Archive of Our Own

Cas watches Dean and the leader of this merry band of overly-bright croat-bait stare one another down.

It's too bright out, the desert sun searing his eyes, sauteing them in their sockets so he can see the moisture evaporating. He hates the desert. He hates these zonerunners for making them come out here. He wants nothing more than to just shoot them all already, and get back to the fuzzy shade of South Dakota.

But Dean ordered them to hold fire.

Cas thinks resentfully it's because the bastards have strategically placed themselves right in front of Dean's Baby rather than any desire to not shed uninfected human blood, or to protect the little girl peeking out of the other, graffitied car.

"Just leave the car and get the hell out of here and nobody gets dead today," Dean snaps.

The leader sneers behind his ridiculous yellow mask. "You should be more worried about getting ghosted yourself, holemouse."

"You runners and your dumb slang. Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how dumb you sound?" Cas almost laughs. Dean's contempt for zonerunner-speak is well-known back at Chitaqua; pretty much everyone has been treated to one of his rants on the subject. "Ghosted? Holemouse? Where do you even come up with this crap?"

The little one with the green and white mask and a long scar stretching from the right corner of his mouth snickers a little and red-hair shoots him a dirty look.

"It's the day and age, gramps. Maybe you should plug into it."

"Gramps?! Look, douchewad—"

This is swiftly degenerating into nothing but name-calling, and as amusing as Cas finds Dean's sudden sensitivity about his age, he wants to get back to somewhere cool and damp, with lots of pretty pills and whiskey to wash them down.

Sighing, Cas shoves his gun into its holster and does the only logical thing to end this without bloodshed.

He barely has any powers left, but he can still skim minds to an extent. Blue Mask is irritated at Yellow Mask and nervous that he's going to start a firefight, Red Mask equally thinks the insult hurling is hilarious and wants to karate the shit out of the Chitaquans, and Yellow Mask is just a whirl of indignation and temper. Green Mask, however, is bored and hungry (though not looking forward to more dog food), and just wants Yellow to give the damn car back already, because it's not like they need it, and besides, they'll never be able to find enough fuel to keep both cars running.

This looks like his best chance.

"Hey, you. You, the one with the scar," he calls, barely heard through the alpha male face-off, "Let's make a deal. The car for non-dog food food."

The man blinks, visibly taken aback by the suddenness of Cas's offer. "What?"

"Vegetables," he repeats, ignored by Dean and Yellow, "Beans. Those little vienna sausages. Canned, but not dog food."

It takes another blink or two, but the killjoy recovers his aplomb admirably, cockiness slipping back over his features and stance as simple as pulling his mask on.

"You have that shit with you," Green replies, mouth pulling the scar tight as if to emphasize his skepticism. There's a spark of hope in the hazel eyes, though.

Cas shrugs. "We were on a supply run." It's not entirely the truth; they just happened on a store that hadn't been cleaned out while tracking a (false, in the end) rumor about the Colt.

"You give us the car, you can have what's in my jeep. We have a deal?" It's not really a question; Green clearly wants it too much to say no, and Blue is watching with interest now, as well.

Green chews his lip, and Cas can tell he's just about to agree when Risa hisses at him, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Oh good, the children have tuned in.

The reprimand catches Dean's attention and he finally ceases his verbal warfare, following her gaze to him, suspicious. "Cas?"

Determinedly, Cas meets first Risa's, then Dean's eyes. "I'm getting your car back without necessitating the waste of valuable medical supplies. We can better afford to trade food than lives and antibiotics."

Dean's expression darkens with all the swiftness and intensity of a summer storm.

"What the hell, Cas. We have people to feed."

"And I've got a vegetable garden, we've got game to hunt, and it's one damn carful of canned peaches. We can compromise here, and I don't care enough about your pride or your gas-guzzling sex toy to get shot."

Green full-out laughs, gun dropping to his side, as Dean sputters, face growing alarmingly red.

Yellow smirks like he's the one responsible. "Ew. Woulda white-blasted her first if I knew I was gonna be riding in a wet spot."

Green rolls his eyes, managing to jeer through the laughter, "Oh please, Party, like you don't jizz your pants every time you get in the Danger Car."

If looks could kill, Green would have already died as many times as Dean has over the years. Cas catches Green's eye and they share a grin. He could like this one.

Happily, it seems that 'Party's' embarrassment has soothed Dean's bruised ego, and he's willing to at least consider seeing reason. Risa's still pissy to his right, but the other Chitaquans look like they're more in favor of the trade than not; they'd probably rather just abandon the car entirely, but none of them are delusional enough to think Dean'll let that happen, nor suicidal enough to suggest it.

As Dean glances around at the others, he seems to realize they're just about gone as far as they're willing to go for this particular endeavor. "Fine. Food for car. But a whole carload? That's a lot, Cas."

Cas starts to tell him that it's not that much, but Green interrupts before he can. "Wait. You said something about a vegetable garden? Like, fresh veggies?" Cas nods, only now becoming cautious about his proposal—cans are one thing, fresh food is a lot more valuable. "I didn't see nothing but sand and rocks near that motel," he points out, though it sounds more like an inquiry than an accusation of falsehood.

Dean and Cas had discovered the store while out on their own, and after their scheduled meet-up back at that abandoned motel, returned with the jeeps. The Impala had been impractical, not enough room to be worth the gas, so they'd left her there, where the killjoys happened upon her.

"That's not camp," Cas responds simply, "That's just where we holed up for the night."

"Cas," Dean warns him curtly. Cas gives him a look that says, 'bite me.' Dean returns one that says, 'blow me,' to which Cas's look responds, 'later, dear.'

"What're you thinking," Party asks Green, who's chewing his lip again, eyes flicking between the camp's cars and Cas.

Green takes a moment to size Cas up before answering. "I want fresh green things. Whatever we can fit and a couple meals worth of fresh food," he glances back at the girl in the car. "As many food groups as you can cover."

A couple meals is not insignificant, but it's doable. Overall it's better for the Chitaquans, especially considering that car is not going to fit all that much, but as he tilts his head questioningly at Dean, it's clear it doesn't sit well with his fearless leader.

"They'd have to come back to camp. I don't like it."

"They're killjoys, not BLI, croats, or demons. We're on the same side here."

"They stole my baby."

"You'll get over it."

For a long moment Dean looks like he's still going to refuse, but Risa adds, "They'll be on our turf; we can just kill them all if they try anything."

He holds out for a second or two longer before caving. "Fine. Mount up, boys, you got yourselves a deal."

--------------------------------

They end up shuffling the seating arrangement for everyone's paranoid security, so by the time they roll into Chitaqua, Cas is riding in the backseat of the Impala (and boy doesn't that take Dean back), with Fun Ghoul (they'd made introductions after the trade was agreed on) sitting beside Dean. Party Poison, Kobra Kid, and Girl are in the Trans Am with Risa, and Jet Star is riding with Steve and Conor in Cas's jeep.

The ride isn't uncomfortable, per se, but it isn't comfortable either. Cas and Ghoul have apparently struck up some sort of friendship or something—more something than friendship, with the way Dean catches Cas eyeing the killjoy in the rearview—and they maintain increasingly familiar banter the whole way back.

Dean knows he lost the claim to jealousy a while back. Still, it flashes through him, hot and prickling, every time blue eyes sweep appreciatively over Ghoul's body. He remains sullenly silent and tries not to think about it.

It's not that unusual even now for a run to return with refugees, but thanks to having to hunt down these car-thieving bastards, they're several days overdue for return, and the 'Danger Car' (and what kind of douchey assholes call their car something like that???) so obviously belongs to motorbabies that the guards double- and triple-check with Dean before letting it in the gate.

Killjoys aren't actually considered enemies around here, but since the camp is primarily made up of hunters, there's a certain level of contempt for what they consider civilians running around playing Rebel Alliance. There's also a level of caution, since they tend to draw attention to themselves, and attention is something hunters spend their entire lives trying to avoid.

Chuck is there to greet them as they all pile out of the cars, worry etched on his face.

"Hey, Dean. Um, new additions?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted on his first breath when Cas and Ghoul snort simultaneously. Frowning at them, he clenches his jaw and tunes the asshole peanut gallery out.

"No, it's—you're not gonna like this, but you'll like it better than them staying. I'll explain later."

"We're just making a trade, mouseman," Party inserts, appearing suddenly at Dean's elbow. "Be outta your little hidey-hole faster than a drac drops."

Chuck doesn't look terribly relieved. Dean can't blame him.

"Why don't we take a look at the stores and take you back out of here," Dean offers.

That's when Cas chooses to ruin his dreams of being killjoy-free sooner than later. "You know, it's getting dark and headlights are really noticeable. We don't want to draw needless attention to the camp like that." He pauses for a moment as Dean watches him narrowly, trying to see where he's going with this, even though he already knows and is just in denial. "We should put them up for the night."

"What the fuck, Cas?" Dean explodes. He did not agree to shelter a bunch of zonerats for the night. His former angel doesn't seem too bothered either by his shouting or what he agreed to, leaning against the Impala beside Ghoul as nonchalantly as if they're discussing the weather.

"They'll pack up tomorrow. We'll escort them out in the morning. Sleeping doesn't strain our resources, and I'm sure you have no intention of not seeing them off personally. No offense, but you're not in any shape to drive them out and back again tonight. Why not offer them hospitality? We can make friends. Allies are always good; more voices out in the world, more information." Cas shrugs one shoulder, adding as if imparting great knowledge, "We can share a meal at the hearth. The breaking of bread has traditionally commenced such a relationship."

More than anything in the world right now, Dean wants to punch Cas in his stupid fucking face.

"I wanna stay. It'll be fun—like sleepaway camp! I never got to go to sleepaway camp before," Girl unexpectedly pipes up, bouncing with the force of her enthusiasm.

Jet grins, quick, easy, before schooling his features and nodding sagely. "Sleepaway camp is totally badass. Besides, who'd say no to someone else doing the cooking, or a real bed?"

