Archive of Our Own

"What matters most is how well you walk through the fire." —Charles Bukowski

Coventry, RI

Richard's iphone gave off a short, medium-pitched buzz, the sonic screwdriver noise he liked to use for text messages. He picked up his phone.

Don't frgt buy milk!

Of course he'd completely forgotten, his head full of equations, the squiggles of color from the markers he used on the write-erase board at his lab, buzzed on caffeine, a few hours' sleep a night, and the high of being on the edge of discovery.

Stopped at a red light, he texted back to Julie: Wounds me you cld even suggest I might forget!

Ur funny, she replied.

Thats y u married me, he texted in reply, and then he put the phone down before he drove on.

He joked about it, they both did, but still, he felt kind of bad about needing that many reminders. Julie's job as a reporter kept her running around at top speed, but most of the time she seemed to get to bed before it was the next day and didn't forget things, although maybe that was just reporter brain, trained to notice and remember things.

At the next light he turned onto Tiogue Avenue, and after a few minutes pulled into the parking lot of the Super Stop & Shop. The lot was almost full since it was only 6:15 in the evening – rush hour. Usually Richard got to bypass all of that. He was used to doing the shopping at weird hours, wandering the nearly-empty aisles, but after the intensity of the past two weeks of work, and the breakthrough he'd just had, it was time to try to keep normal hours again. He wanted to go home and sleep for a month.

He found a space at the back of the building, alongside the patch of woods that separated the grocery store property from Huron Pond. For a moment he sat in the now dark and quiet car, letting the stillness sweep around him. The ring of his keychain gleamed in the starlight, the tiny plastic TARDIS swinging back and forth before Richard pulled the key out of the ignition and stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket. He grabbed his gloves and wool hat from the mess of papers on the passenger seat.

The night was cold, the air nearly sucking the breath out of him after the warmth of the car. Only a few other cars were parked way back here. Through the trees, the white ice covering the pond showed.

"Chilly night," a voice said.

Richard turned and saw a tall, thin bald man standing a few yards away with his hands shoved into the pockets of a long, black wool coat.

"Hey, I hear tomorrow it's going to get above freezing," Richard said as he headed towards the grocery store. "I'm thinking of going to the beach for a swim."

There was a laugh from the shadows ahead of him, short and subtle. A woman stepped away from where she was leaning against a Range Rover and walked towards Richard. Her black hair was worn in a bob, her mouth a full, self-confident curve, fuzzy red scarf wrapped around her neck.

"A sense of humor," she said, her breath rising in clouds in the chill air. "Always a plus."

"So I've been told," Richard said, walking past her.

He couldn't help notice how they both turned their heads, how they were both staring at him. Weird.

Another man stepped out from behind a car, blocking Richard's path – spiky hair, pointed chin, face almost elfin with a hint of mischief. His leather jacket looked vintage, like something from a 60's TV show, with lots of buttons and pockets.

This man only grinned, and that's when goosebumps swept over Richard's skin, even under his layers of down and wool and cotton.

They all three watched him intently.

"We've been waiting for one like you," the woman said, her eyes warm and dark. She stepped closer to him, pulling off one of her gloves.

Richard backed up, then moved towards the front of the car but before he could go around it, the first guy in the long coat was right there, again blocking his path.

Letting out a short laugh that came out nervous even though he tried to keep it confident, Richard held up his hands. "Hey, are you going to mug me or something? Because I've got maybe five dollars and thirty-seven cents on me right now and I need that to buy a quart of milk or my wife will make that face that she makes, not that I blame her, I forget stuff a lot…" He was babbling, he knew it, but maybe that was the best thing to do in a situation like this.

"You are kind of the stereotype of the scatterbrained mad scientist, aren't you?" the spiky-haired man said, sounding affectionate. "But there's so much in that brain of yours that doesn't fall out." He licked his lips.

"'Rising star of the field,' I believe they said." The woman held up her bare hand towards Richard's face.

They surrounded Richard now, the bumper of the car cold against the backs of his calves through his slacks. The two men were each taking off a glove, as the woman had, and a brush of warmth rippled through the icy air, as if he were standing near a space-heater, but he couldn't see any source for it. Maybe a vent from the building, but they were far away from it. His breath went invisible, although the breath of the other three continued to form into white clouds.

"Take the money," Richard said. "Here, here's my wallet. My credit cards. I don't want trouble." He considered shoving one of them into the other two, giving him space to escape, but it was risky; if he angered them and they grew violent, he was screwed.

Julie would be so pissed if he did anything stupid, if he got hurt.

"We're after something better, Richard," the bald guy said.

He didn't think to wonder how the man knew his name, not after the woman had quoted the article currently hanging on the fridge at home. Julie'd highlighted that sentence, both of them drinking the wine they kept for holidays and birthdays only, and he'd lifted his wife up onto the counter of their kitchen and kissed her.

Hell. Julie.

The adrenaline jolted through him, and he shoved the tall man, who staggered but didn't fall, while the other two pressed in closer. Sweat tickled Richard's forehead and the back of his neck, dampening his palms – it wasn't fear, he was too warm, the heat radiating at him now as intense as standing before a heated oven.

It was coming from their hands, or seemed to be.

The one with the pointed chin grabbed him from behind, pulling his arms behind his back. He was stronger than he looked, given how skinny he was. The heat grew, his whole body bathed in sweat.

"What…" Richard struggled, but couldn't get free. "What are you?" He yelled at them.

"Don't worry about it," the woman said and put her palm gently against his face while the tall, bald man put his hand around the back of Richard's neck.

Heat flared into his skin where they touched him.

"It'll be over in a moment and then it won't hurt any more," the spiky-haired one whispered into Richard's ear.

The flames surrounded him, and Richard screamed.

"Tyrone, Bellefonte, Hazleton," Castiel read.

Sam took a dull silver push-pin and stuck in into the map taped to the wall of his motel room in the Super 8.

Fingers hovering over the laptop keys, as if he wanted to be ready to type something if necessary but wasn't sure what that might be, Castiel read more off the list on the screen. "East Stroudsburg, New City, New Haven, Norwich."

For each city, Sam put another push-pin into the map.

It seemed weird to Sam to see Castiel using a laptop. He'd never been that comfortable with technology and it wasn't as if he'd lost all his powers, but Sam knew Cas had to be careful now. The angel used his own smartphone and computers more and more often – Sam had taught him how to search the app store for more games and anything else he might want, and who knew what Castiel found useful. Last Sam had a look at Castiel's phone, he had a ton of apps involving old texts and reference and languages, which wasn't that much different from the things Sam had on his.

Slumped in his chair with his arms folded, Dean gave off the impression of being bored but Sam knew better. The heel of his boot restlessly knocked against the cross-support of his chair, his leg jostling up and down. He'd been more fidgety than usual since the first body turned up two weeks ago. Castiel reached down and put his hand on Dean's knee, a quick light touch that looked like it was meant to comfort. Sam glanced away back to the map as Dean stilled.

Printouts covered the wall around the map with scribbled notes in sharpie marker, some in Dean's handwriting, some in Sam's, some with symbols drawn in the margins that were from Castiel although they hadn't asked him what they were for. Sam figured they weren't that different from the notes he and Dean made, only in a different language; a few Sam recognized as numbers.

It was late and the motel room's lamps left the corners in shadow. The wall of dates and pictures and maps and pins, the beer bottles and empty pizza boxes, this was all familiar. Despite the grisly images on some of the printouts, Sam was glad they were doing this, that there was work to do and they were all three able to do it.

"Anyone else notice what I'm noticing?" he said, stepping back to see better.

"Whatever it is, it's still heading east." Dean reached for his nearly-empty beer bottle.

"Towards the ocean." Castiel tapped a key on the laptop, scrolling down through the document Sam had made, and muttered, "Always the ocean."

"Which brings us here." Dean had gone back to slumping in his chair again. "Coventry. Rhode Island in February. Joy."

Sam tried to decide if Dean was being Dean, or if it was calculated indifference, or if his brother only needed more sleep. None of them seemed to be getting enough. Ever since what happened in New Jersey, with the will-'o'-the-wisp, Sam's hell visions had gotten a recharge, and he was guessing Dean and Cas weren't much better off when it came to their own bad dreams. It was like the way silt settled to the bottom of a pool, leaving the water clear, but the water grew murky if something stirred it up again. Unfortunately for them, they kept running into things that stirred it back up. Sam got a lot of research done in the middle of the night, since it beat going back into bad dreams, but that left him fried during the day. Castiel rubbed his eyes a lot lately, although he seemed to actually enjoy doing jaw-stretching yawns, as if he were trying out a perk of his human body. Dean had developed the kinds of shadows in his face that Sam hadn't seen on him for a long while.

"Richard Ames, twenty-eight, body charred to a crispy critter in the parking lot of the Stop & Shop." Sam sat down in the chair next to Dean.

Dean reached for the crime scene photo they'd finagled, picked it up and then put it down again, pulling his hand away. He leaned closer to Castiel, peering over his shoulder to look at their notes on the laptop screen.

"Latest victim doesn't seem to have anything more in common with the rest than the others did." Sam grabbed the last slice of pizza, now gone cold, from the box. "All walks of life, background, schools attended, interests…it almost seems…random."

"Random? With all the crazy crap that's been happening? I doubt it." Dean finished off the last of his beer in a few deep swallows and rubbed his fingers over his mouth. "There's a pattern here, we just have to find it."

Castiel stared down at the laptop keyboard as if he weren't really looking at the letters, then raised his stare to Dean. "Always the ocean," he said, voice flat and clinical, yet a quick flash of goosebumps ran up Sam's arms.

"Okay," Sam said, getting up again. "Let's go through it all one more time and then we should probably try to get some sleep."

Most of the time, he used blades, with the fires all around him and Alastair standing too close, mouth near Dean's ear telling him you were made for this and this is who you really are. Sometimes he used the fire, putting flame to flesh, and then Dean couldn't hear what Alastair said over the screaming, only feel his hands on Dean's shoulders.

Dean woke with a force as hard as the Impala's sudden stop, his body jerking. His pulse raced, fluttering crazily in his throat, and his t-shirt was soaked in sweat. Shadows with a red tint to them moved over the motel room walls, and there was heat against his skin. Dean blinked and the shadows vanished along with the heat, replaced with the chilly air of a motel room in the gray darkness of pre-dawn, and Castiel's face inches from his own, watching him with his mouth drawn into a tight, worried line.

Neither of them spoke at first, Dean's too-fast breaths the only sound in the room. Castiel lay facing him, the blanket in a tangle over them both. Theoretically, Dean still bunked with Sam, but he slept in the other bed in Castiel's room on some nights, and he shared a bed with him on others. They hadn't fallen into that part as a routine, neither of them ever willing to ask, but sometimes it happened, curled around each other in the darkness.

Castiel didn't move, only kept his eyes fixed on Dean's face and said softly, "It was a dream. You're not there."

"Haven't had a nightmare that bad in a while." Dean rolled onto his back and took a few deep breaths staring up at the ceiling before he turned, wanting to see Castiel's face, needing to if he was admitting things to himself. In the half-darkness, Castiel's eyes seemed like a darker blue than usual.

With the sweat drying and chilling against his skin, Dean pulled the blanket up, tucking it more securely over the both of them. Castiel wriggled closer to him, an inch at a time, watching Dean's face as if worried he would startle. Yet, they'd done this again and again, Castiel resting his head on Dean's chest, fingers sliding across his stomach to curl at his hip, their bodies notched together. Dean got distracted with the random spikes of Castiel's hair, messy from sleep, the familiar curve of his jawline and the symbols on his tattoo just visible in the v-neck of his t-shirt. Cas may have lost some of his mojo, but this close to him, Dean sometimes became of aware of a muted, faint thrum of something impossible to describe beneath his skin, as if Castiel's blood were imbued with his grace. Since Dean had never been anywhere near this close to Cas while he'd been still fully powered up, he had no idea if this was normal, or if it'd been like that only more so once. Anyway, it didn't matter – it wasn't something Dean looked for, but when it was really quiet like this, he noticed it.

It was a part of who Castiel was, like his rare lopsided smile and knowledge of Enochian and deadpan sense of humor, or how at times he looked right into Dean as if he saw every crack and pressure point, no hiding. Other times it was like they were standing on opposite sides of a chasm and didn't even speak the same language, yet there was always a rope, always a bridge, and they always managed to find it.

Castiel raised his head and put his mouth against Dean's jaw and murmured again, "It was a dream."

