And Grace Will Lead Me Home: Part Two

[epiphanyx7]

PART TWO
--

The house isn't exactly as Sam remembers it. It's not as well taken care of, there are scorch marks on the porch and bars on the windows, but it's still a nice house. Castiel walks into the front door as if he belongs there, and Sam follows with his shotgun out, ready to fight whatever was in there.

Except it turns out that what's inside the house is a mostly hysterical Amelia Novak, one who hisses in displeasure when Castiel walks into the living room.

"You did this," she yells, and Sam barely has time to catch her wrist, spinning her around and squeezing until she drops the knife.

"No," Castiel says, because he's awesome with words and likes making Sam's job even harder.

Amelia is still crying, fat splotchy tears running down her face, and she looks like a complete wreck.

"Um," Sam says.

Castiel looks around, eyes narrowed, as if he's searching for something.

"Can you please tell me what's going on?" Sam asks, still holding onto his shotgun and Amelia's wrist.

She twists in his grip, unable to break it but seeming unwilling to relax. "This is all your fault," she tells Sam. "It's your fault that -- that they took my little girl," and the look she gives Cas is positively toxic. "Are you happy now? Or is there more of my family you're going to take from me?"

Castiel doesn't even acknowledge her existence, which Sam personally thinks is a dick move. He's still hung over and he's grieving his brother's death and he's also being ordered around by a pissed-off dickhead with a never-explains-himself-to-anyone complex, so Sam thinks that he's reacting pretty damn well under the circumstances. Comforting crying women, however, is a little bit beyond Sam's capabilities at the moment, so he lets go of Amelia's wrist.

"If you stab him again, you'll feel a lot better," he advises.

Amelia glares at him, but she bends to pick up her knife.

Castiel turns to Sam. "The girl Claire is in trouble," he says. "Approximately forty-seven minutes ago I sensed that she was in distress. I came to check on her, only to find her gone from this residence. I attempted to track her using my abilities, but something has hidden her from me. I require your assistance in retrieving her."

For a minute, Sam thinks that Amelia is going to stab Castiel again, but instead she stares at him, kind of blank-faced. "I want to talk to Jimmy," she mumbles.

"No." Castiel doesn't look away from Sam when he speaks. "Every second lost is precious. Samuel, demons have taken her. Tell me how we might track them."

And then Amelia and Cas are both staring at Sam.

He closes his eyes.

His stomach still hates him, rolling and clenching in his gut like a nest of writhing snakes. He's about six seconds from puking, every time he has to move his muscles protest, and he hasn't had breakfast or even a cup of coffee yet. "Um," Sam says, because all of a sudden the tables have turned and he has no idea what the fuck is going on.

"Samuel," Castiel snaps. "Tell me what to do."

"Right," Sam says, because it was always Dean's job to think on his feet, Dean who did the spur-of-the-moment plans that always went to hell and turned out far better than Sam would have predicted. Sam feels frozen, because Castiel and Amelia are still staring at him, as if he's the one with the answers, as if he's the hero here -- and Sam doesn't -- he can't --

He's not Dean.

"I don't know," he says, but Castiel shakes his head, refusing to accept that as an answer. "I don't know," Sam insists.

"My usual methods are useless," Castiel says. "I cannot find her, although I can sense her presence. She is still alive, but she is scared and hurt. I do not know any method of finding her, or of tracking the demons who took her. Tell me what to do, Sam. How can I find her?"

"Look," Sam snaps, suddenly angry. His head hurts, a lot, a headache that's pressing out into the back of his skull and up against his eyes, like too much pressure forcing itself outwards. "I don't fucking know, okay? You're the angel here, aren't you supposed to know? Shouldn't you be able to do something? I'm just..."

Amelia's expression is bitterly amused. "Of course," she says, soft enough that Sam can pretend not to hear her.

She's kind of a bitch, Sam thinks meanly.

"Look, Cas," he says, tired. "I don't actually know all there is about... tracking people. I mean, I don't even know how to hide from angels, unless you count those freaky symbols that you carved into my ribs -- and that was your handiwork, so if anyone was going to know how to circumvent that tracking thing, it would be you. The only way I've ever had of hiding from angels was by using those hex bags Ruby made for us -- and I have no idea what the spell there involved. I have no idea how to break it, either, except for by destroying the hex bags."

Castiel stares at him. "So the demons have a warlock with them," he says, ominously. His expression darkens.

It's entirely possible that Castiel is angry.

"Um," Sam says. "Yeah. That or a witch." He runs his free hand through his hair, shouldering the shotgun and glancing around the room. "Look, is there some way of tracking the hex bags?"

"There might be a way," Castiel says, slowly. "It would be difficult."

--

Three hours after Claire has been taken, Sam's sprawled out on the couch with his eyes shut and an icepack over his head. Amelia hands him a cup of coffee in companionable silence, and then she sits next to him, one soft hand gently petting Sam's hair. "I'm sorry," she says, after a second.

"What are you apologizing for?" Sam mumbles around a mouthful of coffee. The room is pretty dark, all the lights turned off and most of the curtains drawn, which makes it a hell of a lot more bearable on his aching head.

"I know it's not your fault," she says. "It's not his either, but I just... I can't be rational, when I see him."

Sam can't remember, for a moment, why Amelia is so awkward around Castiel. When he does, he takes a too-large mouthful of hot coffee and almost chokes on it, managing to avoid spraying it all over the couch and then sputtering and coughing instead. "Um," he croaks, staring at her wide-eyed and feeling like the douchiest sort of tool for not realizing that Cas is still walking around in a Jimmy-Suit which is exactly the kind of thing that might make Amelia uncomfortable.

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I want to thank you for... trying," she says. "I mean. I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to get my little girl back." Her eyelashes flutter as she looks down, at her hands which are now twisted in her lap. "So. Thank you. And... and thank him, for me. After."

Sam is deeply, deeply uncomfortable with the fact that Castiel's meat-suit's wife is currently asking him to thank Cas for saving -- or failing to save -- her daughter from a bunch of demons, when all he's done in the past two and a half hours is feel useless and say something that made Castiel pop out of existence.

"Uh," he says, eloquently. "Look -- Amelia," and then he isn't quite sure what he wants to say, so he trails off. "Look," he says again. "I know it's hard to uh, see Cas walking around wearing your husband--" and oh yeah, he definitely could have phrased that better...

Amelia actually cracks a smile at that. "That's true," she agrees.

"You've got every right to hate him," Sam says, carefully drinking more coffee. "Because... well, if it hadn't have been for him, your family would be... together."

She looks back up at him, and her mouth is set in a tight flat line, lips pressed together. She doesn't say it, but Sam can see it all over her face that she hates Cas for that very reason. Right. Tread carefully, Sammy, the Dean-voice in his head says, sarcastic as usual. You don't want to piss this one off.

"The thing you need to remember," Sam says, because he is a fucking idiot, "Is that without Cas, your family would be dead, too."

Amelia stares at him as if he'd just announced he had eleven testicles, instead of the usual three.