The kid flashes a thousand watt smile at him, and Dean's spider-senses start tingling.

His increasing concern is justified within seconds as Risa adds her support to the idea. "We've got the room. Right, Chuck?"

Dean glares at her. He'd thought she'd be on his side here, but the fond way she pats Girl's wild mop of curls tells him she's lost to the child's charms, and likely has been since she got in that damned Trans Am.

Chuck looks a little shifty, but even he grins at the girl when he admits that they do have space. She lets out a whoop of joy and offers Chuck a high five. A moment later Party has a puppy dog look turned on him that would've put ten year old Sammy's to shame.

"So we can stay the night? Please?" He puts on a good show, but it still takes less than a second for Party to sigh and capitulate.

Dean suddenly finds himself very much alone, those puppy eyes focusing on his with lethal precision. Shit. There's even a lip quiver.

Everyone's watching him expectantly. Great. There's no winning here. If he says yes, they have to put up with these douchewads all night. But if he says no, he's the jerk who denied a freakin' adorable little kid her sleepaway camp dreams. And in the end, Dean's soft spot for children will always win out.

"Fine," he barks. "But you," he points at Party, "are not leaving my sight until we've left your sorry asses back in the desert." If they're staying until morning, Dean's keeping their leader where he can see him so they don't make off with all the camp's supplies in the night. And he's posting guards, plural, on the "Danger Car" all night—literally on it. He's going to make them sit on the damn thing.

Party nods, easy, like he hadn't intended anything else. It makes Dean even more suspicious; if it were him, he'd be a little disgruntled about the babysitting, at least.

"Right," Cas, the traitor who started all this, claps his hands together, "Let's get these folks to the canteen, shall we?"

He pushes himself off the car, fluid and graceful. There used to be a time when Cas held himself like a board, all movement stiff and economical. It was too sharp and unnatural to anyone who cared to look close enough.

Dean almost wishes Cas was still all too-quick awkwardness as now he saunters away with an enticing (probably intentionally so) sway to his gait. How close Ghoul sticks to his side and the way Cas's hand settles lightly on the guy’s shoulder blade do not go unnoticed. It summons something black and ugly to swirl through Dean's gut, threatening to spread and wash him away.

He looks away before the impulse to shoot someone takes over.

Most of the camp is already at dinner in the hall when they enter. Immediately hackles go up, conversation subsiding; everyone is wary of the strangers. Dean ignores them all, making straight for the "head" table without explanation or reassurance.

The details of the situation get around anyway as the other members of the supply party disperse and begin to share the story. There are one or two disapproving glares sent his way. But when he returns them, they slide away like water; no one's willing to outright question Dean Winchester.

Despite the initial hostility, the camp warms in the end as the killjoys prove to be entertaining guests, drawing something remarkably similar to a festive mood out of the Chitaquans. Much as Dean doesn't want to admit it, it's a welcome change from the usual grey, soul-sucking uncertainty of survival that typically coats everything here like an oily film.

It's no surprise that everyone faced with it instantly falls at Girl's blinding smile and obvious enthusiasm for her one-night adventure. Jet sits beside her, so easy-going and friendly that everyone else around him relaxes.

Further down his table, Ghoul and Kobra are loud and brash and flirtatious—it's unsurprising that, sitting with Cas, most of his little "congregation" and many of the rowdier folks flock to them. Dean watches as Cas accepts some bright blue pills from one of the girls, washing a couple of them down with a beer he's conjured from somewhere. He offers one to Ghoul, who shakes his head and steals the beer instead. Kobra ascertains that it's just ecstasy before accepting, curling his tongue around the spot of vivid color.

From his seat next to Dean, Party Poison makes an unhappy noise, watching the display. "How'd a nitro junkie end up shotgun?" he asks in apparent disgust.

Dean frowns at him. He knows perfectly well what a nitro junkie is, and he's got a good idea about the shotgun part, but seriously, he hates that damn runner talk. He should not have to translate simple sentences in his own damn camp.

"In English, please?"

Party rolls his eyes. "Pills. Junkie. How is that your second in command."

Dean balks, starts to tell him Cas isn't; not really. It's complicated, though, because mostly everyone treats him like he is, which essentially makes it so. They sorta started the whole camp thing, so as people joined them, they just defaulted to Cas being higher up the chain of command.

Besides which, Cas is Dean's friend, and just like the Timidest Prophet Chuck, it translates to assumed authority. That Dean lets him get away with a lot more than he should—permitting him certain privileges, allowing Cas to question orders when he feels they're flawed—has largely cemented the fact in Chitaqua's eyes.

What he can't explain to anyone else is that he lets Cas get what he wants more from guilt than friendship, trust, or anything else. Bobby knew, and Chuck probably does, too, but no one else has the information to piece it all together.

Heaven closed its gates about a year and a half ago, and from that moment, Castiel, Angel of the Lord, essentially ceased to exist, most of his powers stripped instantly. He's still got a tiny reserve of Grace left in him, but even that is slipping away.

It wasn't a mistake, either; Cas knew what was going to happen. Before it all went down, he got a visit from an old friend. Balthazar had begged, pleaded with him to return to Heaven before it was too late. He warned Cas what was about to happen, and Cas refused, said he wouldn't abandon Dean ("Or humanity, even if Heaven does," like an afterthought, like humanity wouldn't have mattered if Dean wasn't part of it).

As always, Cas chose to sacrifice everything he had, everything he was, for Dean Winchester. Because Dean asked him to, back in the Green Room, and Cas has never done anything by halves.

So when Cas wants something, Dean can't find it in himself to deny him. When Cas has something to say, Dean listens to it. When he fucks up, Dean forgives him. And Camp Chitaqua's general population regards the hippie-oneness-preaching drug addict as Dean's lieutenant.

Party is staring at him expectantly, impatiently awaiting his belated answer. But if he can't explain to his own people, he sure as hell can't—and won't—explain to some stranger.

Dean taps his fork against the table, biting the corner of his mouth until he settles on, "We've been friends a long time." It says everything and nothing, and if Party can't hear the unspoken, 'he's always there when I need him' (which is really the entire point)...well, that's his problem.

The killjoy nods slowly, like Dean's confirmed something deep and important. "You did strike me as the type. Not a lot of friends, but the ones you've got..." He pauses, sizes Dean up. "Ya know, that plus that sweet car of yours, you'd make a decent runner."

Dean doesn't know whether to be flattered or insulted.

"Thanks. I guess," he hedges and turns his attention primarily to eating. Party doesn't push him to continue the conversation, for which he's thankful.

By the time he's scraped his plate clean, the crowd in the mess hall has thinned out considerably. Kobra's disappeared without Dean noticing, but the absence of Cara and Bree from the ring of Cas groupies tells him where Kobra can most likely be located, so he lets that missing person go unaccounted for (those girls are into some freaky shit—there's not enough alcohol in the world to drown out the memory of the last time he went looking for someone in their cabin).

Jet and Risa whisked Girl off to bed a couple minutes ago, after she negotiated her compliance in exchange for getting to stay with Risa. Their exit mostly empties the room, like everyone was being held here by the magnetism of childish conviviality. Looking around, Dean realizes that all that's left are himself, Party, Ghoul, Cas, and the druggie-angel fan club.

Cas is sleepy-eyed and relaxed, someone's hand petting his hair, his cheek, neck, and lower. He's barely aware of it, focused on the story Fun Ghoul's telling. Dean figures he's probably so used to hands being all over him that he just doesn't notice anymore. Cas's hand, meanwhile, is occupied tracing patterns across Ghoul's open palm. It's simple and comfortable, and when he's not watching the killjoy's face, he's focused on his fingers' path.

It's altogether far more intimate than the girl rubbing his thigh.

The black, hideous thing in Dean's gut claws its way free once more, twisting up hot and thick to press against his lungs and the back of his throat. Suddenly he can't stand sitting here watching this ridiculous display for another second.

Shoving to his feet, Dean snarls, "I'm going. Try to remember that other people have to eat on these tables when this little love-in degenerates into...whatever."

The room is temporarily shocked into silence.

Cas's fingers freeze on Ghoul's palm. He studies Dean curiously, tilting his head like he's been doing since they first met. Only now, instead of genuine curiosity, it's like he knows something's up, but he can't be fussed to figure out what it is this time.

He must come to some conclusion, though, eyes and mouth tightening.

Without taking his eyes from Dean's, Cas tells Party Poison, "The girls and I'll take care of Ghoul. You go on ahead with our fearless leader. He has some excellent shit whiskey back in his cabin." For the life of him, Dean can't read his expression or his deceptively lazy tone, and it just makes him angrier.

"Yeah," Ghoul agrees. "I'm good here, you go have your special, rebel leader, alone time."

There's another long pause during which Dean barely notices the killjoys and the groupies, trying and continuing to fail to read Cas.

Or maybe he's not trying to read anything. Maybe he's trying to get Cas to read him; get across that he's asking Cas not to sleep with this guy—just this one person. For once, say no so Dean doesn't have to pretend it isn't happening. Just...

"Well, I do love shitty whiskey," Party interrupts, voice too laid-back. It jerks Dean free of Cas's too-blue gaze. He gets the sense that their little staring match didn't go unnoticed, and some dickhole guests are rude sons of bitches who can't mind their own business.

But he doesn't think too long on that as in his peripheral vision he catches the resumption of Cas's hand trailing over Ghoul's skin. Ghoul makes a happy little noise that he's probably not even conscious of, and Cas turns away from Dean to smile at him.

A weight drops in Dean's stomach. Swallowing, he turns away, feeling like he's just lost yet another something.

"Great," he mutters, stalking out of the hall, fighting the urge to turn back and rip their hands far apart and drag Cas away with him. Yell at him until he stops this love guru crap. Keep him all to himself, make him understand he's worth so much more than he thinks.

But it's way too late for that, and the only reward he'll get for trying is a too-short, too-raw fuck against a splintery wall and Cas gathering himself into a tiny, fragile bundle of shame and loss and bitterness, retreating immediately to his own cabin, where he can drug himself into a stupor so they can both pretend Dean never said anything.