Sliding his fingers into Castiel's hair, the dark strands tickling and real against his palm, Dean put his mouth over Castiel's. A brush of lips turned into a slide of tongues, both of them going cautiously at first and then pushing harder, pushing in further. Cas moved on top of Dean, a warm weight pinning him into the mattress, the blanket over them, while Dean pushed up Castiel's shirt. As Dean traced his tongue over the faint lines of the scar from the banishing sigil on Cas's chest, then over the mark his own hand had left, Cas let out a soft moan.

The sky grew incrementally brighter beyond the curtains as their hands fumbled for each other, tugging down the waistbands of their sweatpants. Dean wrapped his fingers around Castiel's cock, guided it so it slid along his own, their fingers touching, slick with pre-come now, breaths going faster. Again Dean's pulse started jumping around in his neck but this time it was welcome, it was a reminder of being alive, a reflection of the aching warmth between his legs and under his skin.

"Cas…" Dean breathed, speeding his own movements, the thrust of his hips. The ache and need was growing unbearable. He put his mouth against Castiel's neck, licked his skin, needing the salty sweat-stained taste of him. He wanted to be buried deep inside of Cas, or he wanted Cas stretching him wide open, filling him up, had wanted that for a while now. Yet, Dean didn't change course or let his hands stray too far. Not yet.

The quick-flash memory of Alastair's fingers wrapped around his wrist, guiding Dean's hand holding the knife, with Alastair pressed up behind him too close, always too close, telling him you'll be my best creation was there and gone again, broken as Castiel thrust down harder against him. Dean only saw Castiel's face, watched as his eyes closed, head thrown back with his neck exposed, groaning Dean's name as he came. It was the way Cas looked in that moment as much as what Castiel was doing to Dean's cock that pushed Dean right over into a burst of heat and release, his vision whiting out.

Castiel slumped down against Dean, his weight making Dean feel protected, safe, enclosed without any sense of panic. He grinned up at Castiel, brushing the hair back from Cas's sweaty forehead with one hand and Cas did his lopsided smile, wry, as if he were a little embarrassed at how obvious he'd been about liking all that. Not for the first time, Dean made a mental note to take Cas out drinking, somewhere with a pool table and loud music that served extra spicy hot wings. Or find a movie that would make Castiel laugh until he had to gasp for air. Most stuff he and Sam showed to Castiel, Cas seemed interested but in a curious, observationally interesting way as he asked lots of questions about what was going on, although Dean had once caught him with his eyes suspiciously bright during E.T.

It was close to dawn, and they'd probably only get about an hour or two of sleep before Sam was banging on the door, but when Cas slid off Dean and arranged himself comfortably with one arm flung across Dean's chest, head on the other pillow, Dean only tugged the blanket up further, and let himself give into his drowsiness.

Castiel had grown used to wearing jeans, soft cotton shirts, and scuffed boots with thick treads. Putting on a suit, tie, and dress shoes again was familiar – since he had worn nothing else for several years on earth – and yet the neat stiffness of them was also now enclosing. They pulled him back to recent memories of such clothing on his skin, the frantic sense of being trapped in this shell of blood and bones with a force that pressed him back, used this body for its own purpose. Yet, there had been no sense of division then: it was him, the angel Castiel, and yet not him, and what brought him there was a purposeful strategy whose justification seemed true and sharp, clean as a freshly-formed arrow in his mind.

It reminded him as well of the man whose body was now Castiel's alone to wear, the original owner whose soul was long gone, yet whose trace memory lingered in his damaged grace.

Castiel stood with Sam and Dean on the paving stones that formed the front walk of a small white house. It was set back from the street, woods behind it and a garden on one side, withered and dormant from the February cold. The orderly rows of the garden's arrangement and its size spoke to how much care the owners gave to it. In spring it must be a work of beauty. It made Castiel think of one of his favorite places in Heaven, where he'd watch the man flying his kite, vivid color against the blue sky above, green grass and bright flowers below. Castiel had always found a sense of peace there.

Their breaths rose in the cold air. Castiel fingered the badge holder in his coat pocket, thinking of the first time he had worked this way with Dean, pretending to be what he wasn't, which wasn't the same to him as appearing to be ordinary, yet holding more underneath. It was playing a role, and Castiel had lost his taste for doing that, over the long year with Crowley. Doing this made him far too uneasy now, although he understood that in the life he lived now, lies were unavoidable – but the kinds of lies he told he could control.

He stepped forward and rang the doorbell before Sam or Dean could do it, then lifted his head a little in a way he knew projected authority to people.

"Jeez, its cold." Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Maybe she's not home."

They waited another few minutes and then finally the inside door opened and a young woman stared at them through the glass.

"Julie Ames?" Sam flipped open his badge.

The woman's mouth pursed a little, and she tilted her head to one side, impatient. There were dark circles under her eyes, but she exhibited nothing but annoyed self-confidence.

"Already talked to you guys," she said, her voice holding a slight hard edge beneath its wry tone.

"Yeah, sorry, we know you have, but there are always follow-up questions." Sam gave her a quick, apologetic smile. "I'm Agent Evans, this is Agent Hewson, and Agent Mullen," Sam added, pointing to Castiel last.

Dean poked Castiel with his elbow, then held up his badge. Castiel did the same.

The woman let out a puff of breath that stirred the dark hair that fell over her forehead. She was small, maybe a little over five feet, and colored bracelets showed brightly against her dark skin. They were simple, made of leather, fitting her wrist perfectly without dangling.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes and opened the door, her movements decisive.

She stepped back, and as they walked into the house, warm air folded around Castiel.

"You want some coffee, Agents? Tea?" Julie Ames asked, leading them into the kitchen. "Do you want to hang up your coats?"

"No, thanks, ma'am," Dean said with more politeness than he used when he wasn't playing the role of an FBI agent. "We'll try not to take up too much of your time."

"Have a seat," she said and dropped into a chair, gesturing for them to do the same.

The kitchen had big windows, full of light. There were no dishes in the sink, the counters wiped impeccably clean, yet papers, file boxes, file folders, and a laptop covered the table in chaos. It didn't match and as Castiel watched Julie, the way she rubbed a finger along the edge of the table, he caught a quick ripple of emotion, loss, hurt, and anger. Castiel guessed that the kitchen itself was normally not this clean.

"So." She folded her arms on the table and her gaze fixed on Castiel. "What do you want to know?"

Castiel met her eyes, and behind the steadiness of her stare he saw the hurt held firmly back. It reminded him of how Dean looked sometimes, his face gone blank and jaw tight, where if Castiel stared long enough, Dean would falter and reveal himself, or Dean would simply become clear to him because Castiel would take the time to look. Much of his ability to see into the minds of humans and read their thoughts was gone, and it was never something he could do reliably – it came in flashes, and it greatly depended on how open the person was. Once Castiel had gotten past his initial suspicion and unease about him, Sam projected loudly. Dean had always gone in and out, a radio signal Castiel sometimes heard with almost painful clarity, but much of the time Dean radiated a chaotic set of contradictions and defenses.

"Do you remember anything out of the ordinary before your husband's death?" Sam took out a palm-sized notepad and put it on the table, pen poised to write. "Lights flickering, odd power surges, anyone unfamiliar hanging around a lot? Did he mention being uneasy about anything? Mention anything strange?"

Rubbing her hands over her face, then up into her thick dark hair, Julie sighed. She lowered her hands. "I already went over and over this." Her voice was dull and flat.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Castiel said.

In the long stretch of silence that followed, a car went by, music blasting too loudly for the Ames' quiet street. Castiel found himself thinking abstractedly that Amelia Novak must have sat like this, fingers twisted together on a tabletop, waiting for something that would never happen again.

"As I told the other guys, and the cops, there was nothing unusual about that day. Richard made a big breakthrough, and so he was leaving the lab on time instead of staying late like usual. I texted him to remember to buy milk."

As Sam jotted notes, and Dean tugged at his tie as if he needed more air, Castiel stood up and went over to the bulletin board hanging on the wall. It was covered with news clippings, very similar to the Winchesters' style of investigation, with notes in black marker scribbled in the margins, reference materials from other sources tacked next to the articles.

They represented a series of disappearances. A dozen missing from a small town in Mexico. Thirty vanished from an island in the Pacific. A town in France, whose population went from 2,500 to 500 in one night. The place names stirred in his memory.

The room tilted, and he heard an echo of whispers in his head.

"Cas?" Dean said sharply, and the room steadied.

Castiel turned and came back to his seat, aware of everyone watching him. As he sat, Dean's fingers closed tight around his wrist, palm warm through the layer of shirt and jacket and coat sleeve. With their hands hidden beneath the table, Castiel rubbed his fingers over Dean's knuckles, lingered his touch there until Dean released him.

"Those clippings," Sam nodded at the bulletin board.

"Something I was working on before Richard…" Julie swallowed. "I was working on a story about it. There's something weird going on, and it's global. But right now—" She opened a folder, revealing print-outs, a scientific article. "I want to get whatever or whoever did this to my husband."

She squeezed her eyes shut as two drops of moisture fell on the green folder, leaving twin splotches. Sam scraped back his chair, hastily reaching for the box of tissues on the kitchen counter, while Dean leaned closer to her.

"Hey," Dean said. "Take it easy."

Julie waved away the tissues Sam offered and swiped her index fingers under her eyes, quickly, as if she could wipe away the tears ever happening to begin with. Her jaw tightened.

"I'm sorry," Castiel said, so softly he barely got the words out.

"Yeah," Julie said, her voice a little scratchy. "You, uh, covered that earlier."

A ripple of panic stirred beneath Castiel's skin as he had the sudden urge to take flight, vanish from Julie Ames' kitchen and land in the middle of a lonely field where dried stalks broke through a hard crust of snow. Instead he stayed in the bright warm kitchen, unable to look away from the face of the woman seated across the table.

"You can't think of anything else?" Sam asked, paging through another file folder. He paused, eyes widening slightly, then turned it to show to Dean.

"You've got a record here of all the other victims," Dean said.

"I've been tracking it. Learning everything I can about spontaneous human combustion, and I discovered Richard wasn't the only recent victim. I'm actually wondering, given the frequency of it and how it's all basically in the same area, if it's anything to do with what's been happening around the world."

"Well, that's what we're wondering too." Dean's tight, polite smile had a bitter flavor.

Over time, Castiel had grown to understand the many variations of smiles in Dean's repertoire and what they meant. There were those he gave out for strangers, and those rarer ones he used for the ones he was closest to. There was one only Sam could bring to his face; and another one that appeared to be only for Castiel, and the knowledge of discovering that had formed a pleasant knot of warmth in his belly.

"Just get whoever did it. There is one thing I found." She reached into a box and pulled out another folder, handing it to Dean. "Pulled this off a traffic cam, and don't ask how I got access to it. Those three standing on the corner, the woman, two guys. I saw them a few times before Richard died. They kind of stood out, and anyway, it's my job to notice stuff. I didn't think anything of it at the time, them seeming to be hanging around. But after…I remembered them so I checked the cameras for the time and place where I'd spotted them once."

Dean's eyebrows went up, impressed either by the oddness of the three strangers, or by Julie's research skills.

Looking over Dean's shoulder at the somewhat blurry photo, Castiel studied the figures' dark, well-cut clothes, their confident, stiff postures, as if everything should shift to steer around them, and he thought of angels.

"Here." Castiel handed Julie one of the cards Sam had given him earlier. He thought it looked very official, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation seal embossed on it. "If you find out anything new or strange, call us. We will find what did this to your husband," Castiel added.

He had to be careful in the use of his grace; the knowledge that he would never be again as he once was held always in the back of his mind. But there were other ways to fight. Sam and Dean had taught him the value of using his hands, or a shotgun, or a blade, the value of putting the pieces of a puzzle together using nothing more than some old newsprint, or a book that smelled of dust, or a printout on clean computer paper.

Outside, the relief of cold air and blue sky over his head made Castiel stop on the sidewalk.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean's hand was on his back, then slid up, fingers curving firm against the nape of his neck, his head leaning very close to Castiel's.

"No," Castiel said and saw fear jump into Dean's eyes.

Dean's hand stayed on the back of Castiel's neck, the visible clouds of their breaths mingling.

"What's going on, Cas?" A ridge of worry formed in Sam's forehead. There was something very comforting about Sam when he was himself, even when he was threatened with nightmares and flashbacks. Few things had ever unnerved Castiel like Sam without a soul. The fact that he'd been responsible for it, despite his best intentions, only added to the discomfort.

Then, of course, Castiel had destroyed the wall Death had put in place, the one that allowed Sam to return to himself. There was no apology that could be made or a way to take it back or fix it. That he had the Winchesters' acceptance now, after everything, made the prospect of his own additional culpability even more unbearable at times.

"I'm not sure," Castiel said. "I wish I understood what I was feeling so I could help you and Bobby figure this out, so we can prevent what's to come." He let himself lean into Dean's hand a little. "My understanding used to be less limited than this."

