It's the first time Dean calls him by his name. There is red everywhere, drenching Dean as it spills out onto the ground beneath him. While the blood might be an illusion, the damage done to Dean’s soul is all too real. He can see it. The energy he wasted protecting Castiel is nothing compared to what he has lost due to his injuries. To what he is still losing.

“When I get you back in your body, perhaps I can go on a hunt with you.”

Dean laughs, but stops as he grips the deep claw marks on his left side, “Instead of the angel on my shoulder, you’d be my angel riding shotgun? You’ll have to fight Sammy for that spot.”

Castiel puts his hands on Dean’s wounds, doing his best to heal the damage. It’s painstaking work. Either he is still too weak to be of any real use or Dean’s soul isn’t willing to accept it. Castiel keeps trying, doing his best to keep Dean talking while he works.

“Riding shotgun?”

“Yeah, you know, the passenger seat? In a car? Please tell me you know what a car is.”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel says in a huff, bordering on amusement, despite their current situation, “I know what a car is.”

“You’d love my ride,” Dean says, closing his eyes, his smile turning wistful.

“Tell me about it,” Castiel says.

“Not it, her,” Dean says, eyes snapping open, offended.

Castiel pauses to glance up at Dean’s face, trying to hide the grin pulling at his lips at the indignant look Dean is giving him.

“My apologies. Tell me about her. Please.”

Dean launches into a description of the car. He pauses throughout, the pain overwhelming him for a moment until he can continue. More than once, Castiel has to badger him to keep going. He only half listens to Dean’s rambling, concentrating instead on patching the hunter up enough to finish their journey. 

“And Cass, the way she shines in the sunlight, it’s the most gorgeous thing you’ll ev --” Dean stops short, gasping in pain as he rolls on to his side.

“I need to get you out of here,” Castiel says, trying to keep the edge of panic out of his voice.

Dean groans as he tries to get up, falling back to the ground with a grunt, “I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”

“Not under your own steam, no,” Castiel says, gathering the hunter to him.

“Cass --”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Dean says, a small smile gracing his features, “Besides, between everything I’ve done down here and some of the stuff I did upstairs, I shouldn't be allowed out of here. I don't deserve it. Hell, I don’t even deserve the chance to meet something as awesome as you.”

“Me?”

“I guess at least I got to do one good thing down here,” Dean says, either ignoring or not hearing Castiel as he tries to reach up to touch one of Castiel’s wings, “Probably not too many people can say that.”

“None at all, I’d imagine,” Castiel says, his voice quiet as he dips his left wing lower to let Dean’s fingers run through the feathers.

Dean is the first one to ever touch them, human or otherwise. Touch, at least in the human sense of the word, is not something angels do. Castiel’s chest constricts from something he can’t quite name as he watches Dean’s eyes light up, awestruck as his fingers slide through the soft feathers, their metallic sheen shining in the dim orange light.

“I’m glad it was you.”

Dean’s eyes close a few seconds later, his hand dropping limp at his side. Castiel shakes him. He yells Dean's name. He keeps healing what he can, but nothing works. Castiel has failed in his mission. Dean Winchester can’t be brought back. Castiel is supposed to let him go. He has to leave him here. It’s not right, but those are his orders.

Castiel stops trying to heal him. He stops and stares at Dean, that tightness in his chest building until he can’t stand it anymore. Castiel’s anguished wail shakes the very ground beneath them. His brothers and the demons they fight somewhere up above will have been able to hear it. He doesn’t care. Let them hear. Everyone, everywhere should know of the horrible wrong that has taken place here.

Castiel isn’t sure how long he sits there. He knows he should leave, but he can’t. He won’t. Dean Winchester is his charge. His responsibility. Castiel gathers the hunter up in his arms. Dean leans against him, head resting against his shoulder. Castiel wraps an arm around his waist as one of his hands settles on Dean’s left arm to steady him. To keep him close. Castiel buries his head in Dean’s neck and weeps.

It starts before Castiel is even aware of what’s happening. It’s a shock when his hand locks onto the spot where he is gripping Dean's arm close to his shoulder. It keeps him anchored to the hunter. He couldn’t let go if he wanted to. Castiel has heard of angels making claims on human souls. It’s frowned upon and down right forbidden depending on the circumstances. There are so many steps and rituals to make a claim. Not only that, it requires consent from both parties, and so far as Castiel is concerned, Dean is in no shape to give it.

Dean’s soul, on the other hand, must disagree. Whatever is left of him isn’t just latching onto Castiel, it's offering itself to him. Castiel hesitates, but in the end he decides not to question it. Not if it could help save this man. He helps forge the bond between them, searing his claim throughout Dean’s soul. The feeling is almost overwhelming. Flashes of Dean’s life bombard their connection, and Castiel has to push it aside to keep himself from getting lost in it.

Once forged, the claim gives Dean a lifeline, but through this new connection, Castiel can feel how truly damaged Dean is. He will need more to get out of here intact.

“You had better be worth it, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says.

Their bond flares as Castiel pushes some of his grace into Dean. He gives him as much as he can, but this kind of connection was never intended to be used in this way. An angel’s grace was never meant to be given to a human. It leaves Castiel even weaker than before.

Castiel draws on the last of his strength to burst through the last levels of Hell. It's a dangerous decision that could cost them both their lives, but with his strength draining fast, it's the only option Castiel has. He holds Dean tight in his arms, the words “Dean Winchester is Saved” ringing through Heaven and Hell as they breach the surface. He has just enough energy left to rebuild Dean’s body and anchor his soul back in before he’s spent. Castiel collapses unseen in the field Dean’s body was buried in, lacking even the strength to remove the Earth covering the man’s coffin.

Castiel looses track of time after that. He finds himself back in Heaven, brought back by angels sent to collect him. He wonders if Dean has managed to claw his way out of his coffin yet. Castiel isn't sure how long he’s been up here. Days in Heaven can be minutes down on Earth. Castiel is punished for his disobedience, then brought to a room with a white chair that reclines back. An angel in a female vessel with her hair pulled back in a tight bun is there to greet him.

Chapter Text

“Must this be so damn messy?” Crowley asks no one in particular as he finishes off yet another demon.

The inevitable spray of blood as he severs the carotid artery of this demon's meatsuit lands right on him, leaving blood across the front of him. This is why he always wore an apron while torturing. Cleanliness is next to godliness and all that.

“We must make our way towards the library,” says one of the angels fighting near him.

Crowley thinks he remembers the guy saying his name was Gadreel or something ridiculous like that. God must have hated these divine dingbats considering the kind of names he saddled them with. This Gadreel character had become the de facto leader for all the fallen angels once Jophiel flitted off to who knows where. Crowley has his suspicions about that timely departure, but he keeps them to himself. If the former leader of half of these winged nut jobs was the rat leaking information to Abaddon, then he’s already done all the damage he can do. Besides, Crowley thought it best not to upset the troops prior to battle, especially when it's his ass they're helping to cover as they hack their way through these demons.  

“Thank you for your input,” Crowley says, slicing through another demon as he turns toward Gadreel, “but we’re a little busy at the moment, if you haven’t noticed.”

Unnecessary as the comment is, Gadreel isn’t wrong. They do need to get moving. Crowley had been spying on Abaddon’s operations for months now, and even he is amazed at how many demons keep coming out of the woodwork in an attempt to overrun them. Their hodgepodge of an army keeps slashing, the sunlight fading fast. Between a few well timed attacks with Kevin’s homemade demon bombs and the demon blood kids’ soul charged powers, they finally see the end of the demons.

Screams and shouts can be heard a few streets over, growing louder as what’s left of Crowley’s group rushes off to rejoin Sam, Kevin, and the rest. The carnage surrounding the library isn't any better than the scene they left over on Main Street. It’s hard to see now that the sun has set, but Crowley catches a glimpse of Charlie and a few angels whose faces he recognizes fighting in front of the library. He doesn’t see Sam or Kevin anywhere. He doesn’t see Abaddon either. Surely she has crashed their party by now. He keeps searching as he fights, his group spreading out as they're absorbed into this new battle. The fighting continues, tedious as ever.

Crowley has never been one for this sort of thing even at his most demonic. Some part of him is still astonished to find himself here, fighting alongside fallen angels and hunters because the Winchesters asked it of him. Asked for his loyalty. His friendship. This had never been his intention. Crowley had planned to see who had best odds to come out on top, then throw his allegiance to their side at the last minute. Instead, here he was, all in with these humans and angels, everyone of which he would have killed without batting an eye less than a year ago.

While Crowley had been scheming and plotting he managed to find something he had been looking for his entire existence. He has somewhere he belongs. These people had been willing to take him in not for who he was, but in spite of it. He doesn’t know what you call that. It might be friendship or love or family. Crowley wouldn’t know. He only knows when Abaddon commanded him to lead everyone to their deaths, he couldn’t do it. They may not win tonight. Odds are they will all be dead by morning, but when push came to shove, that prospect had meant less to him than watching demons slaughter his friends. Crowley has friends. Maybe miracles do happen. Horrifying, inconvenient miracles at any rate.

He stumbles over bodies as he attacks, unsure if they're friend or foe. The ground is dripping with blood, streams of it snaking down the streets and sidewalks. The only lights left in the town are the intermittent flare ups of orange and blinding, blue tinted white light of demons and angels flashing out as they die. The half full moon sits high in the sky, watching the massacre below, its diminished light only a marginal help.

Crowley has two demons he's dealing with when one of the bombs goes off a few yards to his right. Crowley turns to see Kevin dropping his bag, apparently out of ammo. The kid has an angel blade in his hand, but the demons not within range of his last bomb swarm him. Crowley makes a break for Kevin, cutting a path through the forest of demons, trying to reach the prophet. He makes it, helping Kevin push the demons back to a more breathable distance.

“Where have you guys been?” Kevin asks, as he blocks a jab.

“Partying on a yacht off the south of France. Where do you think?”

“Sorry,” Kevin says a little winded as he runs his blade through another demon, “It’s been a long day.”