Party slouches along behind him, and Dean has never been less happy for company in his life.

--------------------------------

Gerard's as thrown as anyone by Dean's outburst, but he's too unfamiliar with the situation and what the tension permeating the air is all about to risk taking any definitive action.

So he goes with passivity, follows the camp leader, much though it pains him to leave Frank behind with that fucking junkie cumguzzler.

The problem for Gerard here, is Frank knows Gee wants him far, far away from Cas, so he's sticking close as he can get. Gerard's not stupid, he knows that's how it works—try to control Frank, Frank fights back—but he can never seem to stop himself pushing Frankie like this. Couldn't stop himself arguing in low tones with Frank to let Ray ride with the pair in the Impala; couldn't stop himself hissing that he didn't want Frank around a creep like that.

So now Frank's glued to said creep's side, letting him play with his hands (which, damnit, Frank knows Gerard knows that's a thing for him).

Gerard's lips press into a thin line at the thought of one of his crew hanging around with a bunch of fucking addicts and their crow-blowing dealer. His temper crackles at the edges with little electric pops, fizzling down like a dynamite fuse, ready to snap and explode.

At the door, he glances back.

Frank raises an eyebrow in his direction, challenging, and if Gerard stays one second longer he'll shoot Cas. Given how that's likely to end him and the rest of his crew dusted before he can even blink, he retreats into the night.

The cool damp of a growing mist tickles at what skin's not covered by leather and denim. It's both soothing and annoying; he's finally getting relief from the unforgiving sun of the zones, but the damp mixes with the ingrained dust and makes him feel dirty in a way he never does in the parched heat.

Gerard actually wishes he could bathe.

From the looks Dean's been shooting him all night, he's not the only one who thinks he could use a wash. But Dean hasn't offered a shower, and given the temper the dude's in, it seems unlikely that he will.

Water's probably too valuable even here, anyway.

Gerard has always known there're radiation-free areas out beyond Zone 6, but he hasn't ever ventured to one of them before. It's just too far away from Battery City and all the action. The non-zones are where the holemice hide themselves away, bury their heads in the sand, keeping safe and doing nothing to help anyone else, much less save the world.

That people like Dean or Risa are out here irks him. They'd be good, they could fight. Out in the non-zones, they're wasting away for the sake of cowards and nitro rats like that Cas fucknozzle, who are too stuck up their own asses trying to lose themselves in pretty pills just like the Blind—too self-interested to think of the end of the world and the fate of humanity.

He thinks of Mikey accepting the E tab, thinks of Frank still there with the dickchewer and his shiny little harem of mindless sycophants. It makes his blood boil. He's not worried about Frank sleeping with any of those creeps; no matter how things are between the two of them, Frank wouldn't do that to him. Wouldn't do that to the memory of Jamia.

But he knows the guy well enough to know that once he's got a few drinks in him (and it looks like Cas has plenty of drinks available to put in Frank), he won't refuse the pills anymore, and Gerard's not looking forward to a pale, sweaty, and twitching Frank in the backseat tomorrow.

Beyond that, Gerard's just not a fan of any of his crew taking too many drugs. The high reminds him of having to see each of them Blind, the hangovers remind him of the dry-outs and recovery. It doesn't leave him with warm, happy feelings.

So yeah, not too happy about leaving Frank with the asshat. There's just nothing he can do about it.

Dean stomps up the stairs of what Gerard assumes is his cabin, leaving the door open behind him. As he enters, a weak overhead goes on, providing a dull glow through most of the room.

At first glance it seems much less utilitarian than Gerard would've expected, full of stuff and things. But on closer inspection, most of the stuff littering the sparse furniture is purely functional: Maps, compasses, gun parts, tools for casting bullets and reloading shells, knives, binoculars. There's a ladder up to what appears to be a bunk loft, but all he can make out in the dim light are the bunks and blackness beyond. Nothing personal to indicate this is someone's home.

Ultimately it fits perfectly with the spartan living quarters he envisioned.

The only luxury that Gerard can see is a crystal decanter filled with what he assumes is the promised shitty alcohol, and a couple matching tumblers.

Dean's already poured and drained a glass by the time Gerard's done perusing the space. As soon as glass touches wood, it's filled again. Another joins it and Dean brings them over, plunking one on the table near his guest, and takes the other to the end of the table.

He gestures expansively, indicating any and all remaining chairs. "Have your pick."

Gerard sits across from him, kicking his feet up on the tabletop. His boots earn a scowl, but Dean doesn't tell him to remove them.

After a couple minutes of awkward silence, Gerard clears his throat. "Milkshake cabin," he tries, aware of how woefully lame it is as a conversation starter. He doesn't even really want conversation; it's just too uncomfortable sitting across from Dean, being watched like he's going to decide to try to shoot everyone in the camp and make off with their stuff.

"Yeah," Dean snorts. "Home sweet home."

Gerard cocks his head. The sarcasm and hostility are easy to pick up on. What they mean, where they're coming from, he can field a guess, but not with much confidence.

To be sure, he can't see anyone really caring about a place as impersonal as this. But does that mean home is somewhere burned to the ground? In a croat hot zone? Somewhere crawling with BLI or demons?

He thinks of the Impala. That gorgeous girl's got a shitton of miles on her, but she looks and runs like new. He thinks of the toy soldier Girl tried and failed to free from the backseat ashtray, and the initials carved into the back window panel. S.W. and D.W. Thinks, 'Maybe.'

"Don't spend much time here, huh? In that beauty of a car of yours much as you can get away with, is that it?" he takes his stab in the dark. Dean shoots him a sharp look, so he figures he must be on the right track. "Hey, if she was my lady, I'd wanna be in her 24/7."

"She's not yours," his drinking partner says between clenched teeth.

One step too far, then. Gerard holds his hands up in surrender. "I know, wasn't implying anything. No claims to her, I know. Just saying, there was a reason I made off with her. She's atomic shiny. You've taken fuckin' awesome care of her."

A hint of pride ghosts across Dean's features. "Damn straight. Gotta treat a classic like Baby right."

Gerard snorts with laughter. "You actually named her 'Baby?' I thought that was just like— Isn't that a little...cliche?"

"Isn't 'The Danger Car' a little douchey?"

"Hey, it was that or the Batmobile. Kobra says this was the lesser of two evils," Gerard admits.

"Fuck you, man, Batman rocks."

It surprises another laugh out of him.

"I'm not arguing with you. Batman's fuckin' awesome. I love Batman. Wanted be him when I grew up."

Dean makes a noise somewhere between amused and derogatory, but the mood has lightened.

They both take advantage of the moment to enjoy their whiskey. It's actually pretty decent, as it turns out. Either Cas was exaggerating, or he hasn't been treated to the good stock. Gerard is willing to bet the latter, lest Dean find himself with a dry cabinet.

"So tell me," Gerard starts, emboldened by the lessened tension and the fact that his tastebuds are still intact, "You don't seem the type to roll over and take it. What're you doing here? You could be out there fighting, helping people, making a difference."

Dean chuckles, shaking his head, but it's not a friendly gesture. "You killjoys. Think if a person's not making a big show, pissing all over Better Living's parade, they got their thumbs up their ass, sitting the apocalypse out."

"And you're not?" Gerard snarks. "Out here all safe from BLI's clutches, too far for the crows to bother flying?"

Dean's face twists, hardens, transforms from pretty boy model to something dangerous and aggressive. "We've got bigger concerns. We're not wasting our time on some," he searches for the word—finds it and spits it out like it's obscene, "Some symptom."

Gerard jerks like he's been slapped. And hell, he figuratively has. This cowardly little jackass straight up saying the killjoys' mission is pointless. But Dean doesn't let him interrupt.

"Most everyone here, we're hunters. Maybe you know what that means." Gerard gives him a dubious look, unsure where he's going with this. Dean mistakes it for ignorance.

"It means we knew there were things in the shadows waiting to eat us all, back when you zonerunners and killjoys or whatever were still living nice, oblivious lives in the suburbs. We were out there saving people, fighting for humanity while you assholes were dropping the kids off at school, commuting to your 9-to-5's. Hell, some of us've been at it our whole damn lives.

"So with the apocalypse raining down around our ears, we're not stuck on some crappy, evil mega-corp that's brainwashed most people into being exactly what they already were. We're after the big one, buddy. The one behind all this; the guy who had Croatoan created, let the demons out of Hell en masse, who started Better Living Industries, directs 'em what to do and where. We're aiming for the man at the top."

Dean stops, staring him down like he's waiting for Gerard to finish for him.

Strange thing, but he knows what Dean's saying. He's heard the name, whispered in the dark, fast and breathless, like even that's too loud, too exposed. Everyone's seen the monsters in human-suits with black eyes, who can turn to smoke that skitters and screams like insects and the bleating of small, dying things.

So he knows the man sitting across from him isn't completely delusional. He can even believe that this person, this singularly lethal thing looking out at him through green eyes that are as cold and sharp as broken glass, is like, a real life Buffy or whatever.

But he can't wrap his head around one thing.

"Lucifer," he says. "You're saying you're after the Devil."

Dean nods and empties his glass. "Gold star for you."

"That's insane," he exclaims. The hunter rises, his back to Gerard as he refills his drink. "I don't—ok, the things we all call demons—"

"Because they are demons."

Gerard glares at Dean's broad shoulders. "The things we all call demons. They're monsters, yeah, I'm not denying that. But seriously? They're from Hell? Like, ok, I get a metaphorical Hell, but it's not a real place."

"Mm." Dean turns to face him, leaning back against the counter. "Hell's real. Been there, actually. Made a deal for my brother's life, spent the equivalent of forty years down there." He stops and shudders, dropping his head so that his eyes are shadowed. Given the topic of conversation, the effect is creepy.

"I've died a couple times. Sure you're familiar with that concept. 'Killjoys never die,' right?"