Sam barrels on, because once he's committed himself to a course of action he's too hard-headed to do anything other than see it through to the bitter end. "So maybe you should think about that, when you look at him. Because it wasn't Cas who drove Jimmy out of here, it was you. All Jimmy did was do what it took to save your life, your daughter's life, and the lives of about six billion other people in the world -- and Cas is the guy who helped him do it."

And with that said, he's probably going to get slapped. Sam braces himself, but for some reason, Amelia doesn't hit him.

Maybe she's going to kill him later.

Before she can respond, though, Castiel appears in the room, looking harried and windswept. "Sam," he says. "I have located someone who may be able to help us. Have you finished compiling a list of the spell components in Ruby's hex bags?"

"On the table," Sam gestures with his coffee mug. Castiel glances at the legal pad, Amelia's handwriting detailing what Sam could remember.

"Good."

Sam catches the tail end of a tan trench coat flapping as Castiel disappears into the kitchen, and then he's alone with Amelia again.

"Uh," Sam says, haltingly. "Just -- so you know. For comparison's sake... all angels are like that." They're dicks, his Dean-voice supplies helpfully. "They're not very personable. They're... uh, they're kind of dicks. Castiel is one of the nicest ones, and he hasn't even learned to say please yet."

Amelia nods. "Thanks for that, Sam," she says, and it only sounds moderately sarcastic. "I appreciate your... candour."

"I'm going to go see if Cas needs any help," Sam says, and then he flees in terror because the cold look in Amelia's eyes means she's seriously considering killing him, and he's not sure he could stop her.

--

Amelia knows how to shoot a gun, and she's almost as accurate a shot as Sam. Castiel can't use a gun worth shit, but as long as he's still bulletproof, invincible, and can teleport with ease, Sam's pretty certain he doesn't need to be able to use a gun. He could probably stop bullets with his mind if he tried.

"I have found a way to track the hex bags being used to mask Claire's presence," Castiel says, and Sam stares at him, surprised.

"I thought it would take you longer," he mutters, and Castiel doesn't seem to understand.

"It has been several hours," Castiel says, stiffly.

"You didn't figure out how to track us when it was Dean and me," Sam interjects.

"I did not know the precise ingredients of the hex bags, nor was I worried about your ability to protect yourselves," Castiel retorts.

Amelia is loading the guns, carefully checking everything. Sam isn't quite sure how familiar she is with the process, but she handles everything with the ease of practice and familiarity. She must have been raised in the country, he thinks, because she handles a shotgun and a rifle with ease, but seems slightly more hesitant about the pistols.

"Okay, so where is she?"

"They are moving her," Castiel says. "I believe I have determined their location. I intend to bring us all ahead of them, so that we can have the element of surprise."

"Do you know what they want with my baby?" Amelia asks, quietly.

"I am not sure,"

"But you think you know?"

"Yes." Castiel is silent for a very long time. "I believe they intend to use her as a virgin sacrifice," he says, obviously deeply uncomfortable with the thought.

Sam coughs.

Amelia looks at least moderately amused. "Wait, that's it?"

As if he's unsure whether she's being serious or not, Castiel maintains his grave, serious expression, but although he opens his mouth to speak, he doesn't make any noise.

"That's... okay, that's just weird," Sam says. "Is there some sort of meaning to this, or do these guys routinely sacrifice virgins? Lucifer's dead, it can't be anything to do with that."

"The apocalypse may have been averted for the time being," Castiel intones seriously, "but there are several high-level demons which have not yet been destroyed. I believe it is their intent to spill Claire's blood in order to raise up the demon Ashmedai, and then give her to him."

"Um," Sam says, because while he may not know all the names of all the demons in hell, he's fairly certain that giving a little girl to any demon is a very, very bad thing. "When you say... when you say 'give her to him', you mean like, as a snack... or... what?"

"Ashmedai is known for many things," Castiel admits, frowning. "I think it best that we find Claire and stop the ceremony before they raise the demon."

"Thanks," Amelia says, ironic but not sarcastic. "I'm with the angel on this one, hon, so why don't you figure out how we're stopping these guys and get to it?"

Sam sighs, but he can't help but think that he's going to be bossed around like this for the rest of his life. He's not sure, at this point, that he really minds. It kind of reminds him of growing up with Dean.

--

Their plan officially sucks. It doesn't have any finesse, any sort of logic or actual planning. When it comes to surprise twists and turns, the plan is officially lacking. If Sam were to name this plan, he would probably name it the Let's Make Shit Up As We Go Plan, which is quite possibly the second-worst plan he's ever taken part in.

(The worst one was the Doing Stupid Shit To Piss Off Dad Plan, which went surprisingly well, although perhaps he should have redefined the mission objectives and never actually gone through with it. The problem with that plan, of course, had been that it actually worked.)

"This is not a plan," he says, and the sad puppy-eyed look he receives in turn makes him want to pull out his own hair. Castiel, apparently, is not only an Angel of the Lord, he also somehow manages to look like a kicked puppy every time someone disagrees with him, and to make things awkward and weird, he sometimes forgets to refer to Claire as 'the girl-child' and gives himself away by calling her Claire.

Even worse was the time that Amelia had slipped and called her 'our daughter' when looking at Castiel.

"We have to rescue her," Castiel says firmly. "And there is not much time. The ritual to summon the demon is not a complicated one, therefore it is in our best bet to interfere before the demon has risen. And the girl will not yet be hurt."

"Can you be sure of that?" Sam practically shouts.

Instead of answering, the angel turns his wide blue eyes towards Sam. They glisten, like sparkling diamonds or stars in the night sky or, terrifyingly, like Castiel is on the verge of tears. "I do not want anything to happen to her," Castiel says, and Sam suddenly understands why Dean wanted to punch him in the face every time Sam used the sad-eyed face on him.

How the hell anybody had suffered through eighteen years of Sam making sad kicked-puppy expressions every time he wanted to guilt them into something says a lot about Dean's relative patience.

"We're going to do this, then," Sam says, resigned to his fate. "We'll just... wing it."

Nodding enthusiastically, Castiel seems almost relieved. "I have a great facility when utilizing my wings," he admits, shyly.

Amelia and Sam both stare at him.

"Right," Sam decides. "Amelia, you shoot anything that isn't your daughter. Um, unless it's me. Cas, try and exorcise anyone you can, and if you can't, holding them in place with your brain is a good idea. I'm going to..."

He's going to draw a really freaking big devil's trap on the floor, is what he's going to do. And then Sam is going to figure out how to fight demons without Ruby's demon-killing knife, without drinking them first, and without... well, actually, a real Latin exorcism might not be a bad idea.

"Huh," he says. Maybe this isn't a totally shitty plan, after all.

--

Teleporting with a hangover isn't fun.

Sam stumbles to the side of the clearing and vomits as politely as he can, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve once he's finished. "Ew," he says, and mentally apologizes to himself for the hangover and the horrific lurch of being in another time zone with no warning.

"We have an hour," Castiel says, grimly. "Let's get to work."

--

Because the famous Winchester luck is in effect, the plan effectively goes to shit the minute the demons arrive.