“And it's going to be a long night,” Crowley says, slashing out at two demons trying to attack in his blind spot.

It occurs to Crowley his presence might be more hindrance than help in his endeavor to keep the prophet alive. He is known by every demon here. He was their king once. He has always had a price on his head, but since his ousting by Abaddon, the target painted on his back has only gotten bigger. Crowley and Kevin can’t keep up the pace forever, and the demons know it. The crowd surrounding them presses in as if they mean to crush them under the sheer weight of their mass.

A demon bomb goes off in the middle of the demons gathered around them, diverting everyone’s attention as a chunk of them are blown to oblivion, the ash scattering in the breeze. Charlie must not have run out of bombs quite yet. Crowley takes in the remaining demons, trying to work out a more advantageous position for him and Kevin. In the seconds after the blast, the demons stand there, dumbfounded at the sudden loss of so many of their comrades.

All of them except one. He recovers quicker than his fellows. Crowley watches, everything moving in slow motion like a movie playing at half speed. There’s a gleam in the demon’s black eyes, his lips curled in a snarl as he lunges for Kevin. The prophet is frozen in place like the rest, still staring at place where the mob of demons had once stood. The knife is inches from his back. Kevin will never see it coming.

And he doesn’t see it. Kevin's eyes are wide as he falls to the ground, his body colliding hard against the unforgiving asphalt. Kevin stares up at Crowley in shock. He can’t blame the kid. Crowley is just as shocked to see the knife the demon had been carrying buried deep in his own stomach, Crowley's arm still outstretched from pushing the prophet out of harm's way. The demon wrenches the knife out of Crowley as he rams the angel blade through the demon’s neck. Crowley watches the dark haired demon flash out even as he falls to the ground.

Crowley drops the angel blade, hand clutching at his abdomen. It comes back drenched in red. He hears the shouts and movement starting again. The world righting itself as time rushes back in to catch up, leaving Crowley behind. He lies back, eyes on the sky. The moon stares back at him, one still body regarding the other. He feels the cold blood pooled on the ground from the meatsuits left behind by the slain demons seeping into his clothes, his own still warm blood starting to mix in with it. There will be no getting these stains out of his suit.

**********

Sam looses track of how long they’ve been fighting. He keeps close to Gabriel, concerned he might start to loose ground, his powers still not up to snuff. He doesn’t. Sam has never seen Gabriel fight. Even though he’s still not all the way back, he moves so fast Sam has a hard time keeping track of him. Gabriel cuts through demon after demon, a determined and focused look on his face unlike anything Sam has ever seen out of the former Trickster.

He realizes this is Gabriel, archangel of the Lord. This is the archangel Castiel and the rest of the angels remember from back before the Apocalypse and the turmoil in Heaven. Back maybe even before humanity was around. Sam would be too awestruck to move if it wasn’t for the constant deluge of demons attacking from every front. Simon blows by them at one point, flanked by a group of fallen angels, using his powers to hold the demons back as the angels attack. Tracy and Ted are nowhere in sight, lost somewhere in the swarm of bodies.

Sam finds using his powers a lot like riding a bicycle. It’s been years since he tried to access them, but the muscle memory is still there. It’s weird. He had spent so much time pushing it away, it feels like a release the first time he holds out his hand to stop a demon from stabbing one of the fallen angels in the side.

It takes effort, but he is even able to send a few demons back to Hell like he used to when he had been running around with Ruby. Sam expects the headaches and the nosebleeds to make an appearance, having long since associated the pain with using his powers. Using his soul instead of the demon blood makes all the difference in the world. With the exception of wearing him out faster the more he uses them, he experiences no other side effects. He doesn’t rely on them however, cautious of how exhausting it is. With some practice Sam might be able to hold out longer, but now isn’t the time. Tonight is all about endurance.

Gabriel and Sam stay near the library, trying to keep it within sight, watching and waiting for Abaddon to appear. She doesn’t disappoint. Sam misses her entrance, but he sees the bodies she leaves in her wake and catches sight of her as she blasts open library’s front doors with a flick of her wrist.

“Gabriel!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel says, impaling one demon with his blade as he smites another with his left hand, “I saw her.”

They make their way towards the steps. Some of the fallen angels nearby get the idea and help clear a path. Gabriel leads the way inside, the interior of the library just as plain as the outside.

“Hell of a way to decorate a gate to Hell,” Gabriel says, voice quiet as they close the door behind them.

The click of the door echos through the building. Both of them wince at the sound.

“Did you want them to put up a welcome to Hell sign over it?” Sam asks in a whisper, “Maybe a stained glass depiction of Lucifer in one of the windows?”

Gabriel shrugs, “You say that like it isn’t a thing that exists somewhere.”

“Does it?”

“Considering you humans, probably,” Gabriel says, glancing back at him, “I’d look great in stained glass by the way.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

Abaddon isn’t hard to find. They can hear her chanting the minute they hit the main part of the library, her voice loud as it carries through the building. It’s some dialect Sam has never heard before, but it sends Gabriel sprinting through the rows of books. Sam chases after him. They make their way through the stacks, the books standing silent guard as they pass. They come to an abrupt stop towards the back of the library. Abaddon stands in front of what used to be some sort of monument, possibly a statue of some kind.

Now it’s an carved stone slab, flanked by the stone remains of whatever had been on top of it. It's glowing a deep red as Abaddon stands next to it, raising her arms as she finishes the last line of whatever incantation she's reciting. She turns her head and smiles at them as the glowing, red stone falls away, almost melting. Billows of what looks like black smoke fills the air, rushing past Sam and Gabriel. It tears through the library, leaving destruction in its wake as it busts through doors and windows to the world waiting outside.

**********

Kevin drags Crowley out of the street and onto the sidewalk away from the battle. Whatever demons that had been attacking them have since been distracted by the others, the fight having moved off away from them. Crowley keeps touching his wound like a curious kid with a new toy. He doesn’t seem bothered much by the fact he’s bleeding out. Kevin swats his hand away, shucking his button up shirt to use as he presses down on the wound, applying as much pressure as he can to try to stop the bleeding.

“We need to get you help.”

“What are you going to do?” Crowley asks through gritted teeth, “Call emergency services?”

“Would you please shut up?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, “I will soon enough.”

“That’s not --” Kevin starts, flinching as he stares at Crowley, still pressing down on his stomach, “I didn’t mean --”

“I know.”

Kevin shakes himself. Crowley seems resigned to his fate. He stares up at the sky, his eyes unfocused and impossible to read. It’s a dull, lifeless stare. If he couldn’t hear Crowley’s shallow breaths and feel the slowing beat of his heart beneath his fingers as he checks his pulse, Kevin would think he was already dead.

“You’re not going to die.”

He almost says can’t die, like Kevin is forbidding it. A tear rolls down his cheek. Kevin swipes his face against his shoulder, pressing harder than necessary. He’s angry. He’s furious at himself for letting that demon get the jump on him. He’s annoyed with Crowley for being so cavalier about his impending demise. But mostly, Kevin is pissed at himself for giving a damn about this arrogant and vindictive bastard.

“Aw come now Kevin, you’ll be much happier not having to look at this face everyday,” Crowley says, gasping some of the words out.

There was a time that was true. Not so long ago, Kevin had been all for killing Crowley without remorse or second thought. Sam had talked him out of it. He’d seen something in Crowley no one else could at the time. The problem is Kevin has come to see it too.

“You’re not so bad,” Kevin says, voice quiet.

Crowley’s eyes drift towards him. It’s an effort for him to find and focus on Kevin, but he manages. Crowley’s brow furrows, confusion clear on his face.

“Besides,” Kevin says, forcing a smile, “Who am I going to beat every night at Chess?

Crowley snorts and tries to make what Kevin is sure would be some kind of snarky remark, but all that comes out is a choking cough. It takes more effort for Crowley to get each breath in. He grabs at Kevin’s shirt, trying to pull himself towards him. Kevin leans forward, trying to hear what Crowley is so desperate to say, but it’s unintelligible. 

“I didn’t --”

Crowley loosens his grip on Kevin’s shirt, his body going slack. Kevin keeps pressure on Crowley’s wound. He just needs to press harder. He should be shouting for help. He needs to do something.

“Crowley?”

Any cries for help die in his throat as Crowley’s head drops back to the ground, his eyes glassy as the moonlight shines down on them. There’s no pulse. There’s no breath. Crowley is gone.

**********

Glass shatters around Sam and Gabriel as wooden shelves and doors splinter under the force of the demons escaping through the gate to Hell. The sound of destruction rips through the air as the last of the demons escape out and into the night to points unknown. It’s just the first wave. If they don’t get that thing closed, more will follow.

“You really didn’t need to supply us with any more demons, ya know,” Gabriel says, “There’s not much of a demand up here.”

“That depends on who you’re asking,” Abaddon says, turning towards them, that wide, unhinged smile splitting her face, “Hello Gabriel. Sam.”

“Abbie,” Gabriel says.

“Shall we skip the foreplay and get down to business?” Abaddon asks, “I’m on a tight schedule tonight, boys.”

Abaddon is too quick for Gabriel to get another wisecrack in. She catches Sam off guard, sending him flying back against one of the walls. He recovers in time to see Gabriel being flung through one of the busted out windows, Abaddon disappearing moments afterwards, presumably in hot pursuit of the archangel. Sam is at a half run even as he scrambles over piles of broken up furniture and books. He sprints out the door, jumping over the railing leading off to the side of the library.

Gabriel is on the ground, Abaddon looming over him. Sam calls on whatever juice he has left, trying to push her away from him. He would like to at least set her back on her heels a bit. It doesn’t work. All he does is get Abaddon’s attention. She laughs at him, even as Sam continues to charge towards her. She holds out her hand, intent on sending Sam flying backwards again, but this time he’s ready. He comes to a stop a few feet away. It’s like he has run up against an invisible wall. He can’t move, but at least he’s not being tossed like a rag doll against the nearest hard surface.

“You are a persistent little cockroach, aren't you?”