Gerard flinches. He's not really a fan of contemplating his deaths. Last time, when Korse shot him through the head...he'd rather not relive the memories of coming back to life. Still. "Yeah, so I've died before. Didn't go anywhere."

Dean shrugs one shoulder. "You don't always remember."

"Do you remember Hell?" Gerard challenges.

He means it to either stump Dean or rile him up into what he figures will be some sort of religious rant that'll prove the hunter's just an uber-christian nut, and settle the hairs standing on the back of Gerard's neck at the thought that the black-eyed monsters are really demons, or that Hell and fucking Satan could actually be real.

The look on Dean's face shuts him right down.

--------------------------------

"So this is home sweet home," Cas informs Frank as he settles down onto the thick cushions lining the floor at the foot of the ridiculous king bed. "Take a load off. Mi casa es su casa."

Frank takes in the Eastern spirituality-influenced decor and the cloying scents of incense (or maybe pot), liquor, gunpowder, and sex, and smirks at Cas, wrinkling his nose. "I feel like I just walked into Wolfblood Beach."

Cas tilts his head in a way that reminds him of a bird or a confused puppy. "'Fraid I'm unfamiliar with the place," he shrugs apologetically.

Snorting, Frank falls to lean against the footboard with him. "It's in Cali. Don't worry about it."

It seems to satisfy Cas, and he leans down to feel around under the bed until he comes out with a mostly-full gallon bottle of something clear and almost certainly alcoholic.

Frank's right, of course, although he can't identify what the hell species of liquor it's supposed to be when he takes a few long swallows. Must just be plain old stump water. Fuckin' strong, too.

"So," he coughs, fights not to make a face at the burn, passes the bottle, "Why'd you send the girls away?"

Cas raises an eyebrow. "Did you want any of them to keep you company?" he asks, implication altogether too clear.

Frank thinks about it briefly, but of course the answer is no. He hasn't been interested in a woman since Jamia. Sometimes he feels like Sherlock Holmes, and there was only ever the one woman in the world. The Woman. Jams.

He shakes his head, watching with a tinge of jealousy and awe as Cas swallows the grain alcohol smooth and easy, not even wrinkling his nose. Then again, he must've had plenty of time to get used to this shit.

"But what about you?" Frank asks and is rewarded with an abbreviated laugh.

"I can have them around at any time. And you're much more interesting."

Frank grins. "Interesting, huh? Gimme some more of that," he orders, stealing the bottle to cringe his way through a couple more gulps.

He comes away making a Buffy face, he just knows it, and Cas chuckles. Frank scowls at him, chagrined.

"How're you making this look so fucking easy?"

Blue eyes lower, dark lashes stark against his skin.

Cas hums quietly, voice rumbling gravelly low. "Let's just say I have something of a, ah—inhuman tolerance. I wasn't always as I am. Some of it still carries over."

"Yeah? What'd you used to be? Middle Earth dwarf? Norse god? WASP housewife?" he jokes.

The grin that spreads over Cas's face makes his nose scrunch up a little, and Frank grins back uncontrollably.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. For all that you have Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows tattooed on your arm." He gestures to Frank's left forearm, where most of the tat is showing. "It's beautiful work, by the way."

Frank beams. "Yeah? Thanks, man. It's one of my favorites." He pulls his sleeve up further to show off the rest of her. Cas brushes light fingertips over his skin, barely touching. Frank's skin raises in goosebumps in their wake, sending a shiver up his arm and through his whole body, lightning quick and just as shocking. Frank squirms in a sudden discomfort that's not really uncomfortable at all.

Cas doesn't seem to notice as his fingers flit away to wrap around the neck of the bottle and raise it again to his mouth.

There's a moment where Frank almost catches himself studying the way Cas's throat moves with each swallow, but his conscious brain quickly jumps track for safer territory.

For example, "Why wouldn't I believe you? What's the Lady of Sorrows got to do with it?"

From the corner of his eye, Cas glances at Frank, assessing. "You're not very religious, are you, Ghoul?"

He starts at the name, having forgotten for some reason that this isn't someone who knows his real one. "Uh, no, not really. I mean, once a catholic and whatever, but no. I don't really believe, ya know?"

"That's probably for the best," Cas says, an strangely arctic edge to his voice. "They did abandon you all. Us all."

"Huh?" It's terribly articulate, but it's the best he's got with the alcohol starting to make the world a little softer around the edges and the way Cas seems to be moving through topics a hundred miles per hour faster than him.

Cas smiles at him then, apologetic. He lays a soft, cool hand on Frank's cheek, stroking his thumb down over the cheekbone. "It's nothing. Forget I said anything."

"What? No. Come on, tell me. What'd you used to do and what's it got to do with religion and alcohol tolerance?" Frank demands, irritated that Cas is attempting to treat him like a child. He doesn't move to push the hand away from his face, though.

A frown mars the lines of that over-full mouth. "You really wish to know?"

Frank nods.

"Very well," Cas shrugs. "I was a warrior of God. Not," he cuts Frank off as he opens his mouth to comment, "Not a priest, or anything like that." He stops for a long moment, worrying his bottom lip. Frank can't help but watch the way it reddens.

"Camp Chitaqua's fearless leader and I—we were hunters. Most of the people here were hunters. Are, I suppose. We are still hunting Lu—" he cuts himself off suddenly, like he's biting his tongue. "We are still hunting demons. Monsters."

Frank's head is getting fuzzier by the minute, especially as he keeps trading the bottle back and forth with Cas, so the misstep of words is a little too confusing to concentrate on when simpler concepts are available.

"Demons? Like those black-eyed sons of bitches who run BLI? Are you guys like Van Hellsing or Constantine, or like, Angel?"

"Angel?" Cas chokes, wide eyes fixing on Frank's.

"Yeah, from Buffy? And Angel, too, I guess, since he got his own spin-off and all."

"I—see. And does this...Angel. Does he fight demons?"

Frank nods enthusiastically. "Hell yeah! He's not nearly as cool as Buffy, but they do end up fighting Wolfram and Hart, which is like Hell LLC. So it's a lot like BLI."

"Oh," Cas breathes, suddenly digging under the bed again, paler than before. You don't see a lot of pale out in the zones; it's something of a novelty. Frank lets himself admire it.

When he sits back up, he's got an old cigar tin, which turns out to be filled with twists of pot and a pretty glass pipe.

"Dude, where the fuck'd'you get all that?!" Frank exclaims. He hasn't seen that much weed in—fuck, in years. It's damn hard to grow out in the zones, so it's damn hard to obtain.

Cas chuckles, stuffing the bowl. "We've got a patch. Our fearless leader doesn't complain as long as we stay out of the greenhouses." He pulls a lighter from his pocket and holds it to the bowl, thumb over the vent while he sucks in long and hard.

Frank's mouth goes a little dry at the way his cheeks cave in and his lungs never seem to fill. Some more booze helps remedy the problem.

A long plume of bluish smoke streams from Cas's lips a minute later, and Frank eagerly accepts the pipe when offered, taking a long pull, and then another.

It's smooth, sweet. "Shit man, this shit is good," he sighs, letting his head fall back against the footboard.

"I'll tell Andy you said so. It's his strain."

Cas shifts so his body is turned more towards Frank's, but an annoyed look crosses his face. Frank's about to ask what's wrong, but those long, elegant hands reach under his hip and return with the gorgeous Taurus .45 that was pointing in Frank's face this morning. It's all slick silver, with gold accents on the trigger and hammer, and a black pearl grip. For a moment Cas studies her, before popping out the clip and sliding out the chambered round.

The beauty gets set between them on the floor, one of Cas's slim fingers running down the barrel.

Frank finds himself reaching for the unloaded pistol before he can stop. His fingers brush Cas's and they both freeze for what feels simultaneously like a nanosecond and an eon, unable to breathe.

Then Cas pulls his hand away, instead wrapping it around the pipe and gently taking it back from Frank's grasp.

"She's gorgeous, you know," Frank exhales in a soft whoosh, taking her fully in hand and lifting her. She's still warm from Cas's body heat, and she fits into his palm like she was designed for it.

"Stella. I call her Stella," Cas tells him through another cloud of smoke. "Mon capitan once showed me Streetcar Named Desire. When he gave her to me, I wanted to name her Blanche: She seemed so strong and decisive, glitzy and beautiful. But I thought about it, and under all that she's subject to the will of whoever's holding her. A wilting, submissive thing, capable of extreme harm to whoever she's turned against by the one wielding her.

"No matter how broken Blanche was, she was never a weapon against anyone. Stella was the weapon swinging between the two of them. Blanche may have been a danger to Stanley—she could wield Stella against Stanley—but she herself was never the weapon. It was Stella they fought to execute one another with. Though in the end broken and driven mad, Blanche never yielded."

Frank stares openly at Cas, half-astounded by the sudden philosophical turn of the conversation. Then again, they're both smoking, and a little drunk, and Cas did take ecstasy earlier, so it's probably only to be expected.

"Dude. I call mine Fun Ghoul. 'Cause it sounds like 'fangool'," he blurts, pulling her out of her holster and offering her to Cas. Fun's painted green and white, though the paint around the barrel is a little blackened.

Cas tilts his head in that curious bird-like fashion again. "I thought Fun Ghoul was your name?"

He hesitates for only a few seconds before he comes to a decision. "They're code names. My real name is Frank."

For a minute Cas just looks at him, head still cocked to the side. "I see," he says finally. "In that case, my full name is Castiel."

Cas looks down at his lap where he's holding Fun, long fingers caressing the lightning bolt. For the space of a breath Frank doesn't dare say anything.

He almost bites his tongue when he does. "I like it. It sounds like an angel."

It draws an almost-amused huff from Cas. "Yes." He doesn't elaborate, and the almost-amusement swiftly fades. Though he doesn't move, he seems to collapse in on himself.

"I haven't gone by that in a long time, though. I don't—I don't think I can claim to be that anymore..." His voice trails off into something small and defeated.