Dean shivered, and Castiel felt his hand twitch against his skin before Dean slid his hand down again so it rested at the small of his back. "You know what? It's too friggin' cold to stand out here emoing it up. Hey," Dean added. "You did pretty good in there. Very smooth. Like Mitch Pileggi."

They moved towards the Impala, parked half a block away. "If Cas is Skinner, then I get to be Mulder this time," Sam said.

"No, you're Scully. I'm Mulder."

"In fact you both equally fit the paradigms in different ways, continuously shifting back and forth." Castiel said, and the Winchesters turned to stare at him like he'd grown an extra set of arms. "What?" he said. "I watched several episodes of The X-Files on Sam's laptop. I found their exploration of the nature of faith and doubt absolutely fascinating, although their grasp of the nature of miracles seems to be—"

Yanking open the driver's side door, Dean held up his other hand. "Stop it. Stop. I'm surrounded by geeks."

Sam curled his hand into a fist and put it to his mouth, his cough sounding like a laugh. "Don't listen to him, Cas," he said, as he ducked into his seat on the passenger side – shotgun they called it. "He's seen every episode at least three times. He could quote lines at you."

Twitching his shoulders to rid himself of the residue of the whispering in his head, the way he'd felt looking at the place names in the headlines, the pictures, Castiel slid into the Impala's back seat. The car was still cold, not yet warmed from its engine being on, yet Castiel, who never used to heed the temperature of the air much, was glad to be inside. The scents of vinyl and stale coffee had become among the things that he associated with safety, a point to which he could always return, even if he wasn't sure how deeply it belonged to him, or he to it.

They ordered cheeseburgers, delivered for dinner. Sam thought if he had to smell one more pizza, it might actually push him the rest of the way over the edge. His neck and shoulders ached, and it was probably from all the time spent on his laptop, but it wasn't as if he was doing that more than usual and usually he didn't ache this much.

"Hey, what's going on with you? Are you good?" Dean asked, while Castiel went to the motel vending machines to get them caffeine and sugar-laden sodas.

By good, Sam knew that Dean meant not about to fall into a coma, have a series of horrifying flashbacks or collapse from being completely bugnuts insane at any minute.

"Yeah, I'm good. Tired." Sam rubbed at his shoulder, staring down at the patchwork of folders and printouts that covered the small round table. "I still don't…I don't sleep real well. Not that any of us do any more." Off Dean's sharp look, Sam said, "I don't have a lot of nightmares. Or I don't remember them. Some, but it's not nearly as bad as it was back in December when I was having flashbacks during the middle of the day. Mostly I wake up a lot, and it's easier to get up and do stuff than…" Sam shrugged.

"Than just lie there in the dark stuck in your own head?" Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. "Hey, if it'll help, we can share a room. I know I've been bunking with Cas a lot lately."

They had the police scanner going, its volume turned down but loud enough they could catch the nature of the calls. It was the same old battered machine they'd used for years, the one Dean repaired himself every time it started to fritz out.

"No, look, I'm not having screaming nightmares. It's not like it was. I'm not trying to downplay it, I swear. It's…unsettling and weird, my sleep patterns are off, but I haven't had a flashback in a while." Sam busied himself opening packets of ketchup to pour onto his fries. "I'm not twelve years old any more, and anyway, you and Cas…" Sam glanced at Dean, and he was almost sure Dean was flushing slightly. With a grin, Sam picked up a few French fries. "I think you guys need your alone time or you'll start embarrassing the hell out of me. In fact you already are." Dean shot him a glare, and Sam couldn't resist. "Maybe you two should go on a date already. You know, a restaurant where the prices aren't listed on the menu, maybe a single red rose on the table—" Dean threw a French fry at him, and Sam ducked, laughing. "Imagine Cas in a tux for a moment," he added and dunked one of the fries into the little pool of ketchup he'd made.

Dean rolled his eyes, and then he stared a little too long down at the wrapper of his cheeseburger, a flicker of something in his gaze as if he were all of a sudden really thinking about that image and thought maybe that wasn't such a stupid idea after all. Reaching for more fries, Sam bit his lower lip to keep from snickering.

"Okay, but you know if you need anything, any time, I'm right there," Dean said. "Always." After a moment he added, "and Cas too. You need help, if you…"

"Of course," Sam said. "But I'm not the only one messed up right now. And something's going on with Cas." He hated bringing it up, his brother already carried so much on his shoulders, always had – Sam remembered thinking he was nearly invincible, a steady constant, and the cold knot of panic in his stomach Sam used to get each time he realized Dean wasn't. "He also mentioned you've been having a lot of nightmares – more than you've been having lately, ever since we started this case."

"It's no biggie, Sam. The usual Hell stuff."

"Yeah, because Hell stuff is so…normal."

"It is for us."

"Goes both ways, Dean," Sam said. "You need anything, I'm right here."

There was a tap on the door, and Dean got up to let in Castiel, who walked over and put the cans of soda on the table with nearly the same grave formality he'd used when it was items as part of a ritual. He'd gotten three root beers.

Sam took his and popped the tab with a hiss. "So, let's run through the list again." He reached for a folder with greasy fingers. "There has to be a pattern, a commonality here somewhere. We've got a high-school drop-out with an obsession with Galileo, a stockbroker whose coworker says had sort of genius instincts for it, a grandmother who worked for thirty years in administration at an ultra-secret government agency so secret even her kids and grandkids don't know what they did there, one computer hacker, and one biochemist."

"Well, except for the super-secret spy granny and the stockbroker, I would say whatever's causing this has a taste for geeks and nerds," Dean said and bit into his cheeseburger.

"They all had specialized areas of knowledge." Castiel had eaten half his burger already. "An esoteric range of interests." He frowned. "I feel as if whatever's causing these bodies to burn, it's something I should know. But it's escaping me."

It still seemed weird to Sam, having Castiel eat so much, having him mention being cold, and deep down, Sam knew he sometimes had a little knot of unease in his stomach at the reminders that while Castiel had a lot of mojo, he was more vulnerable and limited in his power now. It wasn't quite the same as realizing Dean could crack, because Sam had never thought of Castiel as a constant, although he'd seen the way Dean started leaning on Castiel harder and harder. But it was good, knowing Castiel was watching their backs, that someone that powerful gave a damn what happened to them, because almost everything else that powerful they'd come across either actively wanted to rip out their spleens or only cared as far as Sam and Dean messed up the workings of the cogs of the universe or served a purpose in them.

On the scanner, a cop called in a 10-67, then a 10-54, and requested an ambulance and back-up. Somewhere in the exchange between the officer and the dispatcher, the cop mentioned severe burns on the victim's body.

Dean dropped his cheeseburger. "Son of a bitch."

Castiel was already halfway to the door, pulling on his jacket (an old pea coat they'd found in a thrift store).

His stomach rumbling in protest from only getting to eat half a cheeseburger, Dean hovered in an alleyway with Cas, watching as Sam posed as a journalist to sweet-talk the crime scene photographer. Ruthlessly effective as Sam without a soul had been as a hunter, Dean rarely went a day without thinking how much he liked having his actual whole brother back, annoying and brainy and emo and almost as intact as ever. People responded to him not so much because he was such a brilliant smooth talker, but because when Sam smooth-talked, when he turned on the gentle voice and sad, persuasive smile, it was backed by the full force of how much Sam wanted to help people.

Those lies they told in the course of their job, pretending to be what they weren't, the act Dean put on to hustle people out of their money across a pool table, those passed right over and through him, nearly weightless. It was the big shit that crushed him, not just lies but information withheld. Stuff he'd kept from others until it seemed like it would eat away his esophagus, stuff others had kept from him, the sick plunge of his stomach watching Sam use his powers after he'd sworn not to, all those years back, and then the moment of Castiel's wry joke about Superman that about pulled Dean's guts inside out on the spot.

He glanced over at Cas, the way the red and blue lights of the police cars and emergency vehicles, and the white light of the streetlamp, all etched shadows over him in the winter night. His shoulders were hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the tip of his nose and his earlobes gone too red from the cold. Dean had bought him a pair of gloves months back, before the Dakota blizzards, but Cas kept forgetting about them – habit, Dean guessed, because he wasn't used to feeling the cold.

Castiel moved closer to Dean, a barely perceptible shift but his arm was suddenly against Dean's. His expression gave nothing away – he watched the activity across the street with his face still and a somber expression in his eyes, analytical – until he turned his head to face Dean.

It was a really cold night, and underneath the seemingly impassive surface, Cas was broadcasting, whether he meant to or not, wanting the comfort of contact and body heat as much as Dean did. All Dean had to do was lower his head a few inches, and his lips brushed Castiel's, softly touching the tip of his tongue to Cas's, taking in the heat of his mouth. Dean lifted a gloved hand to cradle the back of Castiel's head, pulling him in closer, less out of demanding hunger than just needing to touch.

"A-hem." Sam's voice was loud and very close all of a sudden.

They jumped apart, like two eighth-graders caught making out behind the gym for crying out loud. Dean felt heat rising to his face while Castiel's expression went to a strict, flat blank, eyes widening as if he couldn't even imagine the existence of the things his mouth had been doing to Dean these past few months, let alone making out with Dean in an alleyway while they were working a job.

Sam bit his lower lip, and Dean swore if he laughed, he would punch Sammy right in the nose. "So, what'd you get?" Dean asked.

"The witness is one Rebecca Fischer," Sam said. "They took her to Rhode Island hospital with second degree burns on her neck and arm. She's the only reason the police already think they know who the victim is, because his body's completely charred. His name's Henry Vaughan. That's all I could get."

Acid swirled in Dean's stomach. That's what he got for not eating a full meal.

"We'd better get ourselves over to Providence to talk to Rebecca Fischer, then," Dean said. "Oh, and we're stopping for dinner on the way, case or no case. I'm still starving."

They returned to the motel and put on their FBI get-ups again. After grabbing a fresh batch of cheeseburgers and fries from the nearest Wendy's, they continued on to the hospital, Cas in the back seat, Sam riding shotgun and tapping into his smartphone as Dean drove. When Dean glanced into the rearview mirror to see what Cas was up to, he was staring out the window intently, watching the streets go by, seemingly shut away into his own thoughts. However, as if he sensed Dean's eyes on him, he turned and met Dean's gaze before Dean turned his attention back to the road. For a second, Dean had seen right into him, at the mix of calm reassurance layered over unease and the weight of guilt.

"It was three of them." Rebecca Fischer was a curvy brunette with large brown eyes about the same shade as Lisa Braeden's and as warm, a memory Dean abruptly pushed out of his brain. Rebecca's voice shook slightly, and Sam handed her a cup of water. She drank before continuing, pale against the white sheets of the hospital bed, an IV drip running out of her arm. Bandages covered the burns on her neck and arm. "We'd gone out for drinks the way we sometimes do on Thursdays, to celebrate getting close to the end of the work week and all."

"So what happened?" Sam stood nearest her bed, holding his pencil poised over his little notebook.

Cas stood at the foot of her bed as if he weren't sure where to put himself, with Dean on the other side.

"Henry and I had parked our cars pretty close together, so he was walking me to mine. The others had all headed off home already in their own direction. And we were just talking and laughing and stuff when this guy stepped out in front of us. It was pretty dark, we were on a side street, and he just loomed. Then a woman joined him, and another guy…"

"Can you describe them?" Castiel asked.

"First guy was really tall, and bald, the other one was sort of pointy-chinned with spiky hair and the woman had short dark hair, really pretty, like a forties movie star almost." Rebecca took a deep breath, her hands twisted together on the blanket, before she went on. "The bald guy called Henry by name, said they'd been waiting for him, looking for someone like him for a while. They…crowded around us, I swear I thought we were going to get mugged, like they would pull a gun or a knife – but they didn't look like muggers. They were all dressed in these expensive-looking business clothes. It was weird. They didn't seem all that interested in me, just Henry…but when I took out my phone to call 911, the one with the spiky hair, he…he reached out, and I felt this heat. He shoved me, and I stumbled and then…and then all three of them were around Henry, reaching their hands out to him and he started screaming…" She closed her eyes tightly.

"Easy," Sam said. "Take your time."

The room seemed way too small and too stuffy. Dean had always hated hospitals, the scents of sterility and blood and illness, too many hours spent in ER waiting rooms wishing he had something to pray to, the iron grip of panic around his throat, the fear of losing Sammy, or Dad, or both.

"I saw him burn. It was kind of hard to see because I was on the ground at that point and they were around him but I saw the…I saw flames. It made no sense."

"Ms. Fischer," Sam said softly, adding, "Can I ask what you and Henry did for a living?"