Sam isn't able to do much to Abaddon, but he does give Gabriel an opening. The archangel takes a swipe at Abaddon’s knees, knocking her off balance. She stumbles, releasing Sam as Gabriel rallies. The archangel launches himself at her. Sam is useless. The blows they exchange are thunderous, two immovable forces colliding. Sam wonders what it would be like if they weren’t stuck in vessels. If both of them were in their true forms and on neutral turf. It would be a horrifying sight to behold.

Abaddon gets the best of Gabriel, either due to his diminished grace or the lack of recent battle experience. She pushes him back into a corner, trapping him between the stone outer wall of the library and herself. Sam moves behind her, cautious as he goes. He doesn't want to give away his movements until the last possible minute. He closes the distance between them in a few long strides and buries his angel blade in her back.

It’s not enough to kill her. It probably doesn’t even hurt. Abaddon lets out a surprised huff as she doubles over, stunned. Sam grabs on to her, murmuring any and all incantations or exorcisms he can think of, trying to hold her in place. Abaddon drags the blade out of her back, trying in vain to slash at Sam. She catches his clothes, but he keeps his body as far out of the line of fire as he can, keeping a firm grip around her neck. She’s too strong for him to do any real damage with his powers or otherwise.

He has seconds before Abaddon regains control and kills him. They pass like hours, ticking by as Sam pours everything he has into keeping her still. She rounds on Sam, knocking his arms away, her eyes ablaze with rage as she goes in for the kill. Gabriel beats her to it. Sam watches as her eyes go wide, the archangel’s blade rammed up through her neck, disappearing somewhere inside her skull.

A bright orange light emanates from the body. It's brighter than any demon Sam has ever watched flash out. It blinds the gathered crowd. Sam covers his head, Abaddon's ear piecing shriek the only thing he's aware of. When Sam opens his eyes, the body Abaddon had been occupying is still. Red, human blood flows out from the neck, trickling out into the grass. Gabriel is gone. Sam assumes he’s making sure the gate leading to Hell is closed. The library is still, nothing moving inside or around it as far as Sam can tell. What demons were left seem to have lost their will to keep fighting. With their leader now lying lifeless on the ground, they bail, smoking out where they can.

**********

Dean has grown used to the buzzing at the back of his head. Ever since the night he spent waiting for Jack to appear near that railroad tunnel with Castiel, he’d become accustomed to feeling his connections to Sam and Castiel with the help of his graced up soul. It was comforting having them so close. It put him at ease being able to know they were safe, if only because he could feel them somewhere in his mind. Ramiel having just left his ass crumpled on the ground in this angel mausoleum, Dean concentrates on those connections. Lets them ground him. He can still feel Sam, bright as ever when he concentrates on him. It’s the space Castiel had once inhabited that he’s having trouble with, as he expected he would.

He had prepared himself to feel nothing there. Instead, the space feels fuzzy and distorted. It’s like the signal is being scrambled. That’s not what Dean concentrates on though, because even though it isn't as strong or as clear as it used to be, he can still feel Castiel. Not the dickbag currently possessing him. He can feel Castiel, and if Dean can feel him, then Castiel has to be stuck inside himself somewhere. That hope is enough to get Dean up off the ground. He stumbles around the darkened room, still holding his ribs. They’re throbbing, but he is either growing used to the pain or whatever extra healing the grace in his soul can give him is taking the edge off.

There’s a door along the wall behind the altar, the dim glow from the gathered angel grace casting the doorway in a deep shadow. Dean doesn’t know what else is in this building, but it was Metatron’s main hangout. He’s banking on there being something useful in here. If not, Dean will have to find Jack or Ash to help send him back to Earth. Heaven is a big place, and they’re all still out fighting their own battle. By the time Dean manages to find either of them, it could be too late.

Dean pushes through the door. Behind it he finds a study outfitted with tons of books and boxes. Shelves extend back as far as Dean can see. If it wasn’t for its cavernous nature, the room wouldn’t look out of place in some luxurious mansion back on Earth. There’s a fire burning in a nearby fireplace, an over-sized chair situated next to it. In the middle of the room is a large oak desk, polished to a shine. Dean collapses down in the cushy chair behind the desk, digging through drawers.

Jophiel and those other angels that had been flanking Metatron when Castiel had been taken must have had some way of getting up here. They had all been under the impression angels setting foot in Heaven after the fall was impossible. Metatron must have found a loop hole giving him a way to get from Earth to Heaven and back again. He would have needed the spell or sigil or whatever handy to send for his backstabbing flunkies.

Dean shoves papers aside, finding more than a few abandoned manuscripts. One of them looks suspiciously like some kind of 'Jurassic Park' rewrite. The asshat must have taken up writing again after he locked the door and threw away the key to the penthouse suite. At the bottom of one of the drawers, Dean finds a few old scrolls. He unfurls each one of them, scanning the text for anything useful. There’s stuff he recognizes as sigils and he can read some of the words next to them, but it’s all written in Enochian. He is far from fluent, but he does his best. Dean finds he has a new appreciation for everything Kevin went through while translating those tablets.

In the second scroll he finds what he’s looking for. At least he thinks it’s what he wants. From what Dean can tell, there’s a sigil that will beam an angel from Heaven to Earth and vice versa even if the gates are shut. It’s grace powered of course and requires a blood sacrifice from one of Heaven’s higher ups. He’s a little iffy on whether or not he’ll be able to use his soul to power this thing, but he does have the blood on tap at the bottom of the steps outside.

Metatron’s crumpled body is still lying on the ground where Dean left him, eyes staring out towards the city he'd built. It’s quiet as Dean works at drawing the sigil with Metatron’s blood on the concrete. The once deafening screeching shrieks of the creatures are silent. Dean hopes that means the souls of Heaven won out.

Once he's finished with his arts and crafts project, Dean stands in the middle of the sigil. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. He concentrates on Sam instead of Castiel, afraid the connection will be too weak. Ramiel will want to meet up with his knight for hire and wherever Abaddon is, Dean is sure Sam will be hot on her heels. He recites the required lines of Enochian, hesitating a little on some of the pronunciation.

It must be good enough. Dean feels a hard pull in the pit of his stomach that sends him crashing to the ground. When he opens his eyes, he’s lying face first in a patch of grass. He raises his head slowly, his vision blurred. He can make out buildings as the world comes back into focus. Blinking hard, Dean drags himself to his knees. There are bodies lying all around him, the battle long since ended. The street he landed on is silent, but he can hear shouts and screams off to his right. He made it, and it looks like he only overshot his mark by a few streets.

Dean shuffles along as fast as he can handle. The pain gets better as he goes, but he isn’t rebounding like he was before. Making the trip back to Earth had taken more out of him than he would have liked. Still, he works his way up to a slow jog. Rounding a corner, he runs straight into a raging battle, arriving just in time to see a cloud of black smoke hurtling itself out of one of the buildings. It’s like Wyoming all over again. The demons escaping from the opened gate don’t stick around, the smoke spreads out over the town and disappears into the night. At least now he knows where the gate is located.

He skirts most of the fighting, the combatants either too busy trying to kill each other or too distracted by the mass exodus of demons. Dean finds himself stuck in the middle of the battle, dodging blows and dealing a few of his own with Castiel’s blade, when he sees Gabriel careening out one of the building's windows. Abaddon is on him before he’s off the ground. He watches as Sam comes charging out of the building, hurtling himself over the step railings as he chases after Gabriel and Abaddon. Dean starts to head towards Sam, but stops when he sees movement on the steps.

Ramiel is standing near the door, watching as Gabriel and Sam grapple with Abaddon. She looks up, catching sight of her lord and master, but Ramiel doesn’t lift a finger to save her. As Gabriel takes Abaddon down, Ramiel slips through the door of the building. Dean changes directions, moving after Ramiel as fast as his body will let him.

The place is a disaster area, but at one point it must have been a library. Books and the scattered remains of desks and shelves lie splintered on the ground. Some of them were blasted apart by a force so strong pieces of wood are lodged into the walls of the building. Dean swears he sees half a chair poking out of the drywall near one of the windows.

He hears Ramiel murmuring words towards the back of the library. Dean picks his way after him, trying to be mindful of the debris without losing too much speed. There’s a hole in the library floor. Ramiel stands next to the opening in the ground. He doesn’t stop speaking when he sees Dean come closer. Instead, Ramiel winks at him as he finishes up whatever spell he's working.

“Dean, stop!” he hears Gabriel calling out from somewhere behind him.

Ramiel, and Castiel by extension, disappear through the gate. Dean chases after them. He had thought Ramiel was trying to summon the lords of Hell or more demons, but he can see the scalding red stone forming back into place as the seconds tick by. Ramiel hadn’t been summoning a damn thing, he’d been closing the door after him.

“You can’t go down there,” Gabriel shouts at Dean, closer this time.

Dean dives for the gate, slipping through before the stone covers over completely. He falls through darkness, loosing track of what’s up and what’s down. He can’t see anything. He can’t hear anything. Not even the whistling of air as he plummets to whatever awaits him at the bottom. Dean opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes back to him is the echos of his own screams.

**********

Sam looks around, scanning the faces of the people still standing. Charlie is helping someone up off the ground a few yards from where he’s standing over what’s left of Abaddon. Kevin is kneeling next to something, but the prophet is too far away and the streets are too dark for him to see what he's doing. He starts towards Kevin, but Gabriel grabs his arm.

“We have a problem," Gabriel says, pulling on Sam as he drags him towards the library.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, following Gabriel away from the scene outside.

“You’re not going to like it, kiddo.”

Gabriel leads through the library. It looks like a tornado blew through. Shelves are splintered, the jagged edges poking up in odd angles. Books lie scattered across the room. The only clear space is the few feet in front of the gate to hell. It’s closed, but not locked. Sam can feel the energy radiating off of it like the heat coming off the swollen flesh of an infected wound.

“Do we need to do something to lock it?” Sam asks.

“I don’t think you want to do that,” Gabriel says, “We’ve got men behind enemy lines.”

“What?”

“Castiel went running through the door, but it wasn’t Castiel.”

“Like Castiel was possessed?”