Frank can't stop himself from resting one hand on the back of Cas's neck, pulling.

"Hey," he whispers, soothing. "Hey, Cas, c'mon, look at me." After a moment Cas meets his gaze. "I'm not really Frank anymore either. Not since—"

Not since—

Ultimately not since Jamia, he supposes. But some part of him stays Frank, because Gee wants him to be Frank. Because when they both crack and fracture too hard and end up in the back of the Trans Am, the storeroom of the diner, the back of one of Dr. D's bunkers, gasping and desperate and vicious between each other, with too little lube and too much soreness for days after... When they both break, it's, "Frank, oh, Frankie," gasped into the space between them. Not, "Ghoul."

And for some stupid reason, Frank finds words spilling out. Not all of it, but a lot. He doesn't even really know what he's saying, like he's lost the ability to understand English even as it comes out of his mouth.

He shares it all with Cas. Castiel. Former warrior of God. Hunter, man. Fuckin' saint or angel or something. Cas just listens, face filled with compassion and understanding, not pity; he gets it and cares.

"Cas—" Frank breathes as the words finally falter, gripping Stella hard enough that it sorta hurts his hand. He drops his eyes to study her. The sleek lines, the shine of the faux pearl. What he sees there is not a character from an old play, but Cas.

"She's gorgeous," he repeats.

Suddenly Cas laughs, and it's an ugly, ruined noise. "I didn't used to use guns. I used to burn demons out with my bare hands. I used to save people with a touch."

"Yeah?" he asks, but doesn't. "I used to save people with a guitar pick."

--------------------------------

"Yes. I remember Hell," Dean bites out.

He doesn't know why he's sharing this with some fucking wannabe Luke Skywalker, but it's boiling out of him unstoppably. "And yeah, it's a real damn place. You should thank whatever you pray to, you didn't wake up there any of the times you died."

Party doesn't shrink from his verbal assault, but he closes off, compacts like a snake coiling up, ready to strike should the need arise.

Dean's on a roll, though, and he's gone head-on with freakin' angels; he's not gonna be stopped by the potential threat of some little zonerunner. "And Heaven's not that much better, frankly."

"You're saying you've been to both? Are you for real, man?" Party's all scoffing disbelief. It's not unjustified, Dean thinks. Who in their right mind would just accept something like that without hard proof? He certainly didn't.

"Yeah," he sneers, "I'm for real. 'Parently been upstairs more times than not, but then, Winchesters seem to die more than most people."

The disparaging look Party's wearing perversely amuses Dean. "You know you sound crazy, right?"

He snorts a laugh. "Oh man, I wish that was the long and short of it. I'd love if Heaven were just a myth. None of this'd be happening."

For a long minute or two or five, Party just studies him. Dean can't tell what he's thinking, and frankly he doesn't give a crap. Cas might be all for making friends, but all Dean really wants is these guys out of here.

"Why? Why wouldn't it be happening?" Party pries.

"Why? Because there wouldn't be any angels. So God would've never had Lucifer cast down, and then the whole apocalypse bullshit would never've been planned."

Dean gives him no more than that, though even that seems like a lot. Nothing more than that will ever be needed. At this late date, it hardly matters who cracked Lucifer out of the cage, who his and Michael's vessels are, or that Michael and the other angels got tired of waiting for Paradise and closed up shop to try their hand at making it themselves.

Again, Party's eyes search over his face for a few, intensely uncomfortable minutes, during which Dean empties a lot more of his whiskey than he should, simply to have something to do.

When Party speaks, he's still more or less on topic, but he's moved away from the parts that make Dean want to strangle himself with his own belt.

"So how'd you get outta Hell?"

It's so unanticipated that Dean actually answers. "An angel—" he breaks off into a bitter laugh. "An angel 'gripped me tight and raised me from perdition'."

"Um. What?"

"I know," Dean holds his hands up, "It sounds like gay porn. He, uh, didn't really get the subtleties of talking like a normal person." Still doesn't, half the time. Especially not when he's sober, which isn't something that happens a lot, but there are rare mornings when he wakes up and everything's worked its way through his system already.

Or, there used to be. Dean doesn't know anymore; it's been months now since one or the other of them didn't kick Cas out as soon as they finished.

Party sits with his arms crossed and his mouth pursed skeptically. "I meant the angel part, but yeah, porn."

Dean shrugs. "Probably doesn't matter much whether anyone believes in them or not, anymore. They're all gone. Took off, just like their dad. Most of them, anyway," he sneers. There's just the two of them left, both Fallen, one practically all-powerful, one practically useless. Neither's doing humanity much good.

"They sound like dicks," Party decides.

Dean snorts. "You have no idea."

Grabbing the decanter of whiskey, he pushes himself away from the counter and, after a bit of deliberation, reseats himself closer to Party's end of the table.

"So tell me. If they're such dicks, why'd they bother springing you from Hell?" Party inquires, and he sounds genuinely curious. "Don't get me wrong, not saying you deserved to be there for saving your brother. Fuck, I think I'd do just about anything for my baby bro."

Dean considers him. He wonders which one of their runner guests it is. It has to be one of them; not that he knows Party all that well, but killjoys are known for fierce loyalty, and he doesn't think this man would leave his family in BLI's clutches. It's a quality Dean can respect.

He doesn't ask though; it feels too personal. Instead he answers the question, and even he's shocked at his honesty.

"I was supposed to save the world."

Party blinks stupidly. "That's a tall order. You, uh—I guess you're still planning on doing that."

Dean nods. "I'm going to find Lucifer, and I'm gonna fill that son of a bitch's face with lead."

And if Cas could still summon up his angel sword, Dean wouldn't stop there. He'd cut off Lucifer's head, just to spite the bastard that killed his brother. Logically it's Sam's body, but it makes a twisted sort of sense to Dean, because even though the Devil will be dead after the Colt, it would be like saying, "Fuck you, this is my brother, and you can't have him ever again, even if you found a way to come back to life."

Dean wants that bastard as dead as dead can dead. Because unless Cas is wrong and their experience with Raphael's vessel was a complete aberration, Sam's gone, burned out from that shell.

No matter what he does, Dean will never know why Sam said yes, because Dean doesn't know what happens to the souls of Lucifer's vessels, but he doesn't hold out hope that there's a whole lot left of them once they get supernova'ed. Probably, no matter where he goes in the afterlife, Dean will never, ever see Sammy again.

They're Winchesters, and Winchesters don't get to have nice things.

So all he has left is avenging the hell out of his little brother and putting Lucifer down like the pathetic, rabid animal he is.

"I hate to say it, but don't you think it's unlikely you can dust Satan with lead?" The skepticism in Party's voice drags Dean back to Chitaqua.

Dean half-smiles at him. He suspects that it looks more like a sneer and doesn't care.

"Not with any old gun. In 1835, Samuel Colt made a very special gun. It'll gank anything; vampires, demons, even angels."

Party presses his lips together, brow gathering over his nose. "So it's a Penultimate Weapon."

"A—is that a D&D reference?" Dean makes a face at the nerdery occurring in his cabin. "No, nevermind, I don't wanna know. Yes, sure, it's the Penultimate Weapon."

"Cool. Can I see it?"

Dean leans back in his chair, regarding Party quietly. Admitting that he doesn't have the Colt could be dangerous. The killjoy could decide to go find it himself, offer it to the highest bidder, or do something stupid like run through the remaining ammo on unimportant, low-level demons.

In retrospect, he shouldn't've said anything about it at all.

So Dean lies. "Sorry, it's...somewhere secure."

Party actually pouts. "I'm not gonna steal it, fuck."

"This isn't up for discussion. The answer's no."

Sighing, Party kicks his feet down to the floor so he can lean forward and pour himself another drink. "Fine. Whatever.

--------------------------------

Cas doesn't know who moves first.

But guns are abandoned to the floor, pipe and alcohol dropped to the side, knocked over and out of the way.

Frank's lips are smooth, savage–demanding against his. Frank's tongue orders him to allow entrance, part his lips and let him inside Cas's mouth to explore and conquer in the name of the homeland.

Before he knows what's happening, Cas has a lapful of killjoy, holding his jaw in one hand, the other shoving his shirt up and running down his chest and stomach to massage a thumb deep into the muscle cupped by his hip bone.

Cas gasps, his head falling back at the strangely intense sensation. It leaves his neck exposed and Frank's mouth is there instantly, teeth and lips and tongue working urgently. He hovers a long moment with his teeth stretched around Cas's trachea, threatening to close, to collapse his windpipe and suffocate him.

He doesn't know his hips are going to buck uncontrollably into the suggestion until they do.

Frank hums approvingly against his skin and moves his teeth down to his collarbone, his chest, biting and sucking, leaving a trail of almost-bruises in his wake. A strangled noise kicks itself free of Cas's throat, his hips searching now in earnest for something to rub against, but Frank's not pressed quite close enough.

Cas reaches for him, intent on bringing him close enough to find some relief, but Frank grabs his wrists, digs his thumbs into the underside between the tendons hard enough that Cas winces and relents.

"Good boy," Frank purrs, voice dark and smooth, guiding his hands back until they're pressed against the top of the footboard. The edge presses into his knuckles even through the blanket hanging over it, but he doesn't protest. "Hold onto that and do not move your hands," Frank orders, releasing them.

Cas obeys, twisting his arms awkwardly to grasp at the top.

Frank doesn't wait to confirm that Cas does as he's told, diving back down to bunch his shirt up under his armpits again and recommence the assault on his torso.

He tongues over a nipple, encouraging it to rise and harden. Cas isn't exactly sure why people always zero in on nipples, as it's pleasant enough but not terribly stimulating—at least for him. When Frank fails to get the sort of response he's looking for however, he closes his canines on it hard.

Cas lets out a strangled shout, writhing away from, writhing into the pain, like his body can't decide what to do. Maybe this is what's so appealing about nipples...

Taking pity, Frank lets go and licks over the abused nub, eyes raising to check that Cas is watching. With a final flick of tongue, a wicked smile grows across Frank's face, stretched menacingly past his mouth by the crooked scar bisecting his cheek.