"Security," she said. "Henry founded the firm. We all did a lot of the figuring out how to implement – I'm kind of the IT person – but Henry was the real genius with codes and the innovations. He had two patent applications out last year; he can break into anywhere. He lands us accounts by proving it. He's…he was really brilliant at it." Rebecca turned her head away against the pillow.

"I think that's plenty for now," Sam said. "Thank you. We'll let you know if we have any more questions."

They started to walk out of the room, trying to tread as quietly as possible. Julie Ames' tears, now Rebecca Fischer – this was the part that really sucked, facing the survivors who'd watched people they cared about get devoured by a darkness they didn't understand. It sucked, and yet it was the reason they kept doing it, him and Sam and Bobby and now Cas – because they could get the freaky bastards and keep this from happening to anyone else.

Castiel lingered, backing away slowly from the hospital bed while Dean and Sam were already at the door. Maybe Cas was hunting now because he felt like he had something to make up for – that was something Dean knew was part of it for himself, and for Sam. Or maybe he did it because he thought he had nowhere else to go or – and Dean had trouble believing it – because Dean did it.

But it seemed like there was nothing he could do to lessen that weight that seemed to sit on Castiel, a nearly visible presence. All they could do was work the job, catch these monsters.

Dean reached out and put his fingers around Castiel's wrist, tugging, and Castiel twitched his shoulders like he'd been asleep, then turned and followed Dean out of the room.

The air offered a soft, warm brush against his face and his bare arms, breeze tickling through his fingers. Castiel's toes sank into dry white sand, bleached even further by the glare of the sun, the water a vivid turquoise that seemed too bright to be natural, and so of course it was a color that could only be found in nature and never replicated.

Castiel was in the sweats and t-shirt he'd been wearing when he'd fallen asleep. Yes, he was dreaming, fully aware that his body was in fact still somewhere in a chilly motel room in Rhode Island, with Dean lying next to him. Yet, the sand itched against the soles of his feet, sweat began to trickle down the back of his neck, and he tasted salt in the scent of the air. It was real and yet a dream. He still wasn't quite used to dreaming himself. It was nothing at all like invading Dean's dreamscape, creating a block to keep out any other angels that might overhear. Before he'd allowed the Purgatory souls to take over his body, he'd merely visited the spaces Dean's mind had already created. After, he'd given Dean images, mixed with Dean's actual dreams, or created the dreams himself in order to reach him more fully. It had been necessary, and it had worked, but Castiel thought that maybe in trying to get Dean to understand certain things, he'd only caused him more pain.

Dreaming the way most humans did involved a loss of control, even though he was entirely the creator rather than an intruder into someone else's creation. Caught with a weight of foreboding, Castiel attempted to force himself awake, or alter the dream – there was one in particular he'd had a few times recently that he'd found very pleasant, involving Dean and the cabin where they'd taken shelter a few days before Christmas. He hoped they would go back there for real. Unfortunately, the island landscape didn't change.

"Water again." Balthazar appeared beside him. "Always water lately, isn't it?" He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "You've noticed it of course."

"Yes."

As Balthazar turned to look across the ocean to another island that lay like a small green and white scrap of cloth against the field of blue, the sun struck full on his face. Castiel's throat felt as if it were too full, remembering the push of his sword through Balthazar's body, the flare of white light.

Balthazar's gaze slid over to him. "Oh, look at the expression on your face. Still sorry, eh? How sweet. Well, spilt milk, Cassy. There's an even bigger problem and you know it."

A crab crawled out of the surf, waving its pincers, followed by another. A line of crabs, swiftly leaving the water and headed towards the trees.

A moment later a cloud moved over the sun, covering the sea with a murky, uneven area of shadow, and despite the sweat tickling the back of his neck, Castiel shivered. The sound of the palm fronds behind them rustling in the breeze was like the whisper of many voices, their meaning as maddeningly just out of reach as the ones he'd been hearing in his head.

"I have the answer, and yet I don't."

"The dreamer is no longer sleeping." A shadow-tendril broke free of the shape the clouds cast, sliding up the beach towards them. Balthazar smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling, bitterly amused. "Cassy, Cassy, you earnest, tunnel-visioned, precious thing. All that you did to try and stop it, and it hasn't stopped." He turned and pressed his hand against Castiel's chest. "The one who started it, is the only one who can end it."

"You told me this before, yet you refused to tell me what you meant. What does it mean?"

"You already know what it means, but you don't know you know yet. This is your dream, Castiel. I'm dead, remember? Gone." His hand remained on Castiel's chest as another tendril of darkness touched the white beach, and another. It was as if the shadows were trying to crawl from the water.

Dropping his hand away, Balthazar stepped back as the tendrils drew closer.

"Wait," Castiel said. "Please, wait."

"You're running out of time." Balthazar's eyes widened, locking his gaze with Castiel's.

The shadows circled the sand around Balthazar's shoes and curled around Castiel's ankles. They licked at his skin, rough, reminding him almost of the tongue of the cat he'd petted, a stray that frequently lingered outside Bobby's because Bobby kept leaving it scraps. The shadows left Balthazar and arched around towards Castiel, circling on the white sand, ink staining paper, the brightness of the water tainted.

"Balthazar…" Castiel reached out towards his brother as his form flickered in and out, grew transparent. The shadows spilled wider around Castiel's feet, forming pools in the sand that rose around his ankles, pulling Castiel down a slow inch at a time. "Balthazar, wait."

"Wait!" Castiel sat up in bed, his hand reaching out into the darkness.

Beside him, Dean startled awake, blinked in confusion a moment, and then his muscles tensed, entire body snapping to alertness. His hand paused halfway to reaching under the mattress, where Castiel knew Dean kept his handgun near at hand.

"Geez, Cas." Dean slumped, pressing his face down into the pillow a moment, then raised his head again. He propped himself up on his elbows, giving Castiel a steady, concerned stare. "Way to scare a guy."

Castiel hadn't realized he'd been shouting out loud. "I startled you."

"A little." Dean rolled onto his side and slid his arm across Castiel's waist, urging Castiel to lie back down, nearer to him. "What's going on with you?"

Lying on his side facing Dean, Castiel curled his fingers into a fist, ashamed of the way his hands shook. "I don't know. I had a dream about Balthazar."

Dean closed his hand around Castiel's fist, opened it and twined their fingers together, rubbing his thumb against Castiel's skin, slow and firm. Whether Dean intended it or not, the gesture made the reality of the dream move farther back in Castiel's mind, grounding him in the solidity of the motel bed, the washed-out colors instead of the vivid brightness of the island. The reality of Dean, so close to him until every nerve seemed awake and aware, diminished the horror of the shadow on the water that had reached out to him. He knew better than to reduce it to only a dream even in his own mind, but he'd given reassurance to Dean that Dean was no longer in Hell, offering his own body as proof. Castiel realized this was no different.

"Balthazar told me the dreamer is no longer sleeping. Or rather, my own consciousness is trying to tell me something because Balthazar is gone. He definitely wasn't a dreamwalker, much as I wish…" Castiel closed his eyes and put away the things he couldn't take back. He opened his eyes and shifted closer to Dean. "The mass disappearances and the recent cases of spontaneous combustion, it's all connected. And the answer is somewhere in my head. I just don't know how or why – but I can feel it, Dean. Under my skin. The answer is inside me."

The mattress dipped as Dean moved, then muttered, "Turn around." Wondering why, Castiel did as he asked.

He felt the press of Dean's mouth to the knobs of his spine through his t-shirt, then to the base of his neck, feather-light touches, before Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, pulling him into the curve of his body. Castiel's impulse to sit up, to stay alert with muscles taut and ready for battle or flight, folded into the ripple of muscle beneath skin, the warmth that engulfed and soothed him.

"I'd like to tell you it's going to be okay." Dean's hands found Castiel's, and he linked their fingers again. "But we both know that's a load of crap. We've all done stupid shit, and it always comes back to bite us in the ass, and likely will this time too, but you know what? First of all, we'll figure this out." His voice was low, his mouth so close to Castiel's ear he felt the movement of Dean's jaw as he spoke. "Secondly, we'll all do it together, because." There was a long pause while Castiel became conscious of the beating of Dean's heart, his chest against Castiel's back, and his own heart rate gradually calming. "Just 'cause," Dean added, voice gone very quiet and thick as if Dean was having trouble talking. "You mean more to me than I know how to say, and you're not alone. Remember that. We'll figure this out."

Quiet fell between them, the slowing of heartbeats. After a while Castiel could tell from the steadiness of Dean's breaths that he'd fallen asleep.

Sleep eluded Castiel, but that was all right.

In the parking lot outside Honey Dew Donuts, Sam faced his brother trying to decide if he should let Dean win this or not. He had no real preference whether they went to Walmart or Home Depot to get a bunch of small fire extinguishers, but Dean loose in a place with a lot of power tools seemed like a bad idea. Not because he had no idea what to do with them, but because he did. And Home Depot likely had a lot more of them than Walmart, and Dean might get lost for hours looking at table saws and power drills he was never going to buy.

Standing between them, Castiel watched their hands intently as if he intended to referee this round of rock-paper-scissors or was worried they might start throwing punches at each other.

Sam threw rock, Dean threw scissors, and Sam tapped his fist over the back of Dean's hand as Dean let out a deep sigh.

"Fine. Walmart," he said with a mournful glance in the direction of the Home Depot.

It had been Dean's idea to get the fire extinguishers. "Fire-based creatures, whatever these things are, right?" Dean had said over breakfast in the diner. "We don't know if bullets can hurt them or not. So…" He'd grinned. "Why don't we get some of those small fire extinguishers? We can stick them in our pockets, and then we get close enough, spray the suckers with some sodium bicarbonate."

"I've always rather liked Walmart," Castiel said. Sam remembered taking him there right before Christmas, following the angel up and down the aisles as he tried to puzzle out what to buy for Dean. He had seemed to enjoy it, especially the aisle with the notebooks, pens, and art supplies. Sam smiled, remembering the fuzzy green socks Cas picked out for Dean.

"We need more rock salt too." Sam held out his hand for the bag of donuts, and Dean handed it over. "The one we've got is getting low."

"Been a while since we dealt with anything that could be solved with salt," Dean said.

"Those were the days."

This case, with all its research and its surface appearance of just another monster hunt, offered the comfort of routine. The trips to hardware stores or Walmarts to buy rock salt and supplies were familiar ground; in the long string of family memories related to hunting, it was one of the few things Sam hadn't associated with fear, endless waiting, wounds to stitch, anxiety. He and Dean messing around with a shopping cart with Dad telling them to behave, all of them working together to load up the car afterwards, and then a trip to a pizza place or even a movie if Dad had enough money in his pockets. Just another family visiting the mall, sure, and yet it had felt like more at times.

Inside the Walmart, Castiel grabbed a shopping cart, and while Sam had never once seen him handle one, he maneuvered it with assurance. It seemed more and more natural to have him around, less and less strange seeing him in jeans and t-shirts instead of that same old suit, tie, and trenchcoat.

Castiel stopped at the edge of the music section, caught by the sounds of classical music drifting out of a speaker, and Sam watched as Dean circled his arm around Castiel's waist from behind, nudging him to keep moving. It wasn't often that Sam saw Dean this relaxed, though Dean would work overtime to hide what was in his face when he looked at Castiel if he realized anyone else could see it.

The unease Castiel had mentioned nudged at Sam's mind, but he decided they'd talk about that again later, all three of them, after they were done buying rock salt and fire extinguishers. Cas had clued Sam in about his dream over breakfast, the phrase Balthazar had used, the dreamer is no longer sleeping tickling a memory at the back of Sam's mind, but he couldn't place it yet. They'd check in with Bobby that night, see if his research had dug up anything new.

It was after they were through the checkout line, carrying their packages to the Impala that Castiel's cell went off. Unknown number, Sam noted, looking over Cas's shoulder.

"Who'd be calling you if it's not us or Bobby?" Dean frowned, steadying his grip on the bag of rock salt.

"Hello?" Castiel answered. "Y-yes, this is Agent Mullen…I see. Stay where you are, we'll be right over." He hung up. "That was Julie Ames," Castiel said grimly. "She's in her house and says she's spotted the three people who were hanging around before her husband's death across the street."

Dean swore. "They're going after her."

"We have to hurry," Castiel snapped and started jogging towards the car.

Without anyone discussing it, Sam gave Castiel the shotgun seat. When they reached the house, Lonsdale Street appeared to be quiet and ordinary as it had during their first visit, bare branches of the trees hovering over the rooftops, the skeletal line of the woods behind. However, a few houses over, a dog was barking, straining the length of its chain to the limit, usually a sign of something that had broken routine, and it wasn't the Impala's arrival.

"Stop," Castiel said.

"What? Why?" Dean pulled the Impala over. The Ames house was visible down the street.