The demons arrive twenty minutes before Castiel had expected, which means the Devil's trap hasn't been finished and the three of them are caught with their metaphorical pants down. If he lives through this, Sam decides, he is going to submit this story to Fmylife.com, because seriously? What the fuck.

"Hello, boys," a dark-haired demoness purrs, holding onto Claire by her throat. "Long time no see," and when she smiles, her mouth has far too many teeth. Her eyes flicker black, briefly.

"Christo," Sam says, politely.

The demons flinch, and then suddenly there's fighting. One of the demons leaps at Sam's neck, and he throws himself to the side, landing in an undignified sprawl and kicking it off of him. There's a quick scuffle over his shotgun, and then Sam gets a good grip on the demon's neck, slamming its head onto the ground twice in succession and dropping the limp body onto the ground.

Amelia is holding onto her gun, staring steely-eyed at the demon bitch holding her little girl. "Let her go," she says, and when the demoness just tips her head back and laughs, Amelia stills.

"Baby," she says, eyes flashing with something dark and dangerous. "Get down."

The next part goes in slow motion. Claire goes limp, all of her weight dragging the demon's arms down with the sudden dead weight of a thirteen-year-old girl. At the same time, Amelia fires, which is a thousand different kinds of ludicrous and Sam watches, mouth gaping, as Amelia blows the bitch's ear off.

Claire ducks and runs, kicking and scratching at the hands that try to restrain her, and Amelia fires again --

Sam tackles another demon, pulling out his flask (it used to be Dean's but it's his, now) and splashing the contents liberally over the demon's face. Its eyes go black, hissing and spitting at him, but the holy water does its job. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus--" he grinds out, and the demon apparently doesn't have any more fight left in it, because the woman's head tilts back and she screams, black smoke spewing from her mouth and spiralling upwards.

He hasn't seen Castiel in the minute or so since this started, and then suddenly the angel is there, standing in the midst of the horde of demons, and with Castiel comes thunder and lightning and the whole room going dark as if a cloud had just covered the sun.

Castiel is pissed.

"Hello," the first demoness says, blood dripping down her ear. "How are you, Castiel? You're looking well."

He doesn't look impressed with her, and it seems a measured insult when he turns his back on her, looking at Sam instead and asking, "Are you injured?"

"I'm fine," Sam says, and aside from some bruises and a split lip, he actually is.

Castiel turns his eyes back to the demons, and he's practically glowing. Sam's eyes are watering, just looking at him. "Hello, Meg," Castiel says, and oh boy does he sound angry. "I regret that I could not kill you the last time we met."

"Lookin' good, buttercup," she replies, lips twitching into a smile. Her teeth are covered in blood.

Striding forward, Castiel grabs her by her shirt collar, lifting her up into the air with one hand. He doesn't even look like he's trying, and when Sam looks around he realizes that none of the other demons are moving, they're all -- stuck, like that freaky Grand Central Station practical joke, or something.

Claire is curled up at her mom's side, half-behind her, and Amelia still has her shotgun up, aiming at the demons closest to her.

Sam has a sneaking suspicion that Castiel is holding all the demons in place with his mind, which is kind of the most awesome thing in the world.

"You should complete the devil's trap," Castiel says, turning to Sam. He's still holding Meg up by her throat, which makes a weird, surreal picture.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, standing up slowly and grabbing his knife.

The wooden floor is just old enough that carving the sigils isn't as difficult as it should be, and Sam quickly scrambles to the small patch of uncarved floor. It's a shame to fuck with real hardwood, but it's even more of a shame to have demons hanging around.

Claire scrambles out of the circle, carefully avoiding any of the demons, and when she's outside she kneels on the floor about six feet away from Sam. Then, she carefully tucks her matted, filthy blond hair behind her ears, presses her hands together, and closes her eyes.

"Our Father," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "... Who art in heaven -- hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven..."

--

After that, it's a relatively easy thing to exorcise the demons and send them screaming back to hell.

All except Meg, who is still in the middle of the trap, grinning her bloody smile at Castiel as she dangles in his grip. "Still can't just send me away, can you, darling?" she murmurs.

"I don't want to send you back to hell," Castiel says grimly. "You and I have unfinished business, don't we, Megara?"

"Don't call me that," she spits.

"Perhaps you should have remembered our last encounter," Castiel replies, tilting his head at her. "You should have hidden in the deepest, darkest, dankest hole that you could find, you pathetic, miserable bitch. Because now that you've interfered in my life, with my family -- I'm afraid that Hell is not where you are going."

There's a sickening smell, like charred flesh, and Sam can see the blackened areas around where Castiel's fingers are digging into her skin. Meg screams, a soft choked-out sound, and Castiel just tightens his fingers. She glows, not the normal red-orange light of a demon being burnt out of it's host, but something brighter, and Meg screams again and again and again--

And then she's limp and being dropped unceremoniously to the floor, her host gasping in pained breaths. Turning abruptly, Castiel walks away, trench coat swirling behind him as if flapping in the nonexistent breeze created entirely by the amount of badass he just personified.

Sam kind of wants to hug something. Because that was kind of awesome.

"Claire," Castiel says, kneeling in front of her. "Are you harmed?"

She opens her eyes, and Sam can see that she's clearly been roughed up a bit. She's got bruises showing on her neck and arms, and probably a lot more that he can't see. Her hair is matted with sweat and what looks like blood and mud, and at least half of her nails are bleeding or covered in blood. Her sleeve is torn, and she's not wearing any shoes, but she smiles at him and it doesn't seem forced.

"I'm fine," Claire says, and then she leans forward and wraps her arms around him. Castiel stiffens, his shoulders making a stiff harsh line underneath his coat. It takes a long, uncomfortable moment with Claire clinging to him like a clinging to him like a lifeline, before Castiel finally hugs her back, his arms hesitant as he wraps them around her back.

It's adorable and cute and heartbreaking, because Sam finally sees what Amelia and Claire see when they look at the angel.

They see Jimmy Novak.

--

"But you'll come back, right?" Claire asks, climbing the stairs of the porch with Amelia's hand in hers. "Soon?"

Castiel stands at the bottom of the steps. Sam is scuffing his feet on the sidewalk a few feet back, trying his best to act invisible. The look that Amelia gives Castiel could be a warning, or it might be curiosity, but Castiel isn't looking at Amelia.

"Yes, Claire," He says, and he's using his Serious Angel Business tone, as well. "I will return. Please... Take care of your mother until then."

She grins and nods, wrapping her arms around Amelia's waist.

Castiel walks away without a backward glance.

--

Cas drops Sam off at the motel room, prompting a mad dash for the toilet and another bout of vomiting. Standing in the middle of the main room, Castiel stares impassively at the cartoons still playing on the television while Sam retches. He doesn't make any move to help, which is a relief.

On the bright side, his hangover has finally started to fade. Sam brushes his teeth quickly, chugging down as much Gatorade as he can handle afterward and wincing at the taste. "You alright?" he asks.

Cas turns and looks at him, giving him the full-on head-tilty angel stare.