The sight makes Cas's dick give a little twitch that Frank apparently appreciates as the smile widens further. Cas's tongue slips out to lick his lips, whether in anticipation or nervousness, he's not sure himself, and he swallows around the inexplicable dryness of his throat.

Frank's eyes watch the movements and he slithers up to Cas's mouth, pressing every inch of them together as he straightens up. His fingernails leave hot, stinging trails up Cas's side.

The kiss is violent, Frank sucking his lower lip into his mouth and biting until they can both taste copper. Cas whimpers low in his throat, pressing harder into it. It almost completely distracts him from one of Frank's hands wriggling between them, cupping his still-filling cock, and squeezing almost painfully hard.

All the air in his lungs vacates the premises, even as he sucks in a gasp so hard it gives him a headache, and Cas feels light-headed as what seems like every drop of blood in his brain is redirected south in about half a nanosecond.

"Fuck," Frank curses, words tripped out against the side of his face, pressed into his skin with spit-slick lips and sharp teeth, "Holy fucking bloody cunt of the Virgin, you're so fuckin' hot."

The hand leaves him and Cas chokes with relief and disappointment, hips unintentionally grinding after it. Frank ignores him, continuing a litany of filth as his mouth moves scorching and wet to the shell of his ear.

A scraping sound draws his attention, and Cas turns his head enough to see Frank's fingers closing around Stella's grip.

Rationally, he knows the gun isn't loaded; he emptied the chamber himself. But still he freezes as Frank slides the cold steel of the barrel up his side, turning so their faces are pressed together, breath fragmenting in the cracks of space between them.

He lifts the barrel to trace across Cas's open lips. Cas strains to keep the gun in sight, but he can't see where it comes into contact with his skin. Frank's forefinger is running absently along the edge of the trigger-guard, though, and despite himself, Cas imagines it moving up and down the trigger itself, gun fully loaded, pressed against his mouth, his temple, his chin.

Frank nudges the barrel hard against the part of Cas's lips, not requesting entrance but telling Cas to fucking open the hell up, right the fuck now.

Obediently, Cas's mouth opens to accept the gun barrel. Frank pushes it in until it hits the back of Cas's mouth, and then, very slowly, he draws it out and pushes it back in again.

"Do you understand?" Frank asks him, and of course he does. He read Frank's intent the instant his hand closed around the gun.

Cas nods, accepts the gun greedily, letting his tongue wrap around it and follow as Frank moves it in and out of his mouth, failing every once in a while as it draws back so that when the barrel breaches his lips on an outward pull, his tongue is still wrapped around it tight and deliberate.

The noises Frank lets fall from his lips at the sight of Cas blowing the gun do nothing to ease the way Cas's dick is pressing way too tight against his jeans.

As if reading his mind—or at least the desperate whines Cas is seemingly incapable of holding back—Frank leans back, providing enough space to undo the button and zipper of Cas's pants. Frank shifts until he's no longer straddling Cas's hips, but firmly between them.

"Hold this a sec," he commands, and Cas transfers a hand to the gun, holding it still where Frank leaves it in his mouth. Without warning, Frank grabs his hips and pulls him further down along the ground, straining the arm anchoring him to the bed; Cas doesn't dare move it without permission, however.

With Cas in this new, half-laid-out position, Frank pulls his jeans down enough to get his dick out.

"So pretty, baby, so fuckin' hot," Frank praises, running one finger dry down his cock. Cas shivers at the contact, groaning around Stella's barrel.

Frank's eyes snap back to his mouth. Suddenly he's fighting to get his own pants open and shoved loose enough to free him to the damp air of the South Dakotan spring night.

Soon as he can, he's pushed Cas's hand away from the gun again, replacing it with his own and shoving the pistol hard against the back of Cas's throat until he makes a pained noise and nearly gags. Frank leans down to lick his mouth, swollen and taut around steel.

"God, sweetheart, you don't even know how you look with that gun in your mouth. Baby, I'm gonna take such good care of you, make you feel so fuckin' good," Frank promises him, his free hand curling around Stella when she's mostly free of his mouth, to extend two fingers flat along her length. When he pushes her back in, Cas accommodates the additional fingers, his lips beginning to feel stretched too tight, his jaw strained.

"That's it, baby," Frank coos, "Get 'em good and wet. Gonna open you so wide." Cas is shaking with the promise, barely able to keep himself from pulling the fingers free right now, and shoving them down where he wants them.

Instead, Frank feeds them to Cas for another minute before slipping them free and spitting liberally on them so he has to twist and turn his hand to keep the moisture from dripping free.

Frank shimmies back and away, repositioning himself between Cas's legs, pressing as close as their barely-removed pants will allow. "Bend your knees up," Frank tells him. Cas complies immediately. It leaves his ass free and open to the air and before he can process it, Frank's fingers, covered with spit, are rubbing at him, begging entrance with the same level of authority as his tongue and the gun in his mouth.

One finger presses in, the other bending, the first knuckle still pressing at his ass, expecting hospitality in the near future. Frank crooks it and lets it rub along his perineum, eliciting a hiss of pleasure.

"Open up, sweetheart, let me in, come on," Frank coaxes in his ear even as he presses along the sensitive stretch of skin. Before he can consider it, a second finger is slipping inside him and he bucks, arches, groans around the now-unmoving Stella.

Frank twists his fingers inside Cas's ass, tips pressed flat but pointed like the way he imagines they manipulate difficult chords on the guitar Frank claims to have saved people with. Right now, Cas believes it; those fingers are so sure, pressed so deftly, twitching and massaging like they've done this a thousand times. Like they know by experience or instinct exactly where to press to thoroughly destroy this human body with pleasure.

Cas is so lost in the sensation thrumming through his very bones, ripped from him by far too agile fingers sunk as deep inside him as what very little remains of his Grace, that he barely hears Frank's words.

He makes a herculean effort to pay attention the instant he realizes there's something he should be listening to.

"Come on baby, come on. Give me your hand, touch me, fit those filthy fucking fingers around my cock. They're made for it–god, they're fucking made to be used, fucked, sucked–fucking christ, hands like that need to be wrapped around something, covered in cum, fucking, fucking inside someone. Jesus," Frank hisses as Cas manages to convince his right hand to follow Frank's instructions to curl around the purpling arc of his dick.

Cas begins to draw them together, tries to gather both their cocks into his grasp, but Frank growls in warning.

"You're coming like this, baby–hand on me, fingers up your ass and gun down your throat. If you dare touch yourself, I will fucking load this gun and shoot you in the leg, do you fucking understand?"

Although it makes absolutely no sense, the threat leaves Cas moaning, eyes rolling back in his head. He nods, hard, exposing his throat fully again.

This time, Frank doesn't take advantage of it to sink his teeth in, but instead pushes further and further on Stella, until with a strangled, desperate sound Cas can barely believe just came from him, the barrel slips down his throat.

He has to hold his breath, relax and not panic, even as the sight at the barrel's end scratches the delicate tissue of his throat, the other corners and angles of the gun no easier to swallow down without protest.

Cas can't stop the gasp of relief when Frank pulls it free. The instant Cas lowers his chin, though, Frank digs the fingers buried inside him hard, pushing so that they jump over his prostate with all the subtlety of a fucking freight train.

His lips release from the barrel of the gun, opening wide with the shout of euphoria he can't restrain.

"Move, Castiel," Frank orders harshly in his ear, "Jerk me off, sweetheart, fucking make me come all the fuck over you, do it, come on, Cas, come on."

Belatedly, Cas remembers to move his fist, twisting, hand tight and fast. He wants to use both hands; strip the shit out of Frank's cock with one, all the while wringing every possible response out of his head and the line of nerves leading down underneath it with the other. But thus far he's managed to obediently keep his left hand grasping the foot of the bed. He doesn't intend to end that now, so all he's got is one hand doing its damnedest to bring Frank off while in return, he does incredible, blasphemous things to Cas, voice a continuous stream of sinful ecstasy.

Cas nearly screams when a third finger enters him, stretching him too far for the space of a heartbeat and then sinking into a delicious burn.

"You can do it, just one more, that's all, then you can come," Frank slurs at his throat, teeth nipping. Cas almost thinks he just means the three fingers, but he's barely adjusted to those when Frank pulls them all free, spitting on them, only to add another.

Now, as he pushes in, the curled shape widening more and more and fucking fucking more, Cas barely stifles a scream, the expanse too wide, just this side of being too dry with the new, uninitiated digits. It's too much and he's falling, drowning in the sensation when Frank manipulates all four fingers to undulate in a wave against his prostate, cross-currents of sparking pleasure frying his brain like the booze and the drugs and shoving his cock in something wet and accommodating have never succeeded.

There's only one thing, before, that's short-circuited all higher functions like this.

Dean.

As if the name is a command, Cas comes apart, vision bursting in a light nearly as bright as Grace—he half-wonders if he's finally become too human, if the last wisps of his own Grace are now too much for his body and senses to stand, and it's ripping him apart from the inside. That's what it feels like, anyway. Dean's name joins the fray to ricochet through him like holy fire, cutting him open and leaving what little the Grace didn't touch charred and twitching.

Cas passes out for a moment.

When he comes back, he's still alive, still apparently whole in body. His Grace is still beating weakly, tucked down deep inside him, and a single, harmless word has not flambeed his flesh. Cas is almost disappointed.

Distantly he feels Frank following him, cum spreading as his fingers miraculously keep moving, spraying across Cas's stomach and groin. He hears Frank moan, "Gee," like a prayer. He's almost certain it's a name and not just a random syllable of noise, but he knows exactly how that goes and he's flying too damn high right now to feel insulted.

With the last of his consciousness, he slides the two of them down so they're laid out across the cushions, and locates the rag he usually keeps tucked under the foot of the mattress so he can wipe them both clean.

Cas drifts into sleep with a name banished from his mind, yet battering down the gates anyway.