"These beings won't take action if they know we're here."

"You want to use this guy's widow as bait?" Dean's fingers tightened around the wheel of the Impala.

"No," Castiel said, his voice flat and hard. "I want to stop these creatures. We'll go into the woods from here and approach the house from behind, then get as close as possible."

Sam grabbed a fire extinguisher and tucked it into his pocket, then handed one to Dean and one to Castiel. They all had handguns tucked inside their coats, on the off chance bullets might actually work against whatever these monsters were – Castiel had become a good shot pretty quickly, although he hadn't done much shooting outside of aluminum can targets.

With Castiel in the lead, they snuck along a neighbor's driveway into their back yard, keeping low until they reached the woods. Dry fallen twigs cracked under their feet as they moved closer to the Ames' house. Castiel kept turning his head as if listening with senses other than his eyes, something more than scent or hearing, the movement of his body giving Sam a sense of restrained power, like a bird of prey. The authoritative, dark bite was in his voice, the one Sam remembered him using often when they'd first known him, and that still surfaced plenty. Cas had been a soldier, Sam reminded himself, even if some things about him defied Sam's definitions of how soldiers behaved. He had very few theories of what a full-out angel battle might be like, if it was anything resembling the images in things like old Gustav Dore prints, or something else, and Sam shook off the flicker of memory of Lucifer and Michael in the cage, their voices in his head, the flashes of light, heat, and indescribable sounds.

Castiel's voice in his head had been the first true relief, the first shot of hope – and then the destruction of it as the angel had pulled his body free while Sam's soul shouted after him, the sound of Lucifer and Michael's rage drowning him out. The initial sear of resentment and hurt Sam had felt when he first found out what had happened took a while to fade, but now he felt only the conviction that Castiel had tried. He'd failed, or rather, he'd been halfway successful, but he'd tried. He'd risked annihilating himself in the attempt.

At Castiel's hand-signal, Sam dropped into a crouch, joining Dean. Side by side, the three of them peered through the tree trunks towards the back of the Ames' house. Dean hissed out a breath – the three figures from the traffic camera image were standing near the picnic table. The three faced the back door, their backs straight, all in dark, neat clothes.

The tall bald man raised his hand and jerked his fingers. The other two nodded, then moved off in opposite directions around the house, stepping carefully on the dry grass and dead leaves in their nice shoes. The bald guy walked up towards the back door.

A crow startled in the branches overhead, and Sam and Dean and Castiel all ducked, muscles going tense, as it fluttered away. The bald guy stopped and glanced over his shoulder towards the woods, then turned back to the door. He pulled out a slim wallet from his pocket – a lock-pick kit. With one thin sharp tool and a quick flick of his wrist, faster than Sam had ever seen Dean pick a lock, he had the door unlocked and was heading inside.

It was Dean who gestured with a hand-signal this time. Sam and Castiel nodded, and then each of them took off in a different direction, Castiel towards the back door, which the man had left ajar, Sam towards the west side of the house, Dean to the east. The small fire extinguisher knocked against Sam's ribs where he'd holstered it under his jacket, and the weight of his handgun in his pocket was reassuring – if all else failed, bullets might at least show these things down.

Sam found a window open, most likely the one the woman had used to enter the house. He wriggled through and lowered himself to the floor of Julie Ames' living room.

Crouched next to an end table, Sam listened.

"Get the hell out of my house!" Julie's voice snapped, sharp and clear from the direction of the kitchen. She sounded supremely pissed off rather than scared but Sam knew what fear sounded like: this was someone cornered, invaded, fighting down panic.

"Hey, Snap, Crackle, and Pop," Dean's voice drawled out.

There was a crash like someone had knocked a chair over, the sound of glass breaking. Sam pulled out his fire extinguisher, sprang up from his crouch, and ran for the kitchen as Castiel bellowed "run!", and Julie darted away towards the laundry room, a flash of dark hair and a bright-red sweater.

The three figures in dark suits surrounded Dean and Castiel, who were back to back, holding the fire extinguishers like guns. Dean opened fire at the woman, who leapt to the side out of range with a speed and grace that spoke to advanced training. It was something beyond the techniques Sam and Dean had learned growing up, reminding Sam a little of Castiel, swift and feral. Castiel fired his extinguisher towards the bald man who side-stepped with swiftness equal to the woman's. The other guy was behind Castiel, grinning as if he found this entertaining.

With a few steps, the three were around Castiel. The woman stepped closer to look him full in the face, then froze and tilted her head, staring. Her eyes widened and a slow smile spread over her face. She lifted her hand towards his chest while the other two drew in closer.

Sam fired his extinguisher as a heat ripple formed in the air inches from Castiel's chest and Castiel, who kept staring the woman down, back straight and stoic, took a hesitant step back.

"Cas!" Dean yelled and leapt towards the group.

The bald guy flung out his arm, catching Dean across the chest and shoulder, throwing him back. Dean crashed against a bank of kitchen cabinets as Sam shouted his name. A faint wisp of smoke rose from his shirt and dispersed.

As Sam jerked forward, not sure if he should go try to help Dean or try to get the three attackers away from Cas, Julie ran back into the kitchen.

She held a full-sized fire extinguisher. Julie aimed the hose and sprayed a blast of foam at the two men and the woman who surrounded Castiel.

"I said get the hell out of my house!"

Sam had expected their skin to start smoking, for them to scream in pain, something. Instead they only sighed and lowered their hands.

"Damn," the woman said and glanced at the other two.

Before Sam could make another move, they fled out the back door, gone in a swift blur of movement.

"Dean, are you—" Sam froze.

Dean was lying on his side, chest hitching with unsteady movements, his eyes wide open but staring, fixed on something Sam couldn't see. Kneeling, Sam carefully touched his brother's shoulder. "Hey," Sam said. "Hey. Dean?" He leaned down closer. "Dean!"

Next to Sam, Castiel sank to his knees, jaw gone tight and color draining from his face. Chemicals from the fire extinguisher stained the sleeves of his jacket.

"Cas," Sam said, hearing his own voice shake. "What's wrong with him?" He was barely aware of Julie Ames putting the fire extinguisher down on the table. She took out her cell, presumably to call 911.

"No," Cas said sharply, and she stopped. He stared hard down at Dean.

"What's wrong with him?" Sam demanded, louder, with a flash of rage and irritation at Castiel – Castiel, who once had answers and powers beyond his comprehension, and still could do things no one else could.

"He thinks he's in Hell," Castiel said.

Most of the time, he used blades, with the fires all around him and Alastair standing too close, mouth near Dean's ear. His fingers around Dean's wrist, showing him the angle to use to cut, how much pressure to use, the way to turn the blade to cause the most amount of pain and make a soul scream in agony.

You were made for this.

This is who you really are.

Alastair put a burning brand in Dean's hands. In the wavering light of its flames, the human form Alastair wore shimmered, and Dean saw his true form, but only for a moment.

Use the fire. It's part of who you are, who you've always been, always been your tool, hasn't it? Use it now.

Dean lowered the flame to the torso of the soul tied to the rack and it screamed.

"Dean!"

The voice was so familiar it was a part of himself, tight with desperation and pleading, as instinctive as his own heartbeat. It wasn't real. Dean had imagined a lot of things down here. The scent of burning flesh, that was real, a soul sobbing and pleading, struggling against the restraints. The simplicity of what he did, the clean control of it, no more questions or worry for anyone else or fear or hollow ache of loss.

That's my boy, Alastair murmured, a hand sliding over Dean's shoulders in approval.

"Dean!"

This voice held a note of command in it. It sounded annoyed, insistent. He knew this voice too, yet shouldn't have, not yet. Heat flared in his shoulder, pulsing under his skin, more an awareness than actual pain. Then he became aware of pain elsewhere, his chest and his arm.

"C'mon Dean, snap out it, you have to. Please. Dean."

The pain grew more intense and the smell of burning flesh began to fade along with the pressure of Alastair's hands on his shoulders.

"Dean, please."

It was the annoyed, sharp voice again, only now there was a crack in it, brittle with fear and about to shatter.

They were both shouting now, the more pleading voice and the sharp one, and suddenly Dean was aware of his body lying against a hard surface, the sulfur smell that was always around, in his nostrils, against his skin, so that he hardly noticed it any more unless he tried, gone.

He inhaled deeply and coughed, aware of lying on the clean linoleum floor of a kitchen and hands on his shoulder, his side, his leg, guiding him to sit up. Dean had to inhale and exhale a few times until it grew easier to breathe.

Crouched beside him, Sam also let out a long, shaky breath and helped Dean sit up with his back against the kitchen cabinet. Sam blinked, eyes a little wet. "Holy crap," Sam said.

There was a hand on his leg, as if making sure Dean would stay right where he was, and Dean glanced up to meet Castiel's stare. Castiel's eyes were wide, gaze fixed on Dean's face, and his mouth was pressed closed. He looked pissed as all get out, yet with his body tensed in a way Dean had grown to recognize, those rare moments when Cas was genuinely terrified. It would be easier to look away but Dean couldn't seem to, while Castiel's fingers curled around Dean's calf, warm through the denim, as if he'd never let go.

"Wow, are you…are you okay?" There was a tentative footstep from nearby.

Julie Ames. Right. It was her kitchen, and they'd just driven off the creatures who'd come to consume her. Dean remembered now the way one of them had struck him across the chest, and the pulse of oven-like heat before he had crashed against the cabinet and everything had been gone, replaced with that chamber in Hell.

"Yeah, I'm good." Dean let Sam help him to his feet, Dean holding onto his shoulder for support. Castiel withdrew his hand but stayed close, relaxing his muscles only a little. A stinging pain throbbed in Dean's chest and arm, and Dean bit his tongue to keep from making a noise.

"You don't seem good," Julie said.

"We'll deal with it," Castiel said shortly. "They will likely come back and try again. If you have somewhere to go, you should go there. Don't wait."

Julie stared at each of them a moment, then nodded. "Thank you," she said, putting her hand on Castiel's arm.

"Again, I'm very sorry about your husband," Castiel said. Something in the way he spoke gave Dean the impression this was intended as a specific apology, rather than the general platitudes people offered to grieving survivors. Castiel wasn't one for platitudes.

As they walked along the street to the Impala, trees thick around the houses on either side, Dean tried to move normally. There was nothing wrong with his legs except he felt a little shaky, no big deal, but with every step pain stung in his chest and his upper arm.

"Maybe you need the ER." Sam put out a hand to stop Dean as he headed for the driver's side of the Impala, careful not to touch the burns.

"No hospital. It's not bad enough for a hospital." He actually felt Castiel glaring at him without having to turn and see it. "What? It's minor burns."

"We'll take a look at them back at the motel and then decide," Sam said and held out his hand. "Keys."

"No, I—"

Castiel made a noise in his throat that Dean swore was almost a snarl, and Dean handed the keys to Sam.

Truthfully, it was a relief. His hands didn't feel steady. Dean sat as still as possible on the drive back to the motel. In the back seat, Castiel was quiet even allowing for Castiel's own freaky brand of being quiet, staring out the window, although Dean kept catching Cas looking over at him instead.

In Castiel's room, Dean sat at the foot of the bed and pulled off his jacket and shirt while Sam opened the first-aid kit. Despite going slowly and carefully, Dean couldn't help let out a hiss of pain as the fabric of his t-shirt skimmed over a burned area.

While Castiel stood by, Sam studied the injuries on Dean's chest and arm.

"Yikes," Sam said. "But it could've been worse. The skin's red, but it's not broken so that's a plus, and you've got a little swelling."

Castiel stepped forward and held his hand out towards Dean's forehead.

"What're you doing?" Dean drew away.

"Healing your burns. They look painful."

"No. You're not using your mojo on this."

"But—"

"I said no. Every time you do one of your magic tricks it drains you, and we need to save that for real emergencies."

Returning to the first-aid kit on the table, Sam opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but bit his lower lip and stayed silent.

"I'm not sure how you would classify this," Castiel snapped.

"A minor injury."

"You're in pain."

"Must be a day ending in Y, Cas." His hands still felt shaky. Damn. The memory flash of Alastair's true form in the light of the flames, the sound of screaming, hit him. Dean drew in a deep breath. "Comes with the job."

"You shouldn't have taken that risk to—"

"People who live in glass houses, Cas."

"Burns like this are easy to treat," Sam said. "You need to run cool water – not too cold – over them or put wet compresses on it. Then cover them with gauze. The other stuff…that's not as easy."

"What other stuff?" Dean thought the motel room was too stuffy, after being too cold, too small, and too close. "Let's get me patched up and get on with the job, okay? Skip the water, just put on some bandages and—"

"You know exactly what other stuff." Castiel nodded briskly at Sam, like they were in the medic tent in the middle of a battle. "I'll take care of this."