Uncomfortable, Sam shifts his weight back and forth and tries not to feel like Castiel is staring at his soul.

"Yes," Castiel says, finally, after a short eternity of tense and uncomfortable silence. "I am fine." He shrugs off his trench coat and drops it, unceremoniously, onto the chair by the door. This is followed by his suit jacket, and then he strips off his tie.

"Good," Sam says, running his hands through his hair. He's exhausted, muscles aching all over, and he's debating the merits of flopping onto his bed versus hopping in the shower when Castiel reaches forward, grabbing onto Sam's shirt and pulling him towards him. "Um," Sam says, because he's good with words.

Castiel gives him a look, the same kind of Seriously, What is Wrong With Your Idiotic Human Brain look that Sam's gotten on a hundred thousand different occasions. Occasions that did not in any way precede Castiel shoving him backward to sprawl haphazardly over the bed. And Castiel also hadn't crawled into his lap before; that was also new.

"What are you--"

"No talking," Castiel snaps, and then they're kissing, a soft brush of the angel's lips over Sam's.

Sam makes tiny helpless noises against Castiel's mouth, conscious of the fact that this hadn't gone so well the last time -- but Castiel's lips are fucking soft and warm and a little bit chapped, and he's a really, really good kisser. So it's easier than it should be, to just lie back and accept it, open his mouth and revel in the sweet warm taste of Castiel's mouth.

"Mmm," Sam mumbles, and when Castiel pulls back for a breath. "Cas, what're you..."

Stopping his words with a hand, Castiel looks down at Sam, studies him intently. "I intend to have sex with you, Sam," he says.

Okay, that wasn't really what Sam had expected.

"You should take off your clothes now," Castiel adds. He sits up, keeping his hand over Sam's mouth until the last possible moment. Sam's only half-on the bed, his legs dangling off the edge and Castiel's thighs trapping him in place. He could probably get away, if he really tried, except Castiel is stripping off his own shirt with practiced deliberation and Sam really doesn't want to escape.

He's lean and slim and his hands are warm when he leans back down, tugging the hem of Sam's t-shirt up. Closing his eyes, Sam lets Castiel take off his shirt, enjoys the feeling of hands on his bare skin. "Cas," he sighs, "I'm way too tired for this."

Cas nips at Sam's bottom lip, teeth tugging gently before he licks into Sam's mouth, hot and dirty and just the right kind of wet. He kisses like he knows what he's doing, like he knows every single possible way to drive Sam wild, fingers tangling in Sam's hair, the other one shoved up underneath his t-shirt, open palm splayed over his heart.

"How?" Castiel asks him. His mouth is still pressed against Sam's skin, so it takes Sam a second to realize that Cas has said anything at all.

"Cas?"

He bites down on Sam's shoulder and Sam strains against him. "How can you be tired? Don't you feel alive?" Castiel trails his lips across Sam's jaw.

Sam's brain short circuits a little and he presses his hands into Castiel's shoulders. "Cas--"

Castiel pulls away abruptly and Sam closes his hand around Castiel's wrist to stop him from leaving. "Yeah," he breathes. "I know what you mean. I'm just exhausted." He leans forward, pressing their mouths together. "Stay," he asks, ignoring the plaintive tone in his own voice. "If you want to. I mean, if you want to, I want you to too. Um--"

"Samuel," Castiel snaps, almost angrily, "Shut up and take off your clothes."

"I'm not doing all the work," Sam replies, shoving his pants down to his knees and letting Castiel yank them off. "You'd better be-- participating-- and--"

Castiel kisses him again, bites down on his lip and then slaps a hand down over Sam's mouth. "No more talking," he orders, using his free hand to get Sam out of his boxers.

"Okay, fine," Sam grumbles against Castiel's hand, yanking his wrist away so Sam can flip them over, pinning Castiel to the bed.

They strip out of the remnants of their clothes quickly, Castiel shoving impatiently when Sam lingers too long dragging his fingers over the curve of Castiel's thigh instead of taking his pants off. And then they're naked, naked and kissing which is probably the best idea in the world, Sam decides.

Cas is strong enough to flip them over whenever he wants to, but he seems to like Sam on top of him. He likes pulling on Sam's hair and slow, dragging kisses, fucking Sam's mouth with his tongue.

"Jesus, Cas," Sam groans when Castiel grinds up against him, and Castiel pauses to glare at Sam.

"Don't blaspheme," Castiel admonishes him, punctuating this with a filthily pornographic roll of his hips and a sharp nip of his teeth in Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah, sorry," Sam mouths against the line of Castiel's neck, scraping his teeth against the tendons and liking the way Castiel shudders when he does. "Won't happen again, fuck, yeah, do that again--"

Cas shoves until they're lying on their sides, fitting his mouth over Sam's and licking his bottom lip. He gets a hand around Sam's cock and Sam loses time shuddering and moaning into Castiel's mouth, hips jerking into every slow, teasing pull. Cas swallows all the noises Sam makes, bites at his lips and his throat, his other hand twisted into Sam's hair so he can control him.

It's not something Sam's ever thought about before, being in control, but it's so fucking obvious here that Cas is the one with all the cards. He can feel himself getting harder just thinking about it, Cas' thumb sliding over the precome leaking from his cock, and Cas pulls back from the kiss, stares down at Sam with his freaky angel eyes.

"Oh shit, oh shit, Cas--" Sam closes his eyes and tries not to come, even though his hips are snapping up desperately into Castiel's hand, and he can feel it, building at the base of his spine. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans, and then Castiel's hand is gone and Sam can't restrain his whine of protest.

"Cas," he groans, opening his eyes. "Where are you--"

Castiel slides down the bed, pressing Sam's hips down as he leans forward. Sam slams his eyes shut again, because he's fairly certain that if he watches Cas go down on him, he's going to come in about four seconds. Having his eyes closed doesn't dull the sensation of Castiel's lips closing around his cock, doesn't at all diminish the amazing, ruthless heat.

"Oh fuck," Sam hisses, arching up. He can't stop his hips from jerking forward, can't help moaning at the hot, sweet slide as Cas just takes it, lets Sam fuck all the way into his mouth, until he can feel his throat muscles contracting around the head of his cock. Castiel hums, vibrations wrenching another groan from Sam.

He can't remember how his hand got into Castiel's hair, can't remember anything except for this, the irresistible slide into his mouth, hips pushing in slow and easy. "Oh my fucking god," Sam gasps, and then Castiel pulls off with a depraved wet noise.

When Sam opens his eyes, he realizes that the angel is glaring at him. "Wha--?" Sam mumbles, and Castiel wraps his hand around the base of Sam's cock, his eyes staring unrelentingly into his soul.

"Don't blaspheme," Castiel reminds him, gently, while he works Sam's cock with one hand, a slow twist near the head that's got Sam swearing and making low, needy noises at the back of his throat.

"Sorry," Sam says desperately. "Sorry, Cas, I'm sorry, won't do it again I won't..."

"Be sure you don't," Castiel replies, and then he bends down and sucks Sam's cock back into his mouth.