--------------------------------

"So where is he?" Gerard asks after another glass of whiskey.

When Dean just looks confused, he realizes he may have needed some context.

"Who?" he asks before Gerard can clarify.

So he shrugs, like, yeah, okay, that was mostly out of the blue. "Your brother."

Dean stiffens, eyes sliding to the not-so-hidden depths of his whiskey. Gerard watches his free hand curl into a fist, nails digging into his palm. For a good long minute he doesn't breathe, just clutches his drink and looks like he's fighting down a serious lot of pissed off.

It seems like the moment lasts forever, but he knows in reality that Dean's barely hesitated at all when he meets Gerard's eyes. Gerard cringes at the cold, formless wrath he finds there.

"Does it matter?" he bites, tone rough.

It doesn't take a genius to see Gee's now treading thin ice. In this shiny, new, crapsack world, it's not uncommon for loved ones to be in the ground; or to find yourself either unavoidably separated from them, whether by drugs, the virus, or possession. For exactly those reasons, Gerard is coming to the realization that he should've stuck with his usual policy of not talking about people's family or friends unless they're the ones bringing it up.

Unfortunately, he's already started digging, and he's too stubborn to back down.

Clearing his throat, he tries to bluff his way out instead. "I guess not, really. I just thought—I mean, I started thinking about it and I don't think I met anyone earlier with any family resemblance..."

Dean keeps him steady in his regard, barely blinking.

"You didn't meet him earlier. Because he's not here. He went down in Detroit, at Lucifer's coming out party."

Although Dean attempts to deliver the admission flat and hard, there's a tiny quiver in his voice, betraying a world of pain Gerard can imagine only too well.

It had practically killed him, those months without Mikey, when he'd been trying to get him out of Battery City and his little brother was a zombie. Gerard's lost a lot; Bandit, when the Pig Bombs started to fall, Lindsey, still trapped deep in Battery City—he stole her away, but as soon as she Woke Up, she remembered Bandit, and the screaming didn't end until she fought him off and crawled back to the crows sent after them all. Frank even, these days, though his former guitarist meets any such suggestion with vitriol ("Fuck you, Gee. You got no fucking claim on me."). If he lost Mikey, too...

Gerard knows he wouldn't make it through losing Mikey for good.

So the intensity and pure loathing that takes Dean over every time he mentions Lucifer suddenly makes a lot more sense.

"What? What the hell is that look?" Dean snarls, and Gerard realizes his face is twisted in empathy. "It wasn't your brother. Why the hell are you so upset about it?"

Dean looks like he's barely holding himself back from throwing punches. Hell, he probably will in another minute.

This isn't something Gerard wants to get into a fight over.

"No, yeah, you're right. It wasn't. Mi—Kobra's still alive." He breathes half a laugh, deliberately self-effacing, trying to diffuse the situation. "I mean, he's three quarters to bugfuck insane now, I guess, but he's alive, anyway."

"Yeah?" Dean rasps, Gerard's diffusion failing spectacularly. "Well good for fucking you."

Then he's shoving out of his chair and slamming out the door.

Gerard doesn't move to follow. Guilt worms its way up from his gut, even as he tells himself that he shouldn't give two tugs of a dead dog's cock about ripping into some fucking asshole's emotional wounds. If the situation were reversed, if Mikey were dead and some jackass carelessly brought it up to him, he actually probably would have already put one through their skull, though, and strangely, seeing as how he was pretty sure his life was in danger for a while there, Gerard likes Dean better for taking even the mention of his dead brother so hard. So the guilt's kinda there to stay.

While Gerard doesn't 100% believe his talk of angels and demons and Lucifer, and he's still a little convinced that maybe Dean's just a little cracked, it's sinking in that they're going about the same war on different fronts and in different ways.

The thought gets Gerard to his feet, taking both their drinks with him.

A light breeze ruffles his hair when he steps out onto the porch and a symphony of spring peepers and crickets fills the late-May air. Silently, he approaches Dean's side and nudges him with an elbow.

Dean looks down at the offending appendage and Gerard holds out his nearly-abandoned drink like a peace offering.

After a long moment staring at it, Dean slowly accepts.

"Thanks," he grunts.

"Yeah."

They stare out into the dark beyond the porch for a long moment.

"Sorry, man. I don't mean to—" Gerard starts, stops. Reconsiders his words. Last thing he wants is to just step right back in it and dig deeper. "I'm sorry. About him."

Dean takes a long swig, doesn't answer.

Gerard sips at his whiskey and is struck with an impulse. He polishes off the glass quickly, putting it on the railing beside Dean.

"Hey. Hit me," he offers.

Dean's face scrunches up in consternation. "What is this, Fight Club?"

"No," he shakes his head. "No, I mean, I deserve it. One punch, no retribution. For talking where I don't know anything; treading where I got no right."

But Dean doesn't move, just stares at him like he's a lunatic. Gerard sighs, slumping. "Man, I—MMPH!"

Just like that, no warning, the hunter punches him hard on the jaw. He tastes blood as his teeth cut open his cheek, and he staggers, catching himself on the side-rail. It was one hell of a hit. Gerard opens and flexes his jaw, one hand cupping it for support (and to make sure it's not broken). Confirming that everything is still in place, he straightens to face Dean once more.

"Holy shit," Gerard curses, still wiggling his jaw. Idly, he notices that Dean is still holding his drink and appears to not have spilled a drop. "You sure you're human?"

Dean snorts. "You should try punching Cas sometime," he mutters, apparently amused by some private joke, because god knows that junkie wavehead fuck looks like he would break in a stiff wind.

"Yeah. Well. I'll raincheck. Fuck," he emphasizes, still rubbing his sore jaw.

Something that sounds suspiciously like a snicker answers him.

They stand together, staring out into the night for a long time, until Dean tips his head back and drains his glass.

"So," he says, "Seems you zone dicks can talk like real people after all."

"What?"

Dean slants clever eyes at him, expression almost friendly. Gerard realizes all of a sudden that he lapsed out of zone slang a while back. Whether it's because he's been trying extra hard so Dean won't keep asking him to translate himself every other sentence, or just because without the reinforcement of others using it, he's not sure.

"Oh. Huh. Yeah, guess we can," he grants.

"Yeah," Dean nods, "Guess so."

--------------------------------

Frank wakes up first, disoriented but unhurried. His head's cradled on something warm and firm, with just the right amount of give. It moves steadily and incrementally up and down. He's stretched out full-length, so he's definitely not in the Danger Car.

But the scent of his pillow is unfamiliar; a mix predominantly of unwashed sex and pot. There's patchouli and sandalwood, gunpowder. Booze. And something weirdly airy and electric, like how he imagines ozone or lightning must smell.

Tightening his fist in the fabric under it, Frank slowly opens his eyes. Immediately in his vision is a light blue shirt; beyond it the wooden logs of a cabin, lined with buddhas and candles and gongs.

Frank shifts, sits up a little. His movement apparently wakes the body he's lying on and as dark blue eyes slit open to regard him, he recalls the night before.

Cas watches Frank even as the he's overtaken by a yawn and an enormous stretch that arches his back, dragging his still undone pants further down his pale-ass thighs.

Frank should be getting his clothes in order and getting out of here. Instead he wants to lick up the white expanse of Cas's skin to his dick and suck him down.

The would-be dilemma is removed in short order however, as Cas rolls to his side, to his feet, unfolding to stand, wrestling his jeans over his ass and zipping them up.

"'Morning," Cas offers, turning to kneel down beside him again. One cool hand cups his cheek and Frank can't help but shudder as he remembers it wrapped around his cock. "I think we're early yet, if you want a shower. I've got one out back. Water's not hot, but it's not cold, either."

The thought of an honest-to-god shower perks Frank right up. It's been forever since he's done more than sponge himself down with a BLI wet wipe.

"Sweet tongue-fucked Jesus, yes, please," he moans, scrambling to his feet.

Seems last night they passed out on the floor, lights on and everything. Frank wonders what that means for Cas's generator, them just wasting all that energy because they were too blissed out to give a shit about the apocalypse for a little while. In the short-term, it's an awesome thought. In the long-term, it's impractical and foolish.

"You got towels?" Frank asks to distract himself. The still neatly-made bed catches his eye and he makes a disgruntled face. "Shit. First chance to sleep in a real fucking bed in a year and I spend it on the floor."

Cas shrugs, petting his side before he pulls away and rummages in a cupboard to return with a towel. "At least it was on the meditation pillows."

Frank smacks him on the arm. "Show me to this shower."

He's lead to the outdoor shower, boxed in for the most part and covered on the open side by a tarp. It's big enough for five or six people, though not all under the spray at once. Cas kisses him then, soft, achingly tender, nothing like last night. When he pulls back, he meets Frank's eyes for half a second before slipping away.

It's weird, but Frank feels the loss like a physical blow. He certainly doesn't feel anything for Cas, but in that kiss there was something like apology and forgiveness—damnation and salvation. It leaves Frank raw until he's dressed again and lounging on the Danger Car's hood, smoking and shooting the shit with the Chitaquans set to guard it while he waits for his fellow killjoys to get their asses up and out of bed.

Mikey's the first one out, stumbling rather obviously. Frank's amused to note that his clothing's all askew, and there's basically a collar of bruises on his neck. When he flops down beside Frank, he smells like WD-40 and that weird honey dust that used to come in "Kama Sutra" kits at softcore sex shops.

"You've got something there," he remarks, flicking at a smear of silver paint behind Mikey's ear.

"Oh, thanks." No move is made to rub it off.

Frank hesitates, but can't help himself. "Should I even ask?"

Mikey considers for a minute. Frank knows he's considering it rather than ignoring him because his mouth scrunches to one side ever so slightly.

"I was explaining Shiny to Bree and Cara," he shrugs. "They don't get it out here."

"...I want all the details later."