Before Dean could protest, Castiel had taken hold of his uninjured arm with a strength that was beyond human and was pulling him into the bathroom.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean turned to face Cas as Castiel let go and shut the bathroom door.

"You are an unbelievably infuriating person," Cas told him as he shrugged out of his jacket and turned on the shower, keeping the water pressure low. He tested the water with his fingers. "Take off your jeans and get in."

"I can look after myself."

Castiel's jaw tightened. Then he swallowed, and the hard glare transformed into something else. "Get in the shower," he said quietly.

It seemed like a lot less trouble to go along with whatever Castiel had in mind, and his burns did hurt. Dean toed off his boots, removed his socks, then tugged off his jeans and boxers and stepped under the stream of cool water. He leaned his hands against the tiles with their dull, cracked grout, clenching his jaw against the sting of pain when the water first struck his skin. After a moment the water began to soothe the burns.

"What're you doing?" Dean asked, as Castiel took off his t-shirt and started pulling down his jeans.

But Cas wouldn't answer him, just stripped down and got into the shower behind Dean. His hands found Dean's waist, sliding over the wet skin. He pulled, indicating he wanted Dean to sit down. They settled into the tub with Dean sitting between Castiel's legs, his back against his chest, Cas's arms around him from behind with the water falling over them both.

He felt the nudge of Castiel's nose against the back of his neck, but otherwise Cas barely moved while they both started to shiver under the water, the pain in Dean's arm and chest diminishing, although the skin was still red and swollen.

Castiel's hand slid up to fit over the hand-print scar on Dean's shoulder, well above the fresh burn on his arm.

"Remember what I told you," Castiel said, his chin resting at the base of Dean's neck. "You aren't Alastair's."

A tremor went through Dean, uncontrollable, as he started to shiver hard. He leaned back against Castiel, aware of the warmth of him, every contact point between their skin, Cas's fingers perfectly covering the scar on his shoulder. Eventually the tremors calmed. Cas pulled Dean to his feet and turned off the water. They stepped out of the tub, dripping water onto the floor as Castiel reached for two towels that were thin and rough, as most motel-issue towels were, but somehow managed to feel soft as Castiel dried Dean's skin, careful to avoid the burns.

Dean draped a towel over Castiel's head and rubbed vigorously, then pulled it away to reveal Cas's hair in complete chaos. The horrible cold in the center of his chest and the horror of the memory of Alastair pushed back into the box where it belonged, Dean kissed him, a light brush of his mouth, before they started to get dressed.

Not long after Castiel met Dean for the first time, Castiel had said I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in. It had been bluster, a threat, because he'd known his superiors needed Dean as a key piece on their game board, even though Castiel hadn't known his exact purpose yet. Not long after that, Castiel had started to wonder, if Dean should cease to be useful and if his superiors asked Castiel to do it, if he would send Dean back to Hell. The realization that it was impossible, that he couldn't not because he lacked the methods to do it, but because he simply couldn't, had been startling, only the first of many shocks.

Pieces of Dean still pulled towards Hell, as did pieces of Sam, just as parts of himself did towards Purgatory, like metal shavings when a magnet was near. Lately it hadn't been Castiel as sentry, but Dean, trying to keep his brother in one piece, tearing Castiel's grace from Purgatory. Seeing Dean's blank stare, the tremors that shook through him, was like the heat and sound of the armies of Hell rushing up to surround them, take back what it had lost. I can throw you back in.

By now Castiel should be used to the feeling of things slipping from control, falling through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to keep his grip. Even when he'd been at full power things had spun on a trajectory he could never have predicted. The queasiness in his gut, the fear, the anger at his own limitations was newer but not unknown to him. He might never get used to that.

"So…" Sam turned his laptop around to show them. They were back in Sam's room, seated at the table beneath the wall covered in research. Through the open curtains the sky at the horizon burned an unfathomable red, clouds edged in light while the sky darkened. "We're all pretty sure what we're dealing with now, right? Fire vampires. According to lore, they absorb people's thoughts and memories, and their victims burn up on the spot. There's only one brief mention of them in Dad's journal. I called Bobby. He says only one hunter he knows of ever encountered them, otherwise they're just stories."

"As usual, no such thing as just stories." Dean rubbed his hands over his face and slumped in his chair. His hair was still damp, the short spikes of it bristling at the top of his head. Castiel had to refrain from the urge to reach out his hand and smooth it down. Despite the slump in his posture, and the diminishing of the frighteningly distant expression in his eyes and the tremble in his hands, it seemed a tension had returned to Dean's muscles. He'd gone slack under Castiel's touch, save for the shivering, in the bathroom, but it seemed that had been temporary.

He held himself stiffly, no doubt because of the pain of the burns. Sam had covered them with gauze before Dean put on a dark long-sleeved shirt, the process going quickly with little complaint from Dean, save an initial attempt to insist he didn't need the bandages.

Sam's glance went from the laptop screen to his brother. "Dean…you want to talk about what happened back there?"

"Not particularly." Dean tugged at his shirt, then winced. "We should talk about how to kill these memory suckers."

"But you were out for a couple of minutes. You've never done that before. Or did you ever do that while you were at Lisa's and haven't told us?" Sam's expression had gone to one Castiel now recognized. There would be no letting this go.

"No!" Dean sat up. "No," he added more quietly. "Nothing like this ever happened to me. I…I don't…" He closed his mouth tight, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

Castiel wanted nothing more than to pull the memories from his mind, erase them and give Dean ease, knowing Dean would be furious for him even suggesting it.

"When I got off the rack in Hell," Dean said, keeping his gaze down on his hands, "most of the time I used blades to cut up the souls. But one day Alastair told me to use fire. And I did. I watched people's flesh burn away because of what I did to them. The smell of that, it's worse than sulfur."

It was more than he knew what to do with sometimes, this heart that beat too fast in Castiel's chest. He hadn't given it this much thought his first year in a vessel's body. Then the body had become his alone, Jimmy Novak's soul gone to its peaceful home in Heaven, with a series of his best memories. It had grown harder, not easier, wearing this shell of flesh. Harder still was having no idea what to say.

"This case." Sam closed the laptop lid so slowly it didn't make its usual clicking sound. "All the charred bodies, and you getting burned today – that must've triggered you. I've read about this stuff. Sometimes people go years without a problem and then it can hit out of the blue."

"It's…it's more than that," Dean said, and Sam seemed startled that his brother had even said anything further about the matter.

The theory Sam had presented about Dean's memories of Hell made sense to Castiel. He too sometimes saw things, small things that were not directly connected, that caused him to remember Heaven's method of persuasion, when he'd first decided to rebel, and so they'd forcibly dragged him home to prevent it. Balthazar had spoken up for him. Even thinking of Balthazar still hurt. But as to what more might have caused Dean to collapse, Castiel had no theories. He knew Dean's entire history. He'd read the Winchester Gospels – he was missing something.

It was because neither Castiel nor Sam spoke or asked Dean to continue, Castiel suspected, that led Dean to continue, finally.

"I saw Mom on the ceiling, that night. When I was four. It was only a second or two. I don't think Dad ever realized I did, because he handed Sam to me out in the hall, but just for a second…and she was still alive, flames all around her. And when I tortured those people in Hell—"

Sam's hands curled into fists on the table as he swallowed hard. While Dean's face – it made Castiel want to unfurl his wings, find some empty space where he could shout his rage at his own uncaring Father who let it happen, whose absence caused a power vacuum filled by Heaven's long game with the Winchesters as pawns, knights, kings and queens all at once.

"We—" Sam blinked a few times, sniffed, then opened the laptop. "We should take a look at our notes again, see if there's anything we've missed. Maybe we can guess their next move, or we can do a recon, try and spot them."

It was as if Sam had flipped a switch in his brother, turned off the current that held Dean sitting so tensely in that chair, freckles too sharp as he leaned forward with his head down. Dean reached for a folder, line of his shoulders softening. Every molecule in Castiel's body wanted to touch him, to offer reassurance, yet the years he'd spent being surprised by and learning how to understand Dean's ways told him no, that wasn't what Castiel should do now. It was right earlier, but this was different.

"They'll be looking for another victim," Castiel said. He leaned his elbows on the table. Dean moved his arm so it brushed against his. "Now that Julie Ames has left town. Another target enticing to them. Perhaps east of here."

The next morning they held another strategy session over breakfast in the diner. Sam really liked their pancakes, drowning his in syrup and butter, which probably wasn't healthy, plus the bacon, exactly the kind of thing he was always needling Dean about. Not that they didn't almost always have bigger problems, but Sam liked to turn attention to the small details sometimes. He'd long since given up on the idea of having any semblance of normal for himself, but it made him feel more grounded, more real, to focus on that stuff. It was something to latch onto that made memories of Hell and Lucifer seem smaller.

Neither Dean nor Castiel seemed interested in commenting on Sam's choice of breakfast food – of course Dean wasn't one to talk, with eggs and sausage, while Castiel chose the same thing as Sam. The angel drank his coffee black, no sugar, no milk, which seemed fitting. Even Dean put at least a little bit of sugar and milk in his.

They finally decided that the next step was to find out if the vampires were even still in Coventry. It took some doing but Sam and Castiel persuaded Dean to stay in the motel room listening to the police scanner, because of his burns.

Dean was still holding himself like they hurt, although not as bad as yesterday. He'd slept in the other bed in Sam's room last night rather than joining Castiel like usual. That had been Castiel's idea; he'd said given his injuries Dean might be more comfortable in a bed by himself, and neither of them had seemed to make a big thing about it, but Sam still thought there was an odd distance between them now. He hadn't caught them touching each other once. While their choice of sleeping arrangements was A, none of Sam's business anyhow and B, the burns on Dean's shoulder and chest made Castiel's plan only pragmatic, Sam couldn't shake the feeling that the distance he saw had nothing to do with physical injuries. After what Dean had told them yesterday, and Sam had no idea what went on between them in the bathroom before that (and it wasn't any of his business anyhow), he did wonder if it was because Dean felt he'd shown too much vulnerable underbelly, and was retreating.

He wanted to ask Cas about it but didn't dare. They drove in the Impala in silence, Castiel riding shotgun, and Sam dropped him off at Rhode Island University where Richard Ames sometimes lectured, before Sam headed over to scope out the business complex where Rebecca Fischer worked.

It was a long shot, but if the vampires were dipping into the same well twice, going after Julie after they'd gotten Richard, they might go after some of his colleagues, or others at the security company.

After driving up and down several streets, Sam sat in the Impala for a while, keeping one eye on the buildings, and one eye on a book on post-traumatic stress disorder. Sam was starting to think the day would be a bust and they'd have to try something completely different. What, he hadn't worked out yet, but the vampires were still out there somewhere.

Sam's mind wandered to the disappearances, turning the details he knew over and over for that elusive connection he and Dean and Castiel all knew was there but couldn't find.

His cell went off. Cas.

"Hello, Sam," Castiel said. "I've located the vampires."

"Where are they?"

"Outside Meade Stadium."

"Okay, I'll be right—"

"A little while ago they were in the library, and before that, Pastore Hall. It hasn't been difficult to locate them. They've been everywhere I've gone."

This was one of those times where Sam couldn't be sure if this was Castiel's deadpan brand of humor or if the angel was stating the obvious while missing its meaning, which sometimes still happened. He didn't have much trouble understanding slang any more, although some social situations and rituals seemed to stump him, but then that was true for him and Dean when it got down to it. None of them were strangers to awkward.

The back of Sam's neck prickled. "Cas, I'm driving over there to pick you up. Keep moving around and don't let them get too close, okay? I'll call to find out where you are when I get near."

"This is an opportunity," Castiel said evenly.

"No, we're not prepared." It was probably totally illegal and Sam didn't care; he started driving, holding the phone to his ear.

"They seem to have chosen me," Castiel said with infuriating calmness. "I make excellent bait."

"We need more time to plan if we use that, okay?" Sam tried not to raise his voice. He was pretty sure that by this point Dean would be yelling at Castiel to stop being a stubborn asshole. The amazing thing was Castiel actually did sometimes listen to Dean when he got like that – sometimes. Well, rarely. But it happened. Sam figured he had no chance of getting anywhere at all if he tried that approach. "Just…please, Castiel. Don't stick your neck out on this just yet."

"Very well." Castiel sounded a little impatient, as if he couldn't quite get why Sam would ditch a perfectly good plan.

"Okay…go somewhere with a lot of people. I'll call you back." Sam hung up.

He debated calling Dean. But if he called Dean, what could he do except sit and worry?

Sam decided he'd wait until he and Cas were almost back to the motel before he called Dean to explain what was going on.

When he reached Kingston Road, Sam called Castiel and relief washed through him as he answered right away.