Gabriel shrugs, “I’ve got no idea, but that wasn’t the Castiel we all know and love. Some of us more than others. Whoever it was felt wrong.”

“Great.”

“Yep, and speaking of people who love him more than others, Dean is down there too.”

“What?” Sam asks, shocked.

How could Dean be stupid enough to run after whatever was riding Castiel without backup? Sam already knows the answer. It’s like his brother is hardwired to do whatever ridiculously dangerous thing is required to try to save the people he loves.

“I tried to stop him,” Gabriel says, shaking his head, “but, you know how he is. He wouldn't listen.”

Sam glares at the gate beneath their feet. It looks brand new despite having a building and a statue built over top of it. Countless years must have been spent pounding away at the rock serving as the gate’s door, branding it with warning after warning in a dialect long since lost to man. Sam can’t read what’s inscribed, but he figures some things transcend linguistics.

“How do I get in?”

“You mean, how do we get in.”

Sam looks over his shoulder at Gabriel, “You’re not all the way back yet. Are you willing to take that chance?”

“I’m not letting you go it alone,” Gabriel says, eyes sliding away from Sam’s for a moment, “Besides, you’re not the only one that has a brother down there. I’m not the cuddliest of all the angels, but I care about what happens to Castiel. Dean too, I guess. But don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t,” Sam says with a snort, as Gabriel comes up to stand next to him, “Ready?”

“Why the hell not? This is the most fun I’ve had in years,” Gabriel says, deadpan, “You really know how to show a guy a good time.”

“If we make it out of here alive, we can do whatever you want.”

“Careful there, Sam. Don’t go making promises you don’t intend to keep,” Gabriel says, wiggling his eyebrows at him.

The archangel crouches down as he places his hand on the door. Sam bends down next to him. The ground shakes beneath their feet and the intricate stone carvings under his hand start to shift.

“Concentrate your thoughts on Dean,” Gabriel says, gripping Sam’s hand tight as he draws him closer, “And hold on.”

Chapter Text

Dean finds himself sprawled on the ground, face inches away from a glowing blue crack in the black rock of wherever he landed. It's a cave from the looks of it. Groaning, he sits up. That small act is a bigger feat than it has any right to be. He aches all over. Dean works on getting to his feet, then tries to tackle walking. He keeps his hand on the wall, fingers dragging over the rough surface, using it as a guide as well as support. His only option is to head down a carved out corridor to his left.

Cracks run along the ground, the glow filtering up through them providing the only light down here. The blue turns out to be some kind of fire. The flames shoot up out of the nearby fissures in the ground without warning. Dean almost gets caught in it a couple of times. He has to press himself against the wall to dodge out of the way. Some of the cracks are huge. One in particular crisscrosses along the corridor before leading out into a cave. The extra light gives him a chance to take a more detailed glance around. The cavern is expansive, the glow of the flames casting deep shadows along the dimpled rock. The black itself is infused with streaks of silver, the light making it flash and sparkle along the walls. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t in Hell. Down here, even the most innocuous of things can harm you, and you’re really screwed if it looks enticing.

Once the flames die down, Dean continues on his way. He doesn’t know where he’s going. Between the dim glow from the flashes of fire and his blurred vision from his fall, it wouldn’t matter if Dean had a map of this place or not. He’s too far gone for anything like that to be of use to him. The trip down here took a lot out of him. His breaths come hard like he’s running a marathon instead of plodding along with the slow shuffle steps he's able to take. He has never been the fittest guy in the world, but Dean shouldn’t be this bad off.

Just being down here is a drain on him. It was taxing during their adventures throughout Heaven. Hell can’t be any better. If anything it would be worse. It always is. If it wasn't for the pull of that fuzzy connection he has to Castiel dragging him deeper into the depths of Hell, Dean would still be lying crumpled on the ground where he had landed. He follows that feeling, letting it pull him wherever it might lead.

**********

Castiel lets himself lose track of what’s going on around him and Ramiel. He stops fighting for control of his body or his senses. He lets Ramiel take the reigns. The feeling of delight that courses through Ramiel when he stops fighting prickles along Castiel. The smugness rolling off the archangel is infuriating. It’s almost enough to cause Castiel to lose his resolve to step back. He holds out though, not giving Ramiel the satisfaction of feeling any reaction from him.

It isn’t that Castiel has resigned himself to wasting away into nothingness without complaint or retaliation. This is a strategic decision. The longer Ramiel is in control without any backlash from Castiel, the more at home he will feel, and therefore more complacent. It’s difficult, shielding these thoughts from the archangel possessing him. If Ramiel catches one whiff of what Castiel is trying to do, he will destroy him.

Ramiel’s hatred for Cassiel is proving to be great motivation for the archangel to continue stringing Castiel along for the time being. He suspects Ramiel is keeping him alive long enough to see everything that Castiel has worked so hard to protect come undone. That suits Castiel just fine. It’s irrelevant to him if he was Cassiel at one time. If he was, that was another lifetime. It’s a being Castiel doesn’t know and can’t remember. What’s important is holding on to who he has become. He is Castiel, former angel of the Lord, and current human being. He’s a friend. He’s a hunter. He has become so many things most angels would never dare dream of, least of all Ramiel. That will be his advantage.

The most difficult part of hiding within Ramiel’s consciousness is his thoughts of Dean. Castiel can remain detached and calm while plotting the best way to retake control from Ramiel, but when his thoughts drift to Dean, he becomes agitated. Part of him took what Ramiel was saying about Dean to heart. It’s difficult to avoid when that deep seated doubt was already there, waiting to be exploited. The thought that Dean might not be as committed to Castiel as he is to Dean has plagued him since their relationship progressed to something more than what they had been. Perhaps those doubts were there even before.

Those thoughts aside, Castiel is also concerned with Dean’s well-being. On some level, Castiel will always think of Dean as his charge. His responsibility. He has no idea where Dean is or what he’s doing. Those unknown variables bring Castiel closer to loosing his cool than anything else. The absolute worst case scenario would be Dean taking on Ramiel alone. With any luck, he’ll be able to find a solution to his current predicament long before Dean finds a way out of Heaven.

“Do you remember this place, Cassiel?” Ramiel asks, his disembodied voice surrounding Castiel on all sides, “I imagine you have fond memories of being here.”

Castiel doesn’t answer. The archangel’s tone is taunting, and when Ramiel allows Castiel to see where they are, he realizes why. ‘Fond’ is not the word Castiel would have chosen for such a place. They’re in Hell. It’s not a portion of Hell Castiel remembers visiting, but that was not Ramiel’s point. The last time Castiel had spent a great deal of time down here had been to save Dean, his hectic, but brief sprint down to the Cage to free Sam after the Apocalypse notwithstanding.

“Why are we here?” Castiel asks, monotone.

“To raise our fallen brothers.”

For a wild, panicked second, Castiel thinks he means Michael and Lucifer. They would be a threat to Ramiel, however, both of them archangels in their own right. He wouldn’t want to invite that kind of competition.

“The lords of Hell.”

“The very same,” Ramiel says.

Castiel can hear the smile in his voice, “I’m surprised you would want to bring them back.”

“Why is that?”

“From what I understand, the lords are powerful and were allowed free reign in their own sections of Hell,” Castiel says, “I don’t imagine they will take too kindly to being ordered around by a brother they’ve never met.”

He can feel Ramiel bristle at Castiel’s implications, “You don’t believe I can control them? I’m an archangel.”

“Yes, but these aren’t simply fallen angels you’re dealing with. Whatever divinity left in them after their fall will have burnt away. They have spent too many years locked away from our Father. If you were hoping for a shared camaraderie with them, they won’t recognize any of their former selves in you.”

“Then they are beasts in need of a firm hand,” Ramiel says, voice quiet. Dangerous.

Castiel smirks, “That sounds more like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The egotism. You think yourself so far above everything in creation --”

“I am above it all.”

“You believe God threw you away because He thought you inferior and you are willing to tear everything down to prove Him wrong,” Castiel says, “You and Lucifer would have much to talk about.”

“Lucifer was shortsighted,” Ramiel says, thoughts jumbled in his rage, “I’ve been playing the long game --”

“Skulking in the shadows.”

“Enough!” Ramiel says, so distracted by their conversation he says it out loud to the cavern surrounding them.

It’s an odd sensation, feeling his own voice reverberating through his chest when Castiel isn't the one using it. But he can feel it, and right now that’s all that matters. Ramiel is seething, his anger blinding him to the fact that he has allowed his control to slip. He has let Castiel gain a foothold.

**********

Dean has to stop and rest a few times when his legs threaten to give out on him. He crouches down, not letting himself fall all the way to the ground, afraid he won’t be able to get back up again if he does. Resting his head back against the rock behind him, he tries to catch his breath. It hurts. Whether it’s from the injury to his ribs back in Heaven or something else, Dean can’t tell. He doesn’t stay still long, pausing for only a minute or two before he clambers back to his feet and continues dragging himself forwards.

Castiel feels stronger to him now, their connection not as distorted by static as it has been. He’s getting closer. Dean expects to see him standing around every corner, but so far he has been disappointed. He keeps going, picking a spot out in front of him to try to make it to. He tells himself if he can just make it there, he’ll stop for another break. When Dean makes it to the finish line, he picks another spot further down the corridor and starts the routine again. At least it gives him something tangible to shoot for.

His hand is still running along the wall, helping to keep him steady as much as to guide him along the right path. Sometimes Dean leans a little heavier against the wall as he struggles to put one foot in front of the other, his jacket catching on outcroppings in the rock. Sometimes he thinks he feels the wall quake under his hand like a different part of Hell is shaking itself apart. It might be. The ground stays steady beneath his feet as the rock stops trembling beneath this fingertips. It might have been his imagination. Considering the obvious deterioration of his mind and body, Dean isn't too keen to trust any of his senses right now. Besides that, Hell is Hell. Hallucinations are just one of the many traps set for the suckers who find themselves stuck down here.