Sam bites his lip, hips snapping up. He's got two fistfuls of Castiel's hair, cock sliding in and out of Castiel's mouth. It's fucking obscene, the stretch of Castiel's lips around him, the way Cas just takes it, like it's easy, like there's nothing in the world he'd rather do than swallow around Sam's dick.

Thrusting raggedly, Sam tries to warn Cas, tries to say something other than Ohfuckyes, casyescas, or the every-present yeahsuckitohyeah hovering at the back of his mind, but it's too late, he's coming in Castiel's mouth.

"Oh fuck," Sam says, barely conscious of the fact that he's bitten his lip bloody.

Castiel swallows, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't fall asleep," he tells Sam. "We're not finished yet."

--

Angels don't dream, but humans do. When Castiel closes his eyes, he finds himself in Jimmy Novak's nightmares. He spends a minute staring at Amelia's bloody corpse, at the demons who are pulling Claire away from Jimmy. Claire cries, screams "Daddy, daddy -- help me--"

Castiel waves a hand, and the entire scene melts away.

Now Claire is sitting on a swing, laughing as Jimmy pushes her. "Higher!" she shrieks in delight. "Higher, daddy!"

Amelia is on the swing next to Claire, her hair streaming behind her as she swings back and forth. Castiel waits for a moment, listens to the Novaks' laughter in Jimmy's dream. He stays long enough to ensure that the nightmare won't return.

It's the least he can do, for Jimmy.

--

Castiel licks ice cream obscenely from his spoon, looking contemplative. Sam pretends not to notice that Cas is fellating a spoon across the table from him, and instead tries to concentrate on typing on his laptop.

"I liked it," Castiel says, and Sam's head snaps back up. Cas licks the spoon again.

"Yeah?" Sam says, his voice dropping half an octave just because he's watching Castiel's tongue sliding over the cold metal, the angel's eyes going half-lidded as he hums around his mouth full of ice cream.

"Yes," Castiel nods. "I enjoyed having a purpose."

For a minute, Sam's not sure what the fuck Cas is talking about, because his brain is stuck on Cas, mouth, tongue -- and then he takes a deep breath and tries to concentrate. "You liked... what... hunting?"

"When we... when Claire was safe," Castiel admits. "I was... happy. She hugged me," he says pointedly.

"I know, Cas, I was there," Sam grins at him.

"It was good to have something to do, something to -- I mattered," Castiel continues. "I saved her. We saved her, and that was..."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "It feels good."

He hadn't ever considered it before, but now -- it makes sense, actually, to keep hunting. Dean called it 'the family business', hunting things and saving people, but Sam had never really had the choice.

He wanted to settle down, get a place to live, get his life back... except he had a life, and Dean was dead, and Dad was dead, and Jess was dead, and Bobby was alive, but probably didn't want him around -- his life was never going to be the same again, he wasn't going to get 'normal' back. Not to mention that in the post-apocalyptic world, where Demons and Angels had walked in plain sight, where the dead had come back to life to feed on the flesh of the living, where fire had rained down from the sky and set the city of Los Angeles on fire... normal wasn't something anybody pretended was real. It was a myth, like vampires, except vampires were real.

"We could go on the road," Sam suggests. "We've got enough supplies to last us a while. I could find us a hunt."

Castiel makes muffled moaning noises around his ice cream, nodding in agreement.

"We could get a car, or something bigger like an SUV," Sam suggests. "Maybe a hybrid, get it in black and tint the windows..."

Castiel raises his eyebrow meaningfully, and the meaning behind this particular look is You Are A Moron. "No," he says. "I do not know how to drive, and we have the Impala."

"The Impala is a gas-guzzling monster," Sam explains patiently.

"It's Dean's car."

"It's your car, now."

"I don't know how to drive."

"I'll teach you," Sam is determined not to lose this argument.

"If I keep the Impala, you are going to buy another car," Castiel says, eyebrows tilted down in concern.

"Uh..."

"A Hybrid," Castiel adds, disdain dripping from his tone and spilling all over the diner tabletop.

"We'll wait on that for a while," Sam suggests. "Like until you're comfortable with the Impala."

He isn't even sure why he decided to give it to Cas. It just seemed right, somehow, like Dean would want his baby to be with someone who would love her and take care of her and for fuck's sake, Sam was still calling the damn thing she like a real person instead of a car. That was probably why the Impala was better off with Castiel.

"Okay," Cas agrees, hesitantly.

"So. We're good?"

"We are good."

"And we're going to be partners. Hunting partners," Sam adds.

Castiel finishes his ice cream and proceeds to lick every single one of his fingers clean. "Yes," he agrees. "Hunting partners."

--

Their first official hunt is a restless spirit in Maine. There's a fuck-tiny town called Freedom, and Sam spends two days interviewing people and pretending to be a Federal Marshall while Castiel mostly babysat for Mrs. Briggs, who had a bad hip and needed someone to look after her grandson.

"Did you manage to find anything out about this so-called phantom?" Sam asks.

Castiel turns his wide blue eyes on Sam. "Six year old children have an overabundance of energy," he says, instead of answering the damn question.

"You spent all day chasing after a rugrat and didn't even do any research."

"I was tired," Castiel says plaintively. "I took a nap. And then I helped Mrs. Briggs clean the gutters on her house, and then Ms. Johnson across the road needed someone to help her move furniture."

So after Sam does all the research, interviews all their witnesses, and treks out to the middle of the god damned woods to find the unmarked grave of a woman brutally murdered fifty years earlier, he makes Castiel dig up the corpse.

It takes a surprisingly long time.

"Is this really necessary?" Castiel asks, for the hundredth time.

"Yes," Sam lies. "If you use your angel powers, it will disturb the spirit, and we won't be able to destroy the bones properly."

Nodding as if Sam's bullshit explanation made sense, Castiel digs another shovelful of wet, clinging mud. The weather had quickly turned from overcast to a steady drizzle, and is starting to resemble real rain now. Castiel's probably standing ankle-deep in watery mud that he's also trying to scoop up, and he's damp all over and smeared with dirt. Sam kind of likes it, even though he wouldn't admit it out loud.

"You better hurry up, Cas," he calls. "I've got a feeling that those wards of yours aren't going to keep the unhappy spirit at bay much longer." His thermos of hot chocolate is starting to cool down, so Sam sips a little faster, enjoying the heat and Castiel's petulant misery.

It takes Cas several hours to finally dig the six-and-a-half feet down to where the unnamed woman who's been haunting the town for the past five decades. And then he tries to sort through and sift the mud, searching out the scattered bones.

Cas takes a twenty-minute break to reinforce the wards, because the angry spirit is railing at them, phantom-blood trailing down her fingers and smearing the sigils wherever she's touched them.

"Fucking psychos," Sam mutters, now finished his hot chocolate. He jumps into the hole to help, because even though they've got most of her torso piled up at the edge of the grave, they're still looking for her right leg (as well as all the kajillion tiny bones in her feet) and half of her ribcage. "Why couldn't they have buried her in a box or a tarp or something? They've got no respect for the dead, none."

