The Dance of Inanna

If there’s one thing Dean Winchester hates, it’s being told that he’s irrelevant.

Now to be fair, anyone who is at all familiar with Dean Winchester knows that he hates quite a number of things. This list, for those who are interested, includes but is not limited to: witches, hindering civilians, getting shot, dying, talking about sex with Cas, demon deals, himself, Turducken, (most) angels, and the New York Yankees.

But at least he’s used to those. Irrelevancy, unimportance, not so much. It's the type of complex that comes from finding out that one is the result of thousands of years of careful angel breeding, needs to give an archangel permission to start the Apocalypse, saving lives every week and having had a hand in just about every major disaster three years running. He spends a lot of time hating himself, hating everyone around him. But he’s never been irrelevant.

Until now. And he’s not taking it well. And Sam is about to punch him in the face.

He settles for flinging up his hands. “This is a job for the police, Dean. It’s just a murder.”

“Rude.”

“How—” Deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Those calming strategies they tried to teach him in his various mental hospital visits. Count to ten, apply logic to the situation.

“Oh, c’mon, Sam. All the phones going out? There’s got to be—”

Sam can pinpoint the precise moment that his brother realizes that that argument is ridiculous. “I thought there might be a case too.”

“Yeah.” Dean falls dramatically back onto the bed, drama levels nearly toxic. “Ugh.”

(And Sam checks his phone once again, just to make extra sure. No new messages. Service unavailable.)

Dean’s right. Those random murders and disappearances being random? The nerve.

“Ughhhhhhh,” Dean says again. Rolls over and buries his face in his pillow. “You want to find us another case?"

Sam snorts. “Chill. We don’t need—”

“A gank a day keeps the cranky away.”

Pause.

Dean opens his eyes. “It sounded better in my head.”

“I hope so, because that was E.L. James-level horror.” Either way, the situation is far more dire than Sam had feared. He almost misses when Dean would cure his boredom by getting drunk and laid. But this is now, and these are their lives, and these are the ridiculous molded plastic chairs that they find at every hotel— who do they think sits in these? Grossly overweight old men with back pain?— and he flips open his laptop.

Which tells him that his computer wants to install updates, please restart now or in four hours and Google Chrome cannot display this webpage. Please reset your router and try again.

“No cell, no wifi,” Sam grumbles.

“It’s the first-world apocalypse,” Dean says.

“Obviously the supernatural at work.”

They’re silent for awhile.

Well, at least until someone kicks the door in.

“Jesus Fucking—“ Dean is on his feet in half a second, one hand on his gun, other hand on the motel pillow as though he plans on using it as a shield. Sam is already in motion when he recognizes he intruder, and that recognition doesn’t make him at all inclined to stop the punch on his way towards the other’s face. And then his hands are caught in a steel grip and he’s bringing his knee up to—

“Can you call off your brother?” Benny drawls, moving slightly to get his genitals out of the line of fire.

“Dude!” Dean lowers the gun. “Dude. The hell—ever heard of knocking?”

Benny releases Sam, who takes a step back. Because if it comes to a fight, he isn’t sure whose side Dean would be on, and isn’t that a thought he loves.

A man with an afro and a nametag sticks his head in, glancing nervously from person to person, hopefully not noticing the gun—“Everything alright in here?”

“Yes,” Dean says loudly. “Sorry. Uh, Denny here thought there was—is the door okay?”

It is determined that the door is not injured, they should be more quiet and Talk About Their Issues, and the presumably well-meaning man with his presumably not-supposed-to-be-that-ugly 'fro moves on before someone gets annoyed enough to deck him.

“I thought you might be in trouble,” the vampire says when they’re alone again. “Weren’t answering your phones.”

Dean sits back down on the bed. “Yeah, Traverse City is radio silent. Doesn’t seem to be anything though.”

“My heart is with you in this difficult time.”

They stand there, in an awkward triangle. Sam, fist still clenched, still prepared to fight. Benny, shrugging. Dean, looking from one to the other as though he’s not sure who he’s going to have to hit. In the interests of world peace, Sam drops the fighting stance. (Also in the interests of world peace, he does not drop the knife that he has behind his back.)

“I’m guessing you didn’t stalk us just to check and see if we were okay,” Dean says finally.

Benny waves a hand. “En’t gonna give me the benefit of the doubt?”

(Sam opens his mouth, fully planning to inform Benny that Dean gives him nothing but, that he gets more doubt than anyone deserves, but his brother’s look says that he knows and that Sam won’t be able to say it without things getting even more awkward than they already are.)

(In the interests of world peace, he keeps his mouth shut. While cataloging the distance and time it will take to reach the machete.)

“What’s going on, Benny? How’d you find us?”

Benny plops himself down in the chair Sam had recently vacated, leaving the youngest Winchester the only one standing. “’Ent too hard. You’d said you were going to Traverse. Not too many hotels with that ridiculous car in the lot, and—" he grins, adopting a slightly more Midwestern accent. “Excuse me, ma’am? I’m looking for two men from the—we had a meeting. Someone said I should talk to, um…” he snaps his fingers a few times. “They had the name of some singing duo, I can’t remember what—”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Ten points to Gryffindor. So?”

“Vampires. In Detroit. Thought you might be interested, if you weren’t having any luck with your phone-blocking ghost.”

“Hey, it isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds,” Sam protests, not so hypocritical as to not find the role-reversal slightly amusing. “I mean, it’s something Crowley would find hilarious. There might still be—" but anything he says is pointless, because Dean is going to go. Sam knows it the second his brother opens his mouth, even though he hasn’t said anything yet. He’s going to go on the word of his vampire friend because He’s My Friend Sam We Bonded In Purgatory You Don’t Understand. (Of course he doesn’t understand because what has Dean told him about Purgatory? About him and Benny or—hell, him and Cas? About a quarter of nothing.)

Sam doesn’t have to, though. Sam could go off somewhere else with a connection to the outside world. Check on Amelia, find a real hunt—and Jesus he doesn’t want to go back to Detroit (powerless, trapped in his own body, Bobby’s neck snapping under his fingers—)

But Dean is going to go. The Dean he doesn't really know anymore. But, hell.

At least Sam can keep an eye on Benny.

So he spreads his hands, shrugs. Looks only at his brother as he says, “Always looking to kill some vamps.”

He hopes Benny remembers that.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“Relax.” Dean lowers his phone. “This isn’t the most dangerous—“

“I was under the impression that we