That’s why when he first sees what looks like Castiel standing at the end of the corridor in the middle of a wider opening, Dean doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. It feels like he has been walking for years. For all he knows he has been. Of course he’s going to start seeing Castiel in every damn corner of this place. Dean blinks his eyes hard and shakes his head, trying to dispel the mirage, but when he looks again, Castiel is still standing there.

“Cass?” Dean asks, trying to make his voice carry, but it comes out in a raspy whisper.

The figure doesn’t turn. Dean tries again, but his voice isn't much louder than before. He puts his feet on autopilot, all his attention focused on getting to the end of this corridor and out into that cavern. Dean can see a white glow in the middle of it, a few inches away from where Castiel is standing. He can hear Castiel’s voice echoing in the chamber up ahead. The tone rings wrong to Dean’s ears. Ramiel is still in the pilot seat.

He can’t make out what the archangel is babbling, and Dean really couldn’t give a rat’s ass at this point. All he sees is Ramiel standing there in Castiel’s body, his silhouette outlined by a glowing white light that seems to be getting brighter. He’s got no idea what he’s going to do to help this situation. There isn’t a plan here. Dean just wants to get to Castiel. That’s all he cares about. It’s all he can concentrate on, right up to the point when he sees the glint of something silver in the bright light. It’s not an angel blade. It’s longer and more intricate than that. Ceremonial.

Dean doesn’t know what Ramiel plans to do with that thing, but whatever it is, it can’t be good for anyone, let alone Castiel. He can’t see what’s going on, Ramiel’s back still turned towards him. Dean is less than twenty feet away when he sees the sword start to make a slashing motion. Panicked, Dean lets go of the wall for the first time since he’s found himself wandering around down here. He throws himself forward towards Ramiel, colliding with the archangel with as much speed as he can muster. Ramiel shouts, releasing the weapon in his shock. The sword skitters away, swallowed up in the pulsating white light in the center of the room as Dean and Ramiel fall to the ground.

“You,” Ramiel says, Castiel’s features twisting with the archangel's fury.

“Miss me?” Dean asks with a grin, talking more to Castiel than Ramiel as he looks through those blue eyes, hoping the fallen angel can still hear him.

**********

The archangel stops in a small, out of the way cavern. It had been a silent walk down a maze of corridors. Castiel watches along side Ramiel as he performs the necessary preparations to raise the Lords of Hell. The words he uses are Enochian, but it’s a version Castiel is unfamiliar with. It’s a dialect he would hazard to guess hasn’t been spoken out loud since before Lucifer fell.

There’s a pentagram carved into the rock floor, intricate warding and sigils surround it. Castiel has only ever seen these in the libraries of Heaven. Ramiel crouches down. He grasps the lid of the canister he has been carrying containing the human souls that had been stolen from Heaven. The archangel is tentative as he opens the container. Castiel is shocked they’re not knocked back by the energy radiating off of the souls inside.

When he had been at war with Raphael, Castiel had used souls for power, but never on this scale. Metatron and Ramiel found a way to concentrate the energy, combining thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of human souls into one source. Castiel wonders at the stability of all that energy crammed into one place. A drop of this could obliterate Hell and possibly Purgatory if mishandled. Whatever they had done to synthesize the souls, Ramiel seems unconcerned by the possibility of accidental destruction.

Still murmuring his incantations, Ramiel pours the contents of the glass jar into the pentagram. The reservoirs carved into the rock glow white as the souls seep into the empty spaces. The cave surrounding them is almost blinding with the light, the defined lines of the symbol lost as the last lines converge with each other. Standing, Ramiel pulls out an intricate sword that Castiel has never seen, though he recognizes the engravings and craftsmanship to be of that of Heaven.

There’s no way to know what Ramiel intends to do with this sword. The archangel has no thoughts, his mind focused only on the task at hand. His borrowed voice grows louder, tinged with excitement as they head towards the end of this ritual. A black hole opens up in the center of the glowing mass of souls. Castiel can feel the archangel using his own grace now, the power slipping from him as he raises the blade. The light from the souls glints off the silver. If Castiel has a chance at taking back control, it’s now while Ramiel is distracted and some of his power diverted. Castiel gathers himself, preparing to attack, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Both he and Ramiel are caught off guard as they go crashing to the ground, the blade slipping from Ramiel’s hand. It slides off into the pentagram, disappearing in the blinding light of the souls. Ramiel, and Castiel by extension, turns to try to locate the sword. The only view they get is the hole inside the pentagram closing, swallowing it up. Castiel feels Ramiel’s rage flare. It's almost suffocating. Whatever role it was meant to play must have been an important one.

“Miss me?” A voice asks off to their side.

Dean.

Castiel is tore between elation and exasperation. Ramiel, on the other hand, is out for vengeance.

“You,” Ramiel says, getting to his feet.

Castiel can see Dean now. The hunter doesn’t attempt to get to his feet to protect himself. He looks up at Ramiel, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. It occurs to Castiel that perhaps Dean can’t get up.

“Didn’t bust up your party did I?” Dean asks, grimacing as he tries to scoot back away from Ramiel.

The archangel moves towards him, hands clenched, “I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands while he watches.”

Dean’s eyes flash. He stares Ramiel down as if he's trying to see past him to Castiel. He spares Dean one last look before he tears into Ramiel’s consciousness. Castiel is aware of the pain he’s inflicting. He feels it too. Ramiel clutches at his head, doubling over as Castiel rips his way through his own mind, tearing at any and all connections between him and Ramiel.

“Cassiel, stop this now,” Ramiel says through his screams, both inside his head and to the world at large, “You’ll kill yourself too.”

Castiel knows he’s doing as much damage to himself as he is to the archangel. There’s no version of this that ends with him safely on the other side. He’s only human. Castiel remembers taking Dean to find Raphael’s vessel after the archangel had left him during the Apocalypse. The man had been left a drooling mess without Raphael. A shell. That had been when the archangel had willingly left. Castiel is forcing Ramiel into submission, if not completely removing him from his body. There’s no coming back from that.

They collapse to the ground, Castiel’s body writhing in their shared pain. He can hear Dean shouting his name. One final push and Castiel wrenches control back from Ramiel. He can’t hold it long, but there is one last thing he must do before he loses the ground he’s gained. Castiel jerks his head up, searching for Dean. The hunter is trying to drag himself over to where Castiel is lying, his body still writhing as Ramiel fights against his hold.

“Dean, no! Stop,” Castiel says, holding up a hand.

“Cass?”

“Yes.”

A huge smile spreads across Dean’s face, brightening his weary eyes. Castiel wishes he could enjoy it.

“Cass --”

“Dean, do you have my blade with you?”

Dean’s brow furrows, “Yeah.”

“Give it to me.”

“Why?”

“Dean --”

“Why, Cass?”

Castiel doesn’t say anything and Dean doesn’t ask. He knows why. They stare at each other. It had been Castiel's intention to use the sword Ramiel had brought, but with it gone, his own blade is his last resort.

“I can’t let you do this,” Dean says.

“We don’t have a choice.”

“Cass, please.”

What Castiel wouldn’t give to be able to stop Dean from having to watch this. What he wouldn’t give to have Dean not be here at all. He doesn’t know if the hunter can make it back out of Hell under his own steam. The only thing Castiel can do, the only thing he can control, is what happens to Ramiel. He can stop him. That has to be enough.

Castiel reaches his arm out towards Dean, hand open. He doesn’t say anything else, eyes pleading with Dean to understand. To let him make this choice. With a shaking hand, Dean removes Castiel’s angel blade from inside his jacket. He drags himself a little closer, reaching out to put the blade in Castiel’s hand. Their fingers touch as Dean relinquishes the cool metal into Castiel’s waiting hand. Castiel almost drops it at the contact, wanting nothing more than to grab Dean's hand and hold tight to it instead.

Tearing his eyes away from Dean, Castiel wastes no time running the blade through his midsection. The angle isn't right. It goes in off to the side and lower than Castiel intends. It’s a wound that would take some minutes to kill him under normal circumstances, but it’s enough to destroy the archangel inside him. Ramiel’s screams echo through the cavern, the light emanating from Castiel as the archangel goes through his final death throes rivaling the light of the souls behind them. Resigned, Castiel lets the searing light take him, blanking out everything around him.

**********

“Cass? Come on, damn it, answer me."

This time Dean doesn't get an answer. The glow from the souls filling the pentagram is starting to diminish as it goes unused. Adrenaline rushes through his system, helping Dean pull Castiel to him, the fallen angel's head lulling against Dean's shoulder. There’s a pulse beating against where his fingers rest on Castiel’s neck, but it’s thready at best. It already feels like there’s nothing left in the fallen angel. Like he's been left empty after the archangel flashed out. Dean leans his forehead against Castiel’s, folding him closer in his arms as tears flow down his grimy cheeks. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. There’s so much Dean wanted for them. There was so much he wanted to show and do with the fallen angel. His angel. But Dean is going to lose Castiel down here where all of this began.

The thought brings him up short. It’s a stupid, reckless idea that drifts through Dean’s mind and he’s going to make it work even if it kills him. Dean presses his hand against Castiel’s chest. He does what Sam had taught the others when they’d been prepping for this fight, he murmurs a few lines of Latin, putting it on repeat as he concentrates. Dean imagines himself untying the strands of grace entwined with his soul. He has tapped into it enough times by now he knows what he should be feeling. There’s nothing. The grace won’t budge. Dean pulls back for a second, frantically trying to figure out what to do. Castiel’s heartbeat grows fainter with each passing second.

Digging deep, Dean tries again, this time concentrating on the thing as a whole. If he can’t give back what Castiel had gifted to him all those years ago, then he’ll just have to give him whatever he can. He feels something move, slow at first, but faster as the mixture of soul and grace travels through him to Castiel. The blinding white light Dean associates with souls glows under his hand where it presses against the fallen angel’s chest, dispelling the shadows surrounding them. He can feel himself getting weaker as Castiel’s heart starts to beat stronger, color coming back to the fallen angel’s face. Dean doesn’t let himself stop until he sees Castiel’s eyes flicker as they start to open. He tears his hand away, slumping back against the cavern wall.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, voice weak, head still leaning against Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m here," Dean says, voice raspy as he gasps for air, "You okay?”