Cas carefully scoops the wet, freezing cold mud into his fingers, carefully seeking out any remnants of bone that might be left. "We are currently desecrating her grave in order to inflict more damage upon her corpse," he says without inflection. "Does that not fall under the same categories of lack of respect?" He doesn't sound accusing, only kind of curious in his weird Cas-way.

Sam takes a moment to think about it, picking out dead leaves and a couple of teeth and dropping them into the appropriate piles. "Not really, I mean... it sucks that we have to do this, but we're trying to save lives, lay her spirit to rest. It's not the same thing as killing someone in cold blood and then just dumping her without even a proper grave. They didn't respect her as a person, and then had less respect for her body. We're just fixing their mistakes."

Castiel nods, as if philosophical discussion is part of his everyday grave digging experience. "I am not sure if I agree," he replies, wiping rain from his eyes and replacing the dripping water with a smear of dirt. "Surely, if we mean to respect her, then we ought to bury her properly instead of simply salting and burning her bones." He frowns, picks up a larger bone, a tibia or fibula, and adds it to the pile. "Have you found her femur?"

"Nah, still looking," Sam groans, scooping up more mud. He finds the missing half of her ribcage, which breaks in his hands. "Gross," he grimaces, and then adds it to the growing pile.

It takes another hour until Castiel declares the remains complete, and then he uses his angel-magic to dry them so that they'll burn quickly with the addition of some butane and a hefty amount of salt.

"Let's get out of here," Sam says, crawling out of the grave.

Castiel gives him a dirty look, which is doubly hilarious because Castiel is absolutely filthy, covered head to toe in mud and smeared everywhere including his hair. He looks like the loser in a mud-wrestling match, and it doesn't really matter that his jacket and trench are still clean and in the car.

"We should bury her," Castiel argues.

It's cold and raining and they're both muddy as all hell, and Sam wants to punch Cas in the face, take a hot shower, and then sleep for a week.

"Fine," Sam grumbles, and then he stomps over to the car to find a tarp that they can bury her in.

--

Time moves differently in hell.

Dean feels his arms and legs stretching, stretching just a fraction of an inch at a time. It has been a long time (an eternity, perhaps?) since this happened last, but it doesn't matter. The pain is new, every time, just as shocking as the first time a black-eyed soul had leaned over him with a hungry smile and a knife clasped tightly in a bleeding fist. He hadn't forgotten, not hell or this kind of pain. His ankles, his elbows, hips, spine, shoulders -- every joint in his body it seems -- screams and pops and twists. Bone scrapes on bone in his sockets, muscles stretch out tighten with a feeling like fire and Dean feels every inch of it.

Screaming doesn't help, but he does it anyway. He screams for Sam, for his dad, for Castiel when he can remember the angel's name.

They stretch him out further, until his arms and legs are pulled from their sockets, until he can feel the flesh tearing, giving way, the pressure too much to bear. Dean screams as they tear him apart, slowly, inch by inch. He screams when his arms are torn off, when blood wells up in the shattered stumps. Pain like fire laces through him when the same happens to his legs, and the demons surrounding him dip curious fingers in the spurting blood, tugging at arteries and veins like kittens playing with shoestrings.

He's surrounded by manic, giggling insanity, the chaos of thousands of years worth of tortured souls. And amongst the pain and fire and seething black smoke, where the only sounds are screams and laughter and tears, the chaos grows wilder and more unmanageable as hell falls to pieces.

Dean screams until he can taste blood and bile in his throat. His voice gives out eventually, but no one comes for him.



illustration by sleepwalker1015
--

Castiel feels edgy, restless. His body has too much energy, and he can feel the slight pull of Jimmy's soul inside of it, tugging him towards Illinois and the two females he is linked to. It's almost a relief, because Jimmy's presence has been faint until now, and even this small reminder is a reassurance that Castiel is not alone. Not really.

He wants to visit the girl-child.

Castiel has tried to learn what it is to want, but he is not very good at it. Things are pleasant or unpleasant, there are things that he likes and dislikes. People whose company he seeks above others. But wanting, that is still strange for him, because he has spent so much of his life having things, or being unable to have them.

This is new and strange, because it is something he does not have, and something he wants to have, and something he can have all at once. He can visit Claire Novak any time he so desires, he can appear to her with but a thought. He can step into her dreams, or remain invisible and watch her.

He does none of these things, because he is not sure that he would be welcome, even now.

In the year 2072, the Gospel of Winchester has been published several times, in several languages. Castiel steps into that year, walks into a used book store and seeks out a complete boxed set, detailing the three years of the Winchesters' fight against heaven and hell.

The boxed set is not very heavy.

For the sake of curiosity, and nothing else, he opens the front page of the book entitled Lazarus Rising and catches sight of the dedication, written by the prophet Chuck Shurley. The book is dedicated to James Novak, Dean Winchester, and Samuel Winchester.

Underneath is his own handwriting, blue ink that is slightly smudged and still legible.

It reads: To Claire. So that you will understand your father's sacrifice. Castiel.

He closes the book, glares at the cover, and places it back in its proper spot.

The book set says that it was published in 2060. Castiel leaves the store, stepping into the year 2060 and walking into another store. He buys a brand-new box set of the Winchester Gospel, one of the few paper books available on the shelves.

He writes the dedication in black ink. There is no way of knowing whether it will fade to blue over time, or if he has changed the future.

Either way, Claire smiles at him when he gives her the unwrapped gift, and Castiel feels something inside of him shift and change.

Jimmy's presence fades away a little bit more, but Castiel doesn't mind.

--

"Hey, little brother!"

Castiel turns, slowly, and Gabriel grins up at him from his position sprawled on the floor. "What are you doing?" Castiel asks.

"I am drinking," Gabriel responds cheerfully. His smile grows wider as he holds up a bottle of what was probably wine. "Got a buddy who hooked me up, name's... Bach or something. I like his wine, its stronger than that weak stuff the mortals drink." He takes another, hearty sip, and then offers the bottle to Castiel.

"You're drunk," Castiel says.

"Mmm, I've always admired you ability to state the obvious," Gabriel says, licking his lips. He stands, unsteadily, holding onto the wall for assistance. "You've got a real talent there, bro."

"Bro," Castiel repeats, taking a step away from Gabriel. He looks around the room, expecting to see Gabriel's usual excessive splendour. Gabriel seems to have opted for a rustic mountain cabin instead, which is... surprising, to say the last.

He is not accustomed to seeing his brothers and sister intoxicated, as it is not within the bounds of their normal existence. Gabriel has insisted on becoming other though, pagan influences leaking into his very being, and this makes him more prone to human excess. Castiel watches him for a moment with his true sight, sees the expanse of Gabriel's wings and the long dark lines over his soul and around his grace, darkness and pain that Castiel cannot fathom.

"What is wrong?" Castiel asks.

Gabriel frowns at him. "You should drink with me," he says, waving a hand and sitting abruptly in one of the chairs that appears without so much as a flash of multicoloured smoke.