"I'm at the student union," Castiel said. "College seems like a pleasant place to be – someone just invited me to a party where they're going to be doing…jello shots."

"Just. Stay put, okay? And don't do any jello shots. Have you seen the vampires again?"

"No. I doubled back. I believe I've evaded them for the moment."

"Go outside, I'm almost there."

Turning into the university entrance, Sam felt a twist of nostalgia, the dull echo of ache for what he'd lost. That increased when he pulled the Impala up outside the student union, people with their backpacks, colorful flyers tacked to a bulletin board. A guy and a girl stopped to stare at the car, eyebrows going up in admiration.

Castiel stood next to the bike racks, looking surprisingly ordinary, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He might've been a TA, never mind that beneath the jacket Sam knew Cas was carrying a handgun, as well as a small fire extinguisher, an angel blade, and a flask of holy water. For all his oddness and ability to be frightening, Castiel was really good at making himself look unassuming when he wanted to be.

When they were about eight minutes from the motel, Sam called his brother.

"Hi, Dean. Cas and I will be there in a few. We uh…we have a plan but you probably won't like it."

"Of course they've chosen Cas as their next target. Of course they have, because our lives are always so freakin' awesome." Dean paced from the corner of the motel room, to the window, then turned to pace the other way. The maps, photocopies, and bits of paper or post-it notes stuck to the cheap wallpaper seemed like meaningless noise, that thing they did because it's what they did but sometimes it didn't get them anywhere.

Sitting in the chair opposite Sam, Castiel made a move as if he wanted to stand up and approach Dean. Instead he pressed his fingers against the tabletop. "We can use this to our advantage."

"He's right," Sam said. "It's not as if we have another plan right now. Castiel spotted them because they were after him – us randomly patrolling Coventry isn't going to work."

"Fine." Dean dropped into an empty chair, pushing away the unease. There was no space for it. "Let's get these sons of bitches."

Even without using his powers, Castiel was turning into a competent hunter. It had always freaked Dean out when Cas got temporarily depowered, but he'd done a lot of thinking since then, and what was really frightening was Castiel being as willing to put himself in danger and attack the enemy as he was when he had cosmic powers at his disposal. To Cas, it almost didn't seem to matter – he did what had to be done either way. Dean felt a flash of irritation at how calmly Castiel sat in his chair, offering himself up as bait.

"We pick a place, and Castiel will draw them out while you and I hide and wait for the right moment to attack them."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. Okay, time to focus on the work at hand. "We need a way to kill them. Back at the Ames house – the fire extinguisher foam disabled them so they couldn't fry anyone but it didn't hurt them."

"And Bobby said his friend discovered bullets don't kill them. Slows them down but they heal fast." Sam paged through his notebook, shaking his head.

"In the nineteenth century, people used salt water. They had these really awesome glass grenades to throw on fires." Dean tapped his fingers on the table. He'd seen some once at a flea market, years back. Too expensive for him to spare the cash, but cool to look at. "We'll fill our flasks with salt water. We get a tank, fill it with salt water, spray the bastards with it. Plus bullets to slow them down…"

"And we just hope that the salt water actually hurts them?" Sam had a dubious note in his voice, one Dean recognized. He wasn't trying to shoot down Dean's idea, but checking for flaws in it, making sure they hadn't missed something.

"Salt hurts most supernatural things, doesn't it?" Castiel said. "Or fends them off. I think it's a good plan. Also, I'll have a gun and a fire extinguisher, so if things go wrong—"

"Nothing's going to go wrong," Dean snapped.

They spent the rest of the day getting the supplies they needed. Dean strapped on the tank they'd managed to acquire, trying it out. Yeah, that was the stuff. It would weigh a ton once the water was in it but Dean could handle it. He suggested they get some kind of fire-retardant gear, but that turned out to be hard to filch on such short notice.

He didn't touch Castiel once. There were none of the accidental brushes that Dean had grown to expect, the ones both of them knew weren't really accidental. Underneath all the planning, the concrete logistics of how to fill the tank with salt water, what kind of bullets might work best, what location they should use to set the trap, the little stir of unease kept up a low hum in Dean's chest along with something else, a restlessness, a want. But every time he thought he might reach out and touch Cas, he hesitated. He wasn't even sure why.

Dean went to sleep that night in the second bed in Sam's room, giving the same perfectly sensible reasons Castiel had offered before – that Dean would sleep more comfortably with his burns. It was Dean's idea this time, not Castiel's. As he left to go to his own room, Cas had paused, fingers restless against the thigh of his jeans, avoiding Dean's face, and Dean had wondered if he'd wanted to ask.

At least, Dean tried to sleep. He could only sleep on his right side comfortably, but he kept shifting around, got rid of one pillow, then the other, then put them back onto the bed. He stared at the door, at the pale-colored light coming in through the window from the motel's sign. The unease grew, remembering the heat ripple in front of Cas as the vampire had reached out to him.

Getting out of bed, Dean pulled a sweatshirt on over his t-shirt. The rug of the motel room itched against his bare feet. His heart going a little too fast, Dean sat on the edge of the bed, letting the quiet wrap around him. Sam appeared to be peacefully asleep, lying on his stomach with his arms and legs a messy sprawl – good to see, since Sam hadn't been sleeping that well since the visit from Hell they both got thanks to the will-'o'-the-wisps last month.

Dean sat for a long while before he finally stood up, heading for the door without bothering with his shoes.

Castiel was caught in a nether space between dozing and waking when he heard the tap on his door. He snapped immediately to all-the-way awake, rolled out of bed, taking his handgun from his bag.

Not turning on a light, Castiel looked through the peephole and saw Dean standing outside his door. He was wearing his sweats, barefoot, an exterior floodlight outlining him, throwing his face into shadow. His breath rose in a pale cloud as he held his arms close to his body against the cold. Castiel's stomach did a strange, slow somersault that was not unpleasant.

Putting the gun down on the dresser, Castiel opened the door, then stepped back to let Dean into the room. He closed the door as Dean rubbed his own arms, shaking off the remnants of chill from outside, barely looking at Castiel.

The silence dragged on.

"Are you still annoyed at my suggestion?" Castiel spoke finally, his voice level. "Because if you think about it, I believe you'll agree it's the best possible pl—"

Dean put his hands on Castiel's shoulders, pushing him against the door. "Shut up," he said, his voice a low, rough demand before his mouth was covering Castiel's, damp, insistent, as Dean put his hands on either side of Castiel's face. For a moment Dean seemed to have forgotten about his injuries, pressing his chest against Castiel. A hot jolt of need went through Castiel, so intense it was difficult to breathe. Then Dean winced, pulling back, leaving Castiel's lips tingling.

They stared at each other in the semi-darkness before Castiel put his hand on the back of Dean's neck, carefully pulling him in to kiss him again. Dean tasted of a trace of mint from his toothpaste. Breathing him in, Castiel licked along Dean's lower lip, then pressed his tongue into his mouth as Dean opened for him, teasing Castiel's tongue with his own while his hands started to pull at Castiel's shirt. Castiel obliged him, breaking the kiss, lifting his arms to help Dean pull the shirt off. Immediately Dean's mouth and tongue were on his skin, tracking a line down from his jaw to his neck and along his protective tattoo, while Dean's palm went over the mark he'd put there, holding Castiel against the door.

When Castiel reached for Dean's sweatshirt, pulling at it, needing to touch skin, Dean murmured "No, Cas, wait, just let me. Let me."

Let him what, Castiel didn't quite understand. This was not the way things normally went between them, but then Dean's hands were at the waistband of his sweats, pulling them down while his mouth kissed a line down Castiel's chest, over the scars, tip of his tongue flicking at the skin at his stomach, making Castiel's muscles jump in response. Castiel stepped out of his sweatpants, Dean's hands, mouth, and nearness chasing away the coldness of the air. Fully hard now, aching with want, Castiel let out a small moan as Dean stood up again, hands brushing briefly over Castiel's cock, then tracing up over his hips, his ribcage, as if Dean were trying to discover new things about a landscape he already knew, looking for something there.

Careful of Dean's injuries, Castiel gripped Dean's arms and pushed, moving him across the room towards the bed before Dean turned Castiel with a movement so sudden Castiel fell back onto the mattress without protest. A second later Dean was on the bed beside him, mouth on Castiel's neck, sucking at the skin. His fingers found one of Castiel's nipples, teased and twisted until Castiel gasped.

He reached for Dean, who now let him tug off the sweatshirt, then more carefully, Dean's t-shirt, revealing the gauze bandages on his chest and arm. With his blood rushing too fast in his ears, Castiel kissed Dean, fingers finding the hardness through his sweatpants, making Dean's breath do an uneven hitch.

"Yeah, okay." Dean let out a shaky breath. "We'll get to that but I want to—" Dean paused, staring down into Castiel's face, seemingly unable to ask for what he wanted.

But he didn't need to. Castiel let Dean wrap his fingers around his wrists, moving his hands out to his sides as Dean licked at his neck, sucking at the skin again, moving lower, his lips searing points on Castiel's body, claiming his ribs, his stomach, his hips, the inside of his thigh, then traveling upwards again. Licking at the hand-print mark on Castiel's chest, Dean moved his fingers so they lightly brushed Castiel's cock, then disappointingly moved away, his palm against Castiel's stomach. Dean's mouth shifted over, teasing at Castiel's nipple with quick flicks of his tongue.

This was growing unbearable. "Dean," Castiel said sharply, perhaps even petulantly, a demand.

"Shhh." Dean's mouth barely brushed over Castiel's skin as he moved lower, his breath making goosebumps form. His tongue found the knob of Castiel's right hip. Dean licked at it, fingers stroking the soft inside of Castiel's thigh.

As Dean grazed his teeth lightly over the skin, then bit down hard enough that it would leave a mark, Castiel cursed, his cock wet with pre-come, achingly hard now. Dean kept licking at Castiel's hip, sucking at the sharp cut of bone, lightly biting at the skin while Castiel writhed underneath this attention, shocked at how good it felt. Then Dean transferred his attention to the other side, tongue licking Castiel's skin in long, slow swipes, making Castiel's fingers twist into the blanket, his heart going too fast, his breathing too fast.

He couldn't not touch any longer, sliding his hands over any part of Dean he could reach, stroking the ripple of muscle beneath skin. His release might happen without Dean even having to touch his cock. The physical impulses of his human body weren't startling any more, but the rest of this, the part that was not merely physical, still rushed through him with dizzying speed and intensity. Most startling of all was the awareness, a sudden flicker of clarity as he watched Dean's fingers and mouth dance over his skin, of why Dean was doing this. Castiel could say any number of things to try and reassure Dean yet words weren't what he needed. Castiel arched upwards, wanting that touch, more of it, for his own sake yet also it was an offering – he would give Dean this, and a lot more.

Dean kissed his way down into the tangle of dark hair between Castiel's legs, then mouthed at the tip of his cock, tasting him with his tongue. Castiel arched forward, heat erupting inside him.

"Whoa," Dean said, lifting his head. He grinned. "What was that? Never heard you make a sound like that before…"

"Never mind," Castiel snapped. "Stop messing around."

That only made Dean grin wider before he dipped his head again, took Castiel's cock into his mouth. The moan Dean let out then seemed to travel from Castiel's groin up through his whole body. Hardly aware of which way was up or down, everything narrowed to the feel of Dean's mouth taking him in, his hands holding Castiel steady as he writhed. It was too much, not enough, as he thrust into Dean's mouth.

When he came, fingers clenched around the sheets and blankets, he had some idea he shouted something, no idea if it were English or Enochian or Dean's name or cursing or some combination; it hardly mattered.

His racing heart slowed as Dean crawled up to kiss him. Castiel tasted himself on Dean's mouth, felt Dean's hardness against his thigh.

Without a warning, Castiel gripped Dean's bicep and shoulder, careful not to touch the places with the burns, then flipped him so that Castiel straddled Dean's legs.

"Hi," Dean said, eyes bright and eager in the darkness, too smug.

Castiel bent over to kiss him, hard, possessively, then moved down to tug at the waistband of Dean's sweatpants, removing them. Once Dean's cock sprang free, swollen with need, the tip slick with pre-come, Castiel swiped at it with his tongue and was rewarded with a thick groan from Dean.

He took Dean in quickly without any more teasing or ridiculous delays. Dean dug his fingers into Castiel's hair, shifting his legs to give Castiel easier access.

"Cas…that. Right there. Yeah."

The scents of sweat and lust were heady, making Castiel's spent cock twitch. He kept his gaze on Dean's face, watching as he bit his lower lip, watching Dean watch him back. Castiel took Dean in deeper, Dean's cock hitting the back of Castiel's throat, while Castiel breathed through his nose in the way that always worked, as Dean had taught him. Dean's eyes went unfocused, his breathing more rapid. Without stopping his rhythm, Castiel slid his hand behind Dean, then pushed a finger into tight, spasming warmth.