Castiel hesitates, “I’m not sure.”

“Me either.”

“I should be dead.”

“Shouldn’t we all?”

“You did something stupid,” Castiel says.

Dean lets out a huff of a laugh, leaning his cheek against the top of Castiel’s hair, “Only the same kind of stupid you did for me the last time we were down here together.”

He’s so tired. All Dean wants to do is sleep, but he knows if he does, he probably won’t wake up. Either their bodies will give out or something down here will get at them. It’s just like being out on a hunt. Sleep is not your friend. Sleep gets you dead. Castiel is saying something, his head raised, bright blue eyes staring at him. Dean is finding it hard to catch the words in his stupor.

“-- gave me too much. You won’t survive this way.”

“You’re alive. S'all that matters,” he says, words slurring slightly.

The ground shakes beneath them. Dean looks around to see if there’s something coming, not that they’ll be able to put up much of a fight if there is. The movement jars Castiel out of his arms, sending Dean crashing to the ground. Whatever quake Dean had felt under his hand earlier has found them. After a few minutes of shaking everything stills. He reaches out for Castiel, unable to get up and move. His hand finds Castiel’s a few feet away. The fallen angel tries to drag himself over to Dean, but he’s not strong enough yet. They lay there, hands entwined, trying to see each other through the dim light.

“It’s not all that matters,” Castiel says, coughing as the dust settles back around them, his face streaked with dirt, “Don’t you think I feel the same way?”

“You gotta know I’m a selfish asshole by now,” Dean says, trying to smile at him, but failing, “Didn’t want to still be around if you weren’t.”

“What about Sam?”

Sam is fine upstairs. Dean had seen that much before flinging himself down this rabbit hole. The gate closed behind him. He doesn’t have to worry about his little brother right now. Castiel is looking better every minute. Dean might not have been able to completely return the favor for Castiel airlifting him out of the hotbox the first time around, but he has at least bought him a ticket out.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave me, remember?” Castiel asks, voice wavering, “Dean please, you have to stay with me. I’ll find us a way out. You just have to stay.”

“I’ll do my best, Cass,” Dean says, tightening his hold on Castiel’s hand.

Dean means it, but he knows it isn't going to be enough.

Chapter Text

Sam and Gabriel find themselves standing in the middle of the crossroads of an abandoned rural town. Rain pours from the sky. Everything is shades of black and gray, like the color has been washed out. Derelict houses dots the landscape, obscured by tall, unkempt grass. A gas station sits along one of the roads. Its metal sign swings from one rusty chain, the name of the place illegible. Sam looks down each road, pulling up the collar of his coat against the driving rain. They have four options, all leading to different parts of Hell.

“How are we going to find them down here?” Sam asks, lightning forking across the sky as thunder rumbles off in the distance.

“You thinking happy thoughts about your brother helped to narrow our search down,” Gabriel says, watching him, “You’re our Dean radar.”

“What?”

“You two are soulmates. You should be able to find him, especially down here. Even stuck in a body, your soul resonates different in Hell than it does topside.”

“Does everyone know about that?”

“The soulmate thing? Yep, just like everyone knows your brother and my brother are knocking boots. And for the record, saying this as Castiel’s big brother, he can do a lot better.”

Sam sighs, deciding his best course of action is to not respond. He doesn’t want to give Gabriel anymore ammunition. The archangel doesn't need any help.

“Getting any pings?” Gabriel asks.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, scanning the different ways they can go, concentrating on Dean.

He feels a vague pull towards the road off to their left leading towards a ragged looking mountain range. Sam points at it and the two of them set off down the path. It takes him a minute to realize the rain is no longer drenching him through to the bone. Sam looks up, but sees nothing. He looks at Gabriel who only shrugs as he shifts his shoulders. Sam can hear a rustling sound surrounding him. He can’t see it, but Gabriel is holding one of his wings over head to keep Sam out of the rain. Sam smiles at him. Gabriel rolls his eyes, but a pleased grin tugs at his lips.

So much time passes without him feeling anything else Sam starts to worry he made the wrong choice. They’re passing by the first mass of jagged, black rocks when Sam feels another pull. He makes an abrupt left, cutting Gabriel off as he makes a beeline towards the rocks. It takes some searching, but hidden at the base is an opening running along the ground.

“He’s down there,” Sam says, bending down.

“And me without my spelunking gear,” Gabriel says as he plops on the ground to examine the entrance, “It isn’t as deep as it looks. I’m going in.”

“Be careful,” Sam says, helping Gabriel shimmy his way under the initial overhang.

“Aw shucks, my heart’s all aflutter with how much you care, Sam” Gabriel says with a wink before disappearing.

“You all right?” Sam calls down after a few seconds.

“Yeah, it’s just a short slide down.”

Sam maneuvers himself through the opening, but loses his grip on some loose stones. Instead of the controlled slide he’d been going for, it sends him tumbling, arms flailing. Gabriel catches him before he slams to the ground, the archangel lifting him up in his arms, bridal style.

“If you wanted me to hold you, Sam, you could have just said so,” Gabriel says.

This is the most awkward rescue mission Sam has ever been on.

Sam glares at him, “Will you put me down?”

“Not the romantic type, huh?” Gabriel asks as he sets Sam back on his feet, which has to look ridiculous considering the height difference.

Sam straightens out his shirt and jacket from where they rode up on his wild ride down. Looking around, he sees an expansive cavern. What little light there is filters up through cracks in the ground, the random flare ups casting shadows along the walls as spots are momentarily illuminated in blue light. As they start walking, Sam puts his hand close to one as it gets ready to go off. Cold air grazes against his skin.

“Looks like Hell hasn’t been keeping up on its heating bill.”

“I don’t know why you guys decided it’s all brimstone and fire down here,” Gabriel says with a shrug, “I guess it’s more dramatic that way.”

“Lucifer told me that he burns cold. Is that why it’s like this?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy. Theology isn’t my strong suit.”

Sam can’t help but laugh at that. The farther down they go, the stronger the feeling gets. He expects to stumble onto Dean any second, but nothing. They’re almost to the end of yet another corridor carved out of black stone when Sam staggers, the vague feeling he has been chasing almost overwhelming in its sudden increase in strength. It feels like having the air knocked out of him.

Gabriel grabs him before he hits the floor, “Sam?”

He gasps, trying to get air in. Something’s wrong. If souls could scream, that’s what Dean’s would be doing right now. He grabs at Gabriel for support.

“We need to get down there,” Sam says through a groan.

Gabriel half carries him until the pain subsides. Sam is still gasping for breath as he gets his legs back under him. He’d be relieved the pain is gone, but there’s nothing left in its absence. It’s almost like Dean isn't there anymore. The faintest of tugs beckons him further. Sam chases it, breaking into a run as he forces his legs to cooperate, Gabriel following right behind him.

**********

First, Castiel works on getting himself up off the ground. Once he achieves that, he tries to get Dean up. The hunter can’t hold his own weight. He slumps in Castiel’s arms, almost bringing the fallen angel back to his knees. He manages to half walk, half drag both of them a few yards before he has to rest. He keeps at it, until the yards turn into feet and the feet into inches. Between Castiel’s weakness and the intermittent quakes, rocking the ground beneath their feet, their escape comes to a standstill. He lays Dean down before allowing himself to collapse next to him.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Dean murmurs.

“Just...need to rest for a moment,” Castiel says, eyes sliding closed.

He feels Dean tugging at his arm. The hunter’s grip is weak as he tries to shake Castiel awake.

“Don’t fall asleep, man.”

It’s all he wants to do. The mix of soul and grace Dean gave him saved his life, but Castiel’s body is far too battered to soldier on. He’s running on fumes. If Castiel is bad, Dean is worse. Though he’ll still talk, Dean has long since stopped trying to help carry himself, unable to hold his head up without help, let alone walk. They’re in bad shape, and Castiel knows it.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Dean asks, somehow sounding annoyed despite the feebleness in his voice.

“For everything. For not being able to get us out of here.”

“It's not your fault, Cass."

Dean's head is resting in his lap, eyes watching Castiel's every move. Castiel tries to haul the hunter up closer to him, but he can’t even do that anymore. He finds Dean’s hand and grips it tight, their clasped hands resting against Dean's chest. He feels the rise and fall as the hunter breathes. Castiel lets his head fall back against the cold rock wall. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes. He tries again, but all he gets is a broken intake of breath for his troubles.

“We’re not doing the deathbed, final goodbyes scene,” Dean says, squeezing his hand, “I don’t regret a damn thing. You hear me, Cass? Not one thing.”

Castiel had always thought the term 'heartbroken' was ridiculous. Your heart doesn’t break when horrible things happen. It does its job. It keeps beating. Keeps you alive. Castiel had known grief when his brothers and sisters died in battle. He’d felt sorrow beyond words for the destruction and death he’d brought to Heaven in the name of peace. But this is beyond all of that. It’s beyond anything Castiel has felt before. Because now he knows what it means to be truly heartbroken. It’s not your heart that breaks, it’s your heart that breaks you.

“I don’t either,” Castiel whispers, tears falling down his cheeks, “Dean, I --”

The ground shakes beneath them, this new quake stronger than anything they’ve felt before. The blue light coming up through the cracks in the ground glow brighter as the fissures widen. Castiel is knocked to the side, but somehow keeps hold of Dean’s hand.

“Cass!” Dean shouts, panic clear in his voice.

“Dean, hold on!”

Castiel tries to grab the hunter with his other hand, but the cavern is trembling so violently, jolting them in all different directions. Flashes of bright blue explode through the cave, as huge parts of the floor give way. Rocks fall from above, pelting Castiel as he tries to duck out of the way of any big ones. Dean isn’t so lucky.

He hears Dean cry out as a large piece strikes the hunter. Dean’s grip loosens. Castiel grabs for him, holding tight as a crack opens up behind Dean. He scrambles to find some kind of footing to use as leverage, but the ground keeps thrashing. The split opens wider, Dean’s legs disappearing as gravity takes hold, working against Castiel. Dean slips from his grasp.