A few minutes later, Ray, Risa, and a couple guys arrive, carrying cases of canned goods and what appears to be a BLI-stamped KoolKeeper (assumedly containing the promised fresher edibles)—Frank wonders vaguely where they picked up the portable mini frig and how many they must have to willingly give one up, but decides quickly that he's not looking a gift-horse in the mouth and forgets it.

The food parade is trailed by Grace and Cas, who's carrying two steaming mugs, the delicious scent of coffee wafting from them.

Cas tries to hand one to Frank, but Mikey snatches it before Frank's fingers can close around the handle and he gulps half of it down in one go. Shrugging impassively, Cas takes a parting sip of his and gives it Frank before he can regain control of his vocal cords and verbally rip Mikey a new one.

"Sweet manna from Heaven. God, will you just marry me?" Frank moans as the heavenly nectar overwhelms his deprived tastebuds.

Cas grins softly, amused. "Pop the trunk," he directs as he pulls a bottle out of his jacket pocket and shakes out some pills.

"Benzedrine," he explains at Frank's raised eyebrow, "Breakfast of champions." Mikey steals one of those from him too, swallowing it with the remains of his coffee.

"Where?" Mikey demands, indicating the empty cup, the need for his precious caffeinated ambrosia reducing him to monosyllabic speech.

"In the dining hall, but there's like, a battle to the death going down over it, so you wanna hurry," Ray answers. Mikey is halfway there practically before the words are out of Ray's mouth.

Only then does Frank dare set down his mug, hopping off the hood to open the trunk. Ray arranges the boxes inside, thanking the Chitaquans for their assistance as everything is settled to his satisfaction. Risa and a guy whose name Frank doesn't know stick around while the others wander off in the direction of the mess.

Grace tugs at Risa's hand as the others go. "Can I braid your hair?" she begs. Frank knows her well enough to recognize that she's become attached. He hopes the desperate hunger the kid harbors for a mother who died when she was too little to remember hasn't settled itself on Risa, but he suspects it has.

Without a word, Risa smiles and lifts Grace as she settles herself onto the Trans Am's hood in the space Mikey vacated, allowing the child enough room to work.

Cas leans against the hood beside the girls, reclaiming his mug for a mouthful before passing it over to Frank to finish. "I don't know how long our dear masters and commanders will be. I checked by earlier and they were both bent over Baby's engine. Possibly I'm mistaken, but I think they've bonded." The hint of a smirk hovers around the edges of his mouth. Frank wants to lick it away, knows he's already used up his chances to do so.

"Should someone go round them up?" dude-whose-name-Frank-still-doesn't-know asks. It earns him a snort from Cas and disbelieving stares from everyone else.

"You want to 'round up' Dean Winchester?" Risa scoffs. "When he's showing off his car?"

'You're either very stupid or very brave,' goes unspoken. The poor guy blushes to the roots of his hair.

Frank takes pity on him and suggests that it might be worthwhile to go see about prying Mikey away from the coffee, instead.

"I'll see if I can't assist," Cas offers, straightening, mug in hand as he saunters away without waiting for the other guy. Frank watches him until he rounds a corner, admiring the sleek line of his back and the way his jeans round his ass.

The rumble of an engine turning over interrupts his perusal, the sound of the Impala unmistakable despite not being visible when Frank looks around for her.

Sure enough, the sleek, black car rolls into view soon after, pulling up beside them and settling to rest.

Dean and Gee step out, both swiftly cataloging who's present.

Gerard makes a distasteful face. "Don't tell me Kobra's still, uh..in bed." Frank just barely manages not to make fun of him for trying to put 'Is my brother still balls-deep in some chick?' delicately.

Ray's either still too tired to notice the failed subtlety, or he's being his usual, actually-a-nice-person self, because he doesn't tease at all when he tells him, "He'll be back in a minute."

Nodding, Gerard settles to lean against the Impala. Frank snickers that Ray didn't mention the role of coffee in Mikey's absence. Because Ray is a rational and generous human being, and knows better than to sic both Ways on the camp's coffee supply. He might have been joking about the battle to the death before, but with both brothers present, the joke part would be over.

"Risa, where's Cas?" Dean asks after a minute.

"Went off with Joe to get Kobra Kid."

Dean nods to himself. "I'm gonna go grab a couple extra gas tanks, see if we can't find anywhere to fill 'em. You stay here," he orders, already walking away. Risa rolls her eyes, Grace's fingers still clumsily twisting her hair into some semblance of a braid (it's not like she's ever really had the chance before to learn how to do it).

Before he can get out of sight, Mikey & Co. turn the corner. Dean redirects to meet them. Frank can't hear anything they're saying, but with a glance over at the cars, Cas nods, claps Mikey on the shoulder, and follows Dean off to obtain gas canisters.

Distracted, Frank misses Gerard's absence until he meets Mikey halfway. Joe-Formerly-No-Name-Dude hesitates beside Mikes, but when Gerard closes the distance between them and wraps his brother in an almost too-tight hug, the guy awkwardly shuffles away, trying to make himself unnoticeable.

Mikey immediately returns the embrace, face half-hidden by those stupid sunglasses, resting his head against Gee's. They stay like that for a long time; long enough that everyone else gets awkward, starts up conversations just so they aren't watching. Grace asks Risa to play Miss Mary Mack with her again, filling the air with the sound of palms clapping together and children's rhymes.

Finally Gerard pulls away, cupping one hand around Mikey's cheek, the other holding his upper arm. He murmurs something quiet, half a question. Frank thinks he can just make out Mikey answering, "Me too," going to mirror Gee's pose. He smiles at his big brother and pulls away, effectively ending the moment but for the way Gerard stays close afterwards.

It takes a good fifteen or twenty minutes for Dean and Cas to return, and both of them look angry and tense when they do. They throw the canisters past Joe into the back of a jeep.

"Everything's in?" Dean asks, surveying everyone. Ray and Risa answer in the affirmative. "Right. Risa with Joe, Cas with me. We'll ride out far as Wyoming, leave you there. Let's go."

Hours later, Frank jolts awake.

The familiar sight of the desert greets him; open dirt and scrub for miles upon miles, broken only by the rise of yellow, stone plateaus spotting the horizon. As he's wiping the drool from his chin, Gerard levers out of the vehicle, Mikey and Ray following. Grace is noticeably missing, but then his brain comes back online and he recalls that she broke down in tears before they left, begging to ride with Risa, and they'd let her.

A glance at the jeep reveals that she's clinging to the woman, shaking with tears. Frank's heart breaks a little, remembering the children Jams was pregnant with when the demons shot her in the back. He shuts those thoughts down before they can unfold into anything more well-formed.

When he steps free of the Danger Car, Cas isn't too far away from where Gerard and Dean are talking (all too obviously wasting time for Grace's sake).

"You got the shortwave frequency?" Dean asks.

Gerard, to Frank's astonishment, nods. "Yup. You got Dr. D's? Cool. We'll call we hear anything interesting," he promises, clasping hands with Dean in like, the ultimate manly-bro-handshake, shocking Frank further. He didn't actually believe that either of them would relent enough to so much as pretend to not hate each other. It's like a fucking miracle or something.

As Frank approaches Cas's side, he's offered a shiny, silver flask, which he accepts gratefully. It's filled with something approximating Everclear and he's ridiculously proud that he holds back his cough.

"Shit. Don't know what I was expecting from you, but shit," he chokes out. Cas smiles at him.

The smile reaches his eyes, really it does. But Cas's eyes...they're so sad, so vastly hopeless in that moment.

He wonders with a shock if they have been from the start; if he just hasn't been paying attention.

"Keep it," Cas offers, the tips of his fingers brushing against Frank's knuckles as he starts to recap the flask and return it. "I've got others."

Cas smiles, very definitively rubbing his thumb across Frank's wrist before he turns, calmly climbing back into the Impala's passenger seat.

Frank stares until the door shuts and Grace sniffles. Ray takes her into his arms, telling her it'll be all right and that she can send Risa radio messages and Risa promises she'll return them.

Glancing around, Mikey catches his eye. He's lowered his stupid aviators so he's watching Frank over the top of them. Flicking a glance at Cas, at Gerard, then at the flask, Mikey takes too much time returning his gaze to Frank's. To an outsider, Mikey's face might seem blank. But Frank knows him, and he notices the way his eyes narrow ever-so-slightly, the way one of his eyebrows raises incrementally, and the corners of his mouth harden.

Frank's gut roils, images of the previous night flashing through his mind. The gun in Cas's mouth, his long fingers jerking Frank off, the feel of his ass clenching around his fingers...

Mikey doesn't look away, just bearing him down under the weight of knowledge and accusation.

Frank did nothing wrong the night before. He knows he didn't.

He didn't.

But when Mikey doesn't blink, just keeps staring at him, Frank can't help but drop his gaze to the ground.

He snarls out something even he can't interpret, immediately turning on his heel and stalking back to the car. When Ray slides in with Grace, he tries to rein it in, but he's never been good at holding anyone's emotions back and he ends up shedding a tear or two with the girl as she transfers her grip to him and sobs into his vest.

Even if he had wanted to, Frank doesn't look up again until there's absolutely no chance of looking back and seeing a gorgeous, black Impala. He doesn't look at Gerard for a good, long while either (it's actually weeks before Gerard notices, and by then he doesn't guess what set it all off. Mikey continues to remain silent).

At the end of the world, there's pleasure, yeah.

Happiness? Contentment? Not so much.

--------------------------------

It's months later that Dean gets the message, repeated on the shortwave over and over, a recording.

"Rifleman. Call Mousekat."

He does immediately. Dr. D has Party on the line within an hour.

"So. I overheard a couple demons in a Hyperthrust the other night, talking about this hand-off they're s'posed to do tomorrow night. Some shitty old handgun. Sounded like that thing you said you had."

Dean's breath catches in his throat.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Couldn't know for sure at the time if I could trust you."

"No prob, man. It's milkshake. It'll be at Blanks'R'Us, Nevada, coords 40°04'04"N by 115°31'46"W, Civic Center Park. You want backup?"

"Yeah, actually. That'd be good. What time?"