If Gabriel is no longer acting like a crazed showboating clown, Castiel feels that something must be truly wrong with him. He tries to suppress the surge of concern on instinct, and then he remembers that he is no longer one of Heaven's soldiers. He is allowed to feel emotion, and his concern for his brother returns immediately. "I do not require drink," Castiel reminds Gabriel.

His brother nods, snaps his fingers and pointing at the cups on the table that wasn't there before. "You should, though," he insists, propping his feet up on an ottoman that pops into existence just as suddenly. "I mean, you need to loosen up. You're way too uptight, Cassie."

"My name is Castiel," he chides softly, but he sits down across from Gabriel.

"Whadda you want? I've got tequila," Gabriel says, cheering up when it seems that Castiel is going to stay for a while and allow himself to be corrupted.

"No, thank you," Castiel says, and then he decides that he will have a drink after all. "I would like a beer. An El Sol."

"You're kinda boring for a rebel, y'know that?" Gabriel says, but the beer appears on the table anyway, cap off and cold droplets already condensing on the outside of the glass bottle. "So tell me, little brother, what have you been up to? Still fighting the good fight? Still doing all that exciting, world-saving stuff?"

"I suppose," Castiel says, fiddling with the label on his beer. "I have been staying with Sam."

Gabriel grins, takes a large swig from his bottle. "Yup, Sammy Winchester, the last survivor of the Winchester clan. Must be exciting times for you, bro."

"You're drunk, Gabriel." Castiel says, sipping his beer carefully. "You are drunk, and you are not even attempting to sober yourself. What has happened? Why are you so--"

"Don't you know?" Gabriel snaps. "Are you so far-fallen that you can't tell, Castiel?"

"You have no reason to be like this," Castiel says, even though he's not really certain of that at all.

"Do you even remember what it was like? Before he fell, I mean? Do you remember what it was like when he was simply our brother?"

"I do not."

"That's why," Gabriel says, pointing his bottle of wine at Castiel accusingly. "That's why you can be okay with this, that's why you can be all 'happy-go-lucky let's end the apocalypse', but I remember, Cas. I remember when he was my brother, and you helped to kill him. And even if it needed to be done, my brother is dead and nobody will mourn him but me."

Castiel turns his eyes to the table, drags a finger through a droplet of water that slid down his beer bottle. He can see, when he looks at Gabriel, the lines of sadness and grief, lines that do not touch Castiel at all. "Lucifer was not our brother," he says, but the words catch in his throat.

"No," Gabriel says sadly. "He wasn't." He takes a large mouthful of wine, swallowing audibly. "Not when you killed him, at least," he adds.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, because he is, he is sorry for every single one of the angels he has murdered, every single one of his brethren whose lives he has ended. Lucifer was not one of the heavenly host, but he was-- he had been an angel.

"You really are," Gabriel laughs, a sad and bitter laugh. "Oh, that's just great. It figures," he tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling. "It's like trying to stay mad at a puppy," he mumbles.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says again.

Another mouthful of wine, and then Gabriel is standing up, shoving the chair back with a loud scrape against the wooden floor. He plants one knee on the table in front of them, then another, until he's kneeling on the table and looking down at Castiel. He wraps one hand around the back of Castiel's head, fingers soft on his hair, and then he presses his mouth against Castiel's, a soft insistent press of lips.

Castiel opens his mouth because that's what Gabriel wants, and then he swallows the sweet, intoxicating wine that rushes from Gabriel's mouth to his, an onslaught of heat and dizzy and light-headedness that is shockingly powerful.

"This is not mortal wine," he says, when Gabriel pulls back.

Gabriel's free hand is still holding onto the neck of the bottle, and he grins sloppily down at Cas, swinging his legs around so that he's sitting on the table properly, legs dangling on either side of Castiel. "Of course not," he feigns insult, but he offers Castiel the bottle again anyway.

He puts the beer bottle down onto the table beside Gabriel's thigh, takes the wine bottle hesitantly. His second sip is just as electric, the wine sweet in his mouth like ambrosia. "Bacchus," he says, looking up at Gabriel in surprise. "You obtained this wine from Bacchus."

"He's a good guy, likes a party, doesn't require human sacrifice." Gabriel nods. "You try and hunt him, I'm gonna be pissed. He might occasionally make people go insane ... rip each other to shreds, but that's on them, not on him. He makes awesome booze, too," and with that he steals the bottle back from Castiel, taking another large gulp.

Castiel can feel the wine's effects, feel his head feel thick and slow even as his limbs are warm and comfortable, tingling almost. He is not quite sure the sensation is unpleasant, it does not seem to be destroying his sensibilities as thoroughly as he has seen mortal alcohol affect humans.

"Want some more?" Gabriel offers.

"No, thank you."

Nodding, Gabriel takes that opportunity to slide off of the table and into Castiel's lap, curling around him like a cat. He takes another sip of wine, wrapping both arms around Castiel and sighing deeply. "I miss him," Gabriel says, his voice very nearly muffled by Castiel's shoulder. "I miss him all the time, him and Michael and all the others. Do you know, I can still hear them? They won't let me leave, Cas."

There are tears, wet against Castiel's shirt, and he's not sure he knows what to do. He takes the bottle of wine from Gabriel's unresisting fingers, places it gently on the floor as Gabriel cries silently. "I'm sorry," he says, not knowing what else to do.

"I just want to leave and never come back," Gabriel cries. "I want to, but no matter how far I go I can always hear their voices, calling me to come home, calling to me -- and to each other, it hurts me, Cas." He lifts himself up, a little, enough to stare into Castiel's eyes. Gabriel leaves the tracks of his tears where they are, lets Castiel see this vulnerable aching part of him, the wet spiky lashes around his eyes. "They're not my family any more, Cas. I can't stand to go back."

"It's okay," Castiel says, finally placing his arms around his brother, drawing him in closer. "I am here for you, Gabriel. You don't have to go back," and Gabriel nods, rests his head against Castiel's shoulder again.

"You should try cheesecake," Gabriel says, after a long moment. "It's really good. Better than pie."

Castiel laughs.

--

Time moves differently in hell.

There's a tremble and a whisper, far away from where Dean lies bloody and sobbing, blood bubbling under his lips as he cries tears that sting as they slide down the sensitive, raw flesh of his face. He knows that he doesn't need to breathe down here, but his lungs still struggle for every breath as if it's his last. He struggles to breathe while the whisper travels through the ranks, from high-level demons to the low-level imps.

It sounds like the cruellest, most bitter laugh in existence, something deeper and darker than the sounds of hell had ever seen before.

Lucifer is dead, the whisper says.

Lucifer is dead.

The whisper travels, and behind it there is a tremble of gleeful ecstasy, of demons no longer trapped within the too-tight confines of fire and brimstone. And behind that tremble of hesitant freedom there is a sick, insidious shock wave of treachery and lies and manipulation.

Time moves differently in hell, and only now do the demons realize that their leader is gone.

Dean lies on the rack with his ribs spread open, his insides exposed and raw, bleeding over the rack and slicking it up with his blood and pain. He hears the whispers and he hates them, hates that the demons around him have hope and freedom, that they can revel in their happiness but he is still nothing but a sad, sorry mess.