**********

The major quake sends Sam careening head first towards a wall. Gabriel is able to stop him before he knocks himself out. They ride it out, stumbling around as they dodge fallen debris. Minutes pass before the ground quiets. Sam helps Gabriel to his feet. They keep moving, rounding another corner and down another hall until Sam finally sees something that isn’t rock lying on the ground off in the distance. Running, he slides to a stop next to Castiel. Sam’s heart skips a beat. The fallen angel is inconsolable and looks half dead. 

“Cass! What happened? Where’s Dean?” Sam asks as he pulls the fallen angel upright.

“I had him,” Castiel says, between sobs, “I had him, but I couldn’t hold on. Sam, he fell and he’s --”

Sam looks over at the crack in the ground Castiel is lying next to. It’s not a straight shot down, but it’s still a good angle.

“Gabriel, get Castiel out of here.”

The archangel looks up from where he’s stooped over Castiel, trying to get him to calm down.

“Sam, you don’t know what’s down there.”

“Yes, I do.”

Dean is down there, and Sam isn’t leaving here without him. Gabriel glares at him for a second before giving in.

“You won’t have much time. The longer I stay down here, the more juice I use up and the harder it’s going to be to make the return trip.”

Sam nods, turning back towards the collapse, “We’ll meet you back at the cave opening.”

“Good luck.”

Sam slides down about 20 feet before hitting the bottom. He expects to find Dean lying there, but his brother is nowhere in sight. He reminds himself that Hell is still Hell. Everything here isn’t always what it seems. It’s not a comforting thought.

A narrow passage lies ahead of him. Sam starts down it, having to bend as he goes. He follows the path, blue flames flickering up around him in short bursts. His hand gets too close to one as he moves, causing him to jump, head smacking against the rock above him. He looks down at it, his skin already red and blistered. Fire or ice, Hell will find a way to make you burn. Sam picks his way through. He has to stop a few times to let a flare up of ice cold fire blocking his way die down before he can continue. The passage opens up into a cavernous room. He can’t see the ceiling nor can he see how far back it goes, but what he does see floors him.

The blue flames tower over Sam as they rocket up from the lower levels of Hell. In front of him stands a crumbling two-story house. Even as he stares up at it in disbelief, part of the charred roof collapses in, the big tree in the front yard gnarled and burned out. It’s like a bomb has gone off, but it wasn’t an explosion that left this place an empty shell. It was a fire.

**********

Sam had sent out his college applications in November during his senior year of high school. It hadn’t been easy. Since he’d spent all of his school years moving around from state to state, the transcripts thing had been tricky. Dad had always kept Sam and Dean’s paperwork, needing it whenever he transferred them into yet another school system, so he had access to most of it. Still, Sam had needed to doctor some of them. Over the years, there had been a few times Dad had been so paranoid he’d enrolled Sam and Dean under different names.

During his junior year, Sam snuck off long enough to take the SAT and the ACT. He applied for scholarships and grants. Sam even managed to tour a few colleges over the course of his high school career while his family traveled from town to town. He’d taken care of everything, and to his knowledge, Dean and Dad knew nothing about it. The only person who did know was Bobby, whose address Sam used to have mail sent to.

To be honest, Sam was shocked when Bobby called after the first letter arrived. He’d been so sure it would never work. He gets acceptance letters from all the schools he’d put in for, but Stanford had been at the top of his list. Sam gets his acceptance letter to there at the beginning of April.

Sam is over the moon. He can hear the excitement in Bobby’s voice as he reads the letter to him over the phone. Sam had made Bobby promise not to tell Dean. There wasn’t any danger of him telling Dad. It’s been years since the two men had spoken to each other. Dean, on the other hand, makes it a point to keep in touch, just like Sam always has. Bobby knows how much Sam wants out. He doesn’t want to hunt. He doesn’t want this life. And while Bobby understands, he knows Dad won’t. Then there’s Dean.

It’s not that Sam thinks Dean won’t understand why Sam wants to go to college. It’s the leaving that’s the problem. Dean won’t want Sam to go anymore than Sam wants to leave Dean behind. If he thought he could talk his brother into going with him, he would. Dean could get a job. He could go to college too. Dean is every bit as smart as he is. It would be easy.

But Dean is never going to leave Dad. He’d never even think of it. They’re family and family sticks together, no matter what. While Sam’s departure will be an unforgivable offense to Dad, he knows the worst part will be Dean. Because while Dean will eventually forgive Sam, it’s still going to break his heart.

Sam spends his last few weeks of high school trying to figure out a way to tell Dean. To warn him this is coming. If Sam asks, Dean won’t tell Dad. He won’t like it, but Sam knows he’ll keep his mouth shut, if only because it’s Sam asking him to. He starts to tell him so many times, but he never quite manages it.

Dean is so excited about Sam’s high school graduation it makes everything a thousand times worse. He has a cake waiting for Sam when he gets home from his last day of school. It has ‘Congratulations Sammy’ written on it. Dean even makes him take a picture with it, beaming at him the whole time. Sam feels sick.

The graduation ceremony is that Sunday afternoon, the high school gym stifling in the usual humid heat. Dad doesn’t make it, but Dean is there. He even dresses up, suit and all. His older brother cheers him on as Sam walks across the stage and shakes the principle’s hand as he receives his diploma. It should be embarrassing as Dean hoots and hollers, but Sam just grins up at him as he makes his way back towards his seat. One of Sam’s friends takes a picture of Dean and Sam together after the ceremony is over.

It’s later that night, as they’re packing up what little they have scattered around the motel room, that Sam brings up the topic of Dad.

“Where’s Dad?” Sam asks, as he stuffs the last of his clothes in his duffel bag.

Dad had been gone all week, and Sam hadn’t talked to him. It’s unusual for him to go a few days without at least checking in.

“On a hunt,” Dean says.

Sam is taken aback by the bitterness in Dean’s voice as his older brother walks towards the bathroom, doing one last sweep of the place to make sure they've got everything. Sam and Dean’s schooling had always been a hassle for Dad. They don’t teach hunting skills, so it wasn’t important. It had bothered Sam that Dad hadn’t shown up, but it wasn’t a surprise. Dad being a no-show must have gotten to Dean, though.

They head out the door, dragging their bags to the Impala. Dean closes the trunk and they make their way to the car doors, almost closing them in sync as they get in, Dean behind the wheel. They pull out of the parking lot, heading out into the night. It’s quiet, except for the low sound of some soft rock station playing in the background. Sam knows he should tell Dean now, before they meet back up with Dad. He’s only got two months before he has to leave for California. He doesn’t want to spring it on Dean. He decides to ease into it.

“What’s Dad hunting?”

“I don’t know.”

Sam looks at him, but Dean keeps his eyes on the road, “Since when does Dad not tell you what he’s hunting?”

“Since I told him we we’re taking a week off.”

Sam is stunned for a moment, unable to speak, “We’re...we're what? We don’t take vacations, Dean.”

“Yeah, that’s what Dad said,” Dean says, he turns to smile at Sam, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Sam can imagine how that conversation had went down.

“Why?”

“Because you graduated from high school, and you deserve to have some fun,” Dean says, “You did good, Sam. I’m proud of you.”

Sam is unsure what he’s feeling or even what to think. He can’t believe Dean had stood up to Dad. Just for Sam. Just so they could have some fun. All the weeks Sam had spent trying and failing to tell Dean about Stanford, and now the words start tumbling out of Sam’s mouth without his permission.

“Dean, I have to tell you something. I --”

“Don’t say it,” Dean says.

It stops Sam in his tracks, because he knows. Somehow Dean knows. Sam can feel his heart pounding. Dean isn't saying anything, his face impassive.

“Dean --”

“Sammy,” Dean says, glancing over at him, “Please.”

Sam lets it go. Dean doesn’t want to hear him say the words, he realizes. Dean can’t hear them. Sam knows their Dad. Dean must have put up one hell of a fight to get them this time away. Dean will probably pay for it dearly later too, if he hasn’t already. Dean wants a week with just them. Two brothers out on a road trip. A real road trip. No hunting. No Dad. No worrying about the future. Just them. Sam can give him that. Hell, it’s the best graduation gift he could get.

“So where are we going?” Sam asks.

Dean grins at him.

It’s mid-September when Sam finds the picture of him and Dean from his high school graduation again. He’d stuck it in one of his books for safe keeping when he’d been packing to leave. Earlier in the summer, Dean had cut his copy into a smaller size to keep in his wallet. Sam heads out to the nearest store that has a photo lab. Sam makes a copy to send to Bobby and he makes a smaller, cropped version for himself that he puts in his wallet.
 
**********

Dean finds himself flat on his stomach. Everything is fuzzy. He isn’t sure if that’s because he’s coming up on the end of his rope or if he added a concussion to the long list of stuff wrong. Either way, Dean is grateful. Without him weighing Castiel down, the fallen angel can get out of this damned place. Dean closes his eyes, waiting for death or unconsciousness to take him. He has never been much for praying and the only times he has prayed was to Castiel, but he sends up a prayer to whoever might have their ears on that his angel makes it out all right.

He’s still dwelling on that when he feels rough hands shaking him. Dean groans, because yeah the jostling kind of hurts and he’d much rather be letting the blankness take him, but hands also means someone is down here with him.

“Damn it, Cass, you were supposed to leave me,” Dean says, words slurring.

“Guess again.”

Dean opens his eyes, searching for his little brother. Sam is looming over him, having rolled Dean into his back. Is this some kind of hallucination? Sam shouldn’t be down here. The gate closed. Dean knows it did.

“You’re not my brother. You can’t be.”

“It's me, Dean. Gabriel brought me down here to get you and Cass.”

That stupid asshat. Gabriel had one job. One damn job. Keep Sam safe. How in the hell does that translate into ferrying Sam down into the Pit? Dean’s about to say as much, but pain shoots through him. Sam holds him close. Dean can feel his body shutting down on him. He’s cold, and even though he wishes his brother was anywhere else right now, it’s nice to be so close to something so warm. It’s comforting.