Dean cursed, arched his head back, and groaned Castiel's name as he came.

Both of them sticky with sweat and semen, Castiel slid up Dean's body, hands smoothing over his skin, then stretched out on Dean's uninjured side, resting his head on Dean's shoulder, his arm across Dean's stomach. Dean's fingers lazily trailed along Castiel's arm as their breathing slowed.

Grabbing the sheets and blankets, Dean shifted his body closer to Castiel's, then pulled the covers over them both, shielding them against the chilly air. Careful not to touch Dean's injuries, Castiel turned on his side, his leg over Dean's, hand resting at his hip.

"You aren't theirs," Dean muttered very softly into the darkness, his mouth near Castiel's ear.

"I know," Castiel said.

It was a long shot, Sam knew, but they all decided if the vampires had managed to find Castiel at the university, they could find him somewhere else.

"Walk along the road," Sam said, turning around in the driver's seat of the Impala to look at Castiel in the back as Castiel gave a puzzled, small frown. "Act like you're patrolling and looking for them. Which you are. Sort of. We'll follow you at a good distance but keep you in eyeshot."

"All right." Castiel reached under his jacket to where he had his handgun, as if touching it to make sure it was there. He did the same with the small fire extinguisher in his pocket. If Sam didn't know better, he'd say Castiel was nervous.

"Y'know," Dean said in a tone that sounded like he was trying way too hard to make everything no big deal. "Walk casual!" He smirked.

"Walk…casual," Castiel repeated. He reached for the door handle.

Sam noticed Dean's hand move as if he was going to reach out to Cas, but then he curled his fingers closed instead. He saw how Dean watched Castiel though, as he stepped out of the car and began to walk away along Tiogue Avenue. Dean's gaze stayed fixed on Castiel, his expression drawn into an open worry so intent Sam thought Dean might not even be aware how he looked right then.

Bright winter sunlight glinted off the parked cars. Castiel was a stalwart figure in a dark peacoat going past the parking lot of Café Gianna. It would be a few minutes yet before he got too far off and they had to move the Impala to follow him.

"Hey," Sam said, and the mask of worry on Dean's face vanished with a tightening of Dean's jaw, put away with far too much practice. "About what happened to you, the other day—"

"It's okay, Sam," Dean said, not as a brush-off or denial, but slowly and carefully, as if he meant it. "It was this one-time thing. I'm not going to keep collapsing. I feel all right now, and that's not denial. It was just a thing."

"That's not the point, though. The point is, it did happen and I…I didn't know. About what you saw. You never told me." Sam tightened his fingers around the steering wheel, then let go. "I'm glad you finally did, but I'm wondering what else is sitting in there, waiting to be tripped up. And a lot of it isn't my business, we've got to have some secrets, but man, Dean, you've been trying to hold it together for all of us a long time and you don't always have to…"

Dean held up a hand. "I got it." He gave Sam a quick half-smile, not false bright reassurance, but a signal that he'd understood everything Sam meant. He leaned forward and peered out the front windshield. Castiel was crossing Tiogue Avenue just past an auto repair place.

Time to follow.

As Sam pulled into the lot across the street, Castiel had left the road and was headed towards the back of the auto repair shop's property, which led to a cluster of trees between the lot and a small pond. Dean's cell went off.

"Cas?" Dean answered. "Okay. We'll be right there." He hung up and hefted the salt water tank out of the back. "He's spotted two of them, back behind the next lot over. Somehow they were following him without us seeing. They're headed towards him now."

"What about the third?" Sam asked, getting out of the car.

"He can't see him," Dean said, adjusting the straps of the tank with fumbling speed.

The tank looked pretty heavy but it didn't seem to slow Dean much as they jogged across the road, then into the auto repair lot. It was a Sunday, so the place was pretty deserted.

"Where is he?" Dean said, his voice tight as a stretched wire.

There were a couple of sheds behind the garage, two small motorboats covered in tarp, dried grass, and the skeletal overhang of the trees. Dark water glimmered beyond them.

Sam drew his gun, instinct more than anything else, disliking the silence. The trees were at the edge of a miniature patch of middle-of-nowhere, a sprawl of woods, dirt tracks, and the maze of a shallow waterway.

It could blow the whole plan but that didn't matter, really, as Dean shouted for Castiel.

There was no answer. Dean adjusted the tank on his back, then pulled his handgun, and together they walked closer to the trees, Dean giving a hand signal to Sam to head to the left while Dean went right.

Moving slowly, looking for movement between the trunks, Sam moved deeper into the trees, towards the water.

Something struck Sam's neck with a sharp snap. Blinking, Sam halted, gripping his gun. He looked down, seeing the tailpiece and tube of a tranquilizer dart sticking out above the collar of his coat. He reached up, his fingers locating the needle of the tranq embedded in his skin.

"Oh, crap. Dean!" Sam turned, staggered back the way he came, and spied Dean among the tree trunks. He saw Dean drop, falling to his knees. "Dean!" Sam shouted. Heaviness flooded through him. "Crap."

He forced himself to keep walking – he could do this, it was one little tranq dart and Dean was always joking about how he was Gigantor. But his legs were giving way beneath him no matter what he did. "Castiel!" He called, stumbling. "Crap. Crap."

The next thing Sam saw was the ground rushing to meet him, then blackness.

The air smelled of damp wood, metal, and mud. Dean's head throbbed. He opened his eyes, aware of duct tape binding his wrists behind the wooden chair.

"Sam? Cas?"

He heard a grunt behind him and a cough. Dean turned his head, catching sight of Sam and Castiel, similarly bound in chairs. Both raised their heads slowly, probably suffering from the same skullcrusher of a headache he was suffering from. Shit. He had no idea what those asswipe vampires might've used on them – nothing readily available he would bet, since he'd never heard of a tranquilizer that didn't run the risk of killing a human (unless the dosage was perfect). The sons of bitches needed them alive.

"Dean?" Sam jerked in his chair.

"Yeah. Cas, you okay?"

"Yes. My head hurts." Castiel sounded really pissed, as if the headache was the biggest annoyance.

The room had walls of rough, pale wood, small glass windows. All Dean could see outside were trees – they must be off in the woods somewhere. Maybe near the spot where they'd been knocked out, maybe they'd been driven somewhere else. The salt-water tank, his gun, both gone, and he'd bet Sam and Castiel's weapons were as well.

"What were you planning to do to us?" The tallest vampire, the bald one, stepped into Dean's line of vision, grinning slightly. "Salt water? Clever. Very clever. Might've worked."

"Why don't you test it and shove some of it up your ass?" Dean suggested, mimicking the guy's smooth tone. His shoulders twitched, an involuntary spasm, as Dean tried to shake off the vague sense that he reminded Dean of Alastair's last host, a little bit, even though the vampire was completely clean-shaven.

The second vampire, the one with the pointed chin and spiky hair, stepped forward, along with the third vampire, the woman.

"No, thank you," she said confidently, hair smoothly in place, dark woolen suit neatly pressed. She bent to lean her face in towards Castiel's. "Oh, the things this one knows about. The birth of the planets. The entire history of humankind. The ways to bend time and space."

The vampire with the pointed chin came to stand near her. Dean strained to turn his head and see what was going on as the second vampire also leaned over Castiel.

"Don't you touch him!" Dean jerked against the duct tape holding him in place. His chair scraped across the floor. He was aware of Sam struggling as well, while Castiel sat very still, back straight as he delivered the stare that could practically smite someone where they stood.

The woman clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth and stepped back. "No, not yet. We're saving him for last. You two…" her glance slid from Dean to Sam. "Complete the meal."

"What?" Sam said.

"Quite a catch, the three of you," the pointy-chinned vampire said, moving over to Dean. "Dean Winchester, who's been to Hell and back, and then to Heaven and to Purgatory. The stuff that must be between your ears." Dean couldn't manage to actually flip up his middle finger where the vampire could see, so he made his best fuck-you face. "And Sam Winchester." The vampire moved away, lifting his hand towards Sam, and Sam jerked himself back with a scrap of his chair. "The boy with demon blood, who's been inside a part of Hell no one's seen outside of the archangels, who's had Lucifer himself inside his head."

"I swear I will rip your lungs out and stuff them in places you didn't even know you had," Dean said, low. "Get away from him!"

He heard the creak of wood and in the corner of his eye, caught Castiel struggling.

"So, what'd you use on us anyway?" Dean said, desperate to buy some time. He tried to breathe slow, to calm the panic rising in his chest. Sam and Cas weren't going out like this. Not like this, not if he could help it.

"Trade secret," the bald vampire said. "From a sixteenth-century formula." He moved closer to Sam, so all three were crowded around, while Sam fought against his bonds, muscles straining.

Cursing, Dean managed to jerk his chair back, heard the sounds of Castiel struggling in his. The vampires held their hands out to Sam, who let out a gasp.

"No, don't, no—" Dean managed to get out, before Castiel's bellow drowned out everything else.

"Close your eyes!"

Dean obeyed instantly, even while he wanted to shout at Castiel to stop. He hoped Sam had also obeyed the angel's order.

A flare of white blazed against the darkness of the inside of Dean's eyelids. Voices screamed, abruptly cut off. A strange, charred smell filled the air.

The quiet after was terrible.

When nothing else happened, no more intense lights or sounds, Dean carefully opened his eyes a crack. When that didn't hurt, he opened them all the way.

Three charred smears lay arranged on the floor, smoke rising from the remains.

He heard a cough.

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Cas? You with us?"

Nothing.

The panic in Dean's chest broke free of its moorings. "Cas?" Dean's voice rose. He strained at the tape holding his wrists, twisting in his chair.

Castiel was slumped forward against his restraints, head bowed. His eyes were closed.

"Castiel?" Dean pulled harder at the tape.

"Here, let me." Sam scraped his chair over. "Didn't have time to cut through mine all the way but I was almost there." He pressed his keys into Dean's fingers. "Finish it. Hurry up."

"Is he breathing?" Dean said. "Can you see?"

"He's breathing."

The relief stung at Dean's eyes. Using the edge of the key, Dean sawed at the tape on Sam's wrists. Once Sam was free, he started to work on Dean's bonds.

"No, check on him," Dean urged.

Sam moved to Castiel's side. "He's got a pulse," Sam said, his voice thickened with relief.

"Okay. Okay."

Sam went back to work getting Dean free. It took an eternity.

"Hey, Cas," Dean stood up too fast, stumbling a little from the aftereffects of whatever it was that the vampires had given them, felt Sam's grip on his arm, steadying him.

While Sam got to work cutting away the tape holding Castiel's wrists, Dean knelt in front of his chair.

"Hey." Even though Sam had already checked, Dean put his fingers to Castiel's neck, finding his pulse. Dean kept his finger there a few moments, touching the slow beat of it beneath skin that had gone too cool. "C'mon, wake up. You got 'em. Don't do this, stay with us, Cas. C'mon."

Castiel stirred and let out a groan. "My head," he mumbled, then opened his eyes. "I assume that counted as an emergency?"

It was like every muscle in Dean's body gave way at once. He leaned his forehead against Castiel's, threading his fingers into his hair. "Stupid idiot."

Once, Castiel could take flight without hesitation or weighing the costs, break the rules of time, journey between Heaven and Earth, even to Hell, at will. This lethargy in his body irritated him, even more than the headache, which wasn't as bad as it had been the day before. His grace was already gathering strength again, softly thrumming in the core of him, yet the muscles of his body were still weak. It would also likely take days, maybe even a week or more, before he could use that grace without harming his flesh and blood shell.

Castiel leaned into the pillows propped against the headboard, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt of Dean's worn soft with many washings, his legs stretched out along the bed. Dean sat on the motel room floor, shoulder against the edge of the bed, tiredness in the slump of his shoulders. The headache had kept Castiel wakeful last night, and in turn, Dean had sat up with him, offering aspirin, an open window, whatever comfort he could think of, yet it was the solidity of Dean as a presence that truly had made it easier.

The flesh and blood shell Castiel wore wasn't really separate from himself; perhaps he didn't want to regard it that way. He reached out and brushed his fingers along Dean's forehead. Dean ducked into the touch as Castiel trailed his fingers up to touch Dean's hair.

There was still so much to face, too many questions they had no answers for. The impatience tugged at Castiel again, that he had to wait, to sit, and be weakened even if it was temporary.

As Dean lowered his head, Castiel slid his palm down, cupping his jaw, then caught Dean's fingers in his own. He felt Dean's grip tighten.

I'm right here, Castiel wanted to say. Instead, he just held on.