The demon working him over has black eyes, happy black eyes that glitter with triumph with every tortured scream she manages to wring out of Dean.

"Did you hear the good news?" she asks, carefully winding his intestines around his throat. She likes to decorate him like a Christmas tree, see how far she can tear him apart before his body can't take it anymore. She's very careful not to tug too hard, doesn't want to destroy her handiwork. Dean can feel her hands inside of him, tugging and rearranging him, his heart beating too-fast as she brushes soft fingers over it. "Not yet," she whispers, reaching down to touch her lips to his open chest. "Soon, though, soon, oh yes --"

There is no good news, not in hell...

But there is a whisper.

Lucifer is Dead.

Dean bites his lips, tries to hold back his screams, tries to hold back his secrets. He has one, one big secret, and when he can remember it he has to remember to never ever say it aloud.

--

They investigate reports of zoo animals disappearing and being killed in their cages.

"It's an Occamy," Castiel announces gravely, as he peers at the small book in his hand.

"What is that?" Sam demands. "What book did you find that in?"

"It feeds mainly on rats and birds, though it has been known to carry off monkeys," Castiel reads. "I checked the logs at the Zoo, and it seems appropriate that they had a shipment of seven Sarus Cranes arrive from India two days before the attacks began. Only four of the birds remained alive." He gives Sam a pointed look.

"Um," Sam says. "Castiel, you are reading from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Are you sure that's even a real creature? It's a Harry Potter myth."

Castiel levels his intense stare in Sam's direction. "Charles Shurley is not the only Prophet of the Lord, Samuel," he says severely. "You should not be so quick to judge the truth."

"I hate my life," Sam mutters under his breath.

Castiel stares at him.

"Okay, how do we kill it?" Sam demands.

--

Castiel spends about half of his time with Sam, and half of his time flying around the country being angelic and unfathomable.

When he's alone, Sam listens to his iPod and spends a lot of time driving places, but Cas usually shows up on the important dates. On Dean's birthday, Cas had shown up with a magical six-pack of beer that had never really run out of beer, always managing to have two cans left, and the two of them spent the night getting completely trashed in a hotel room.

That's why it comes as a complete shock to Sam when he's driving on the interstate, halfway between Austin and Kansas City (in the middle of fucking Oklahoma which somehow makes it even worse), looking at the screen of his iPod and realizing that it's been exactly one year since Dean died.

An entire year, which is the longest he's ever been without the knowledge that Dean is out there, being flippant and sarcastic and a total asshole. A year has been twice as long as he's ever survived, knowing his brother is dead. It's half as long as Sam went without talking to him, before this entire shit storm of a mess got dumped in his lap.

It starts to rain, like the weather knows his moods or just wants him to suffer, and Sam spends twenty minutes trying to navigate with before he just gives up. He takes a random exit, and then another, and another, until he's driving in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, on a dirt road somewhere in Oklahoma.

Sam can remember the first time he watched Dean die, and the second time as well, and the third time -- and the hundred and forty times after that, every single one burned into his mind, engraved on the back of his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. He remembers dean dying, remembers that one horrible Wednesday when Dean didn't wake up again, when the world didn't restart and he had to live without his brother...

And the next time Dean died, when hell hounds tore him to pieces, Sam spent the next four months of his life going crazy, and the year after that determined to fix something in Dean that would always be broken.

And then there was the last time that Dean died, the time that just about broke Sam and made him hate the world. That was the last time, because Sam had killed him. Lucifer's interference meant that he wasn't really culpable, but he could still remember it, the bright red of Dean's blood on his hands, the way it had felt glorious to swing the sword and drive it into Dean's flesh.

Sam stumbles out of the car, staggering to the side of the road to gag and spit on the ground. He can't vomit, can't bring up anything other than saliva and the occasional mouthful of bitter bile, but his stomach won't stop wrenching and the heavy pounding rain does nothing to deter him.

"I hate this," Sam says, even though there is no one to hear him. He sits down on the ground, on the wet gravel that quickly muddies his jeans. The rain is cool on his skin, colder when he stops moving and lets it settle onto him.

It isn't the first time that Sam wants to head to a crossroads and make a Deal he knows isn't worth the price -- but he doesn't know how to do this, doesn't know how to live his life without Dean in it. He'd spent so much of his childhood taking Dean for granted, so much of his teenage years rebelling against John that he hadn't spared Dean a second thought. But Dean was his brother, he'd been everything important in Sam's life for so long that everything else pales in comparison.

"What am I supposed to do?" Sam sobs, tears obscuring his vision. He's soaked, now, the driving rain permeating his clothing, plastering his hair to his head. It doesn't matter that the water running down his skin feels ice-cold, he can still feel the path of his tears, hot and angry and filled with pain. "What am I supposed to do?"

The rain doesn't answer him.

Nobody answers him.

Sam cries until he can't anymore, cries until he feels there's nothing left inside of him to spend. The downpour becomes a steady rainfall, and then Castiel is standing in front of him, wearing the same damn outfit he's been wearing for the past four years.

"Sam," Castiel says, placing one hand on Sam's shoulder.

The temporary warmth of that small gesture almost burns him. "I can't do this," Sam says, dully. "I can't do it, Cas."

He almost expects for Castiel to argue with him, or yell at him, but Castiel stands in front of him in the rain with his hand on Sam's shoulders, and then he kneels so that he and Sam are face-to-face. The rain parts around the angel, flowing away from him, water droplets sliding and splattering over wings that aren't there.

"Samuel," Castiel says, eyes boring deep into Sam, looking right at his core, looking at his soul. "You are my friend. My partner. You are all that remains of the family I have chosen. I have been cast out of Heaven, and I may never return." He pauses, just long enough to let his words sink in. And then Castiel looks at Sam and Sam can see into his soul, it's the same gaze but the other way around. Castiel shows Sam where he's hurting, where he's lonely, where he's vulnerable and wounded.

"Don't make me do this alone," Castiel says.

Sam swallows, hard. It takes what's left of his energy, but he struggles to his feet with Castiel's help, and staggers towards the car, finally feeling the cold wet clothes against his skin and how much he really wants to be warm and dry. The cloud cover has broken up near the sun even though the rain is still falling, and he pauses at the Impala to look at the sun showers.

"Okay," he rasps, not looking at Castiel who is standing behind him. "Okay, Cas. You've got me. As long as you need me-- you've got me."

Castiel approaches, lays his hand very gently on Sam's wrist. "Look, Sam," he says. "A rainbow! A covenant between God and Man--"

Sam turns to look and is startled into a laugh. "That's a billboard for Skittles," he says.

Castiel leans in a little closer, wrapping an arm around Sam's middle, his other arm carefully pulling Sam in for a hug. Sam hugs him back, even though he's soaked with rainwater and he's getting Castiel wet, because he really needs a hug right now even if it does last thirty seconds longer than he ought to be comfortable with, and Castiel always holds on to him so tightly he can't breathe properly.

"Yes," Castiel says, when they finally let go of each other. "I know it is, Sam. Skittles are delicious."

--

Next: Part Three