“C-cass?” Dean manages to ask once the pain subsides.

“He’s fine. Gabriel has him,” Sam says.

“Good. How -- How are you getting o-out?”

Sam grimaces at Dean’s stunted words, “Gabriel’s waiting for us back where we came in at. As soon as I haul your ass out of here, he’ll take care of the rest.”

Something heavy falls near them. Sam’s eyes go wide as he looks away. Dean tries to follow his line of sight. He hadn’t noticed where he was until now. They’re in a living room. It’s as familiar to Dean as the back of his hand even if he hasn’t seen it in decades. They’re home and it’s on fire. Blue flames consume most of the place, the lack of smoke and odd color giving it a surreal look. The noise had been part of the second floor falling in, crashing down into the kitchen, blocking the doorway.

“Sammy, you need to get out of here,” Dean says, pushing at Sam’s chest.

He’s so damn weak he’s not even sure his brother feels it.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Sam says, still looking at the damage.

Sam starts trying to lift Dean, but he fights him, “N-no I mean out of Hell. You gotta l-leave me here.”

“No.”

“I’ll s-slow you dow --” Dean can’t even finish the sentence, his breathing labored.

It feels like he has an elephant sitting on his chest. Sam stops moving when he realizes Dean is having so much trouble breathing. He puts him back down on the ground. Dean missed them leaving the house, Sam having already carried him outside away from the burning structure. They both watch as their childhood home crumbles before their eyes, the flames climbing higher as it’s consumed. Dean feels like he's watching some kind of deranged rerun.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean. Don’t worry. We’re getting out of here.”

“Need to tell you --”

“You can tell me whatever you want when we get topside,” Sam says, voice strained.

Sam is trying to keep it together. Dean doesn’t want to make this any harder on his little brother than it already is, but this is going to be the last time Dean gets to talk to him. He wants him to know... God, there are so many things he wants him to know. Wants to apologize for. Sam has him propped up against him, ready to lift Dean up again.

“Sam, please. Just l-listen,” Dean says, fighting to keep his thoughts coherent, “I’m proud of you, S-sam. If I've done anything right my whole life, it's you, and I’m -- I'm proud of that. I’m proud to be your brother. It’s the best part of me, and no matter what happens down he-here, t-that part will stay wi-with you. It always h-has.”

“Dean, don’t do this,” Sam says, tears threatening to fall, “Dean?”

His vision blurs. Dean can see Sam, but his little brother’s features are bleeding into each other. He tries to answer Sam, but words won’t come. Nothing comes to him. Dean closes his eyes, the blankness finally taking over, Sam screaming his name is the last thing he hears.

**********

“Dean?” Sam asks, shaking Dean to get a response, “Dean!”

Nothing. His brother is slack in his arms. Dead weight. There’s still a heartbeat. His chest is still rising and falling. It’s shallow and quick, but it's still there. Sam hauls Dean up and starts to run. He drags Dean back up the incline, breaking into a sprint when they reach the top. Sam runs down the dark corridors as the blue flames flare up around him.

Dean can’t die down here. Sam has to get him back home or... Sam doesn’t want to think about it. It’s one thing for Dean’s soul to go to Heaven. He could learn to deal with that. Maybe. But Dean ceasing to exist all together because of some damn metaphysical rule? He can’t let that happen. He doesn’t have time to check on Dean as he runs. To see if he’s still alive. As the seconds pass, Dean slips further from Sam. He can feel his brother’s skin, cold to the touch already.

“Don’t do this to me, Dean. Come on,” Sam says through gritted teeth as his boots pound the rock, “Just stay with me a little longer.”

Sam rounds a corner and sees Gabriel and Castiel up ahead. Castiel is sitting on the ground next to where Gabriel is standing. His head pops up as Sam sprints towards them. Castiel struggles to get to his feet, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of Dean’s limp form.

“Sam? Is he --?” Castiel starts to ask, but Sam ignores him.

There’s no time.

“Get us out of here,” Sam says, eyes locked on Gabriel.

The archangel must see the panic in his eyes. Gabriel grabs onto Castiel, reaching out to get a tight hold on Sam as he comes skidding to a stop in front of them. Dean’s head bounces from the abrupt stop in movement, his arms hanging loose. Sam studies him, trying to see some sign of life, but he feels a tug in his midsection distracting him as Gabriel tightens his hold. A second later, they’re gone.

Chapter Text

Castiel lies flat on his back, staring up at the high ceiling and busted out lights handing over his head. It takes him a second to realize he’s back in the library and no longer in Hell. Castiel struggles to sit upright. He half crawls, half scoots himself over to where Sam and Dean landed not far from him. Gabriel hasn’t moved yet. He crash landed on his stomach, eyes dazed as he watches Castiel’s movements.

Sam is shaking Dean, trying to wake him up. It’s a scene Castiel has seen before in so many of those shabby motel rooms the Winchesters frequent. Any moment now Dean will scrunch up his face in irritation, hand batting at his younger brother’s hands as he grumbles lame insults and general complaints. He’ll start rubbing at his eyes, bright green blinking wearily up at him as he frowns, Sam smirking or laughing at his brother’s expense.

None of that happens. Dean remains still. His skin is pale in the dim light filtering through the broken windows of the library. The sun is coming up. Sam searches for a pulse, fingers flying from his brother’s neck to his wrist and back again like he’s looking for a second opinion.

“Sam, is he -- ?”

“I don’t know. I can’t -- I don’t --”  

Sam is frantic now, pulling at Dean’s clothes, tears streaming down his face. Castiel grabs Sam’s arms, holding him. He struggles against Castiel for a few seconds before latching on to him, Sam’s hands clenching Castiel’s leather jacket. Castiel wants to scream. He wants to curl in next to Dean and let the sobs rack his body. Let them wring him dry, leaving behind nothing but the emptied out husk of the man he already feels himself becoming.

Castiel was just as frenzied as Sam is now when they had found Castiel in Hell. He had been trying to pull himself down into the hole Dean had disappeared into. Castiel had wanted to follow Dean, even if he couldn’t help. Even if it killed him, regardless of what the hunter wanted. Dean had been right, he was a selfish asshole, but that doesn’t mean Castiel isn’t one too. He never made it that far though. Sam had stopped him. Sam had pulled him back from the edge. Castiel is returning the favor now by keeping his composure and holding fast to Sam.

Looking over Sam’s head, Castiel sets his sights on Gabriel, “Bring him back.”

“Cass --”  

“Bring him back, Gabriel.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t,” Gabriel says, groaning as he struggles to sit up.

“You’re an archangel. You can do --”

Gabriel laughs mirthlessly, using a pile of fallen books to help steady him, “I know the myths and legends you guys passed around the garrisons made us out to be all-powerful superheroes, but there is a limit to what I can do.”

Gabriel looks awful. It’s unfair of Castiel to be demanding things of his older brother right now. Gabriel has more than come through for them tonight. He hadn’t been all the way back from the dead before flinging himself into fray next to the Winchesters. But Castiel doesn’t care about what’s fair. Dean being dead isn’t fair. Sam broken and crying in his arms isn’t fair. Castiel has lost so much, he isn’t losing Dean too.

“If it’s a matter of logistics, that’s currently irrelevant. Heaven is in total chaos. There’s no leader. No order. No angels. You could sneak whole hordes of souls out and no one would know.”

“That’s not the problem.”

Castiel glares at him, his frustration bubbling over, “Then what is?”

“I can’t go get what isn’t there.”

Silence reigns throughout the library. Castiel stares at Gabriel, horrified. Sam lifts his head, sniffing, his eyes still shining with tears.

“Are you saying Dean’s been sent back to Hell? After everything he’s done?” Sam asks, anger coloring his tone as he wipes at his eyes.

“No, that’s not --” Gabriel pauses, looking at Sam with more compassion than Castiel has ever seen from another angel, especially towards a human, “Dean died before we made it out of Hell.”

“No.”

“Sam, he was dead before you reached us.”

“You’re lying!” Sam shouts, tears falling again as he shakes his head in denial, “He was still alive. I know he was.”

Gabriel, for once, doesn’t argue or come back with some snarky remark. He tries to reach out to Sam, but he smacks the archangel’s hand away. Castiel holds Sam back as he tries to lunge at Gabriel, angry and inconsolable. He’s almost too much for Castiel’s exhausted body to manhandle. Sam doesn’t have much fight left in him, however. He goes limp in Castiel’s arms, lost in his grief as Gabriel stares at Castiel for some answer. For someway to make this better.

He has nothing for him. Castiel closes his eyes, unwilling to accept the truth. He’s so tired. He’d like to fall asleep here, next to Dean, and never wake up. Castiel has spent his entire existence fighting. He has endured and caused so much suffering, but this is intolerable. Castiel can’t even begin to fathom how he’s supposed to pick up these pieces. He can’t. The shattered shards of the life he’d hoped to build lie buried in the lifeless man lying next to him.

Because there is no recourse. There’s nothing any of them can do. Dean is beyond any help. Beyond any plane of existence or last ditch efforts. Castiel and Sam can do whatever they want, but the fact remains that Dean died in Hell and with that last breath, his soul ceased to exist.

**********

Everything is pain. It goes on and on, unending. Monotonous, almost boring in its agony. But there’s something else. A sound. It’s loud. Unpleasant. The voice is raw, as if whatever is screaming has been doing so for a very long time. It’s calling out for help. Please someone, help.

“Will you please stop making that insufferable racket?” a voice asks.

Dean realizes far too late the screaming is coming from him. He goes on screaming for a while even after he figures it out. He writhes around on a cold, flat surface, unable to stop. He tries, however, breathing in deep, steadying breaths. It helps a little. He forces his eyes open. His screams die down to crying before slacking off to an intermittent whimpering as he tries to concentrate on something other than the pain. It’s a cold, laminate floor of alternating black and white blocks that he’s lying on. That’s weird. The last thing he remembers is being with Sam in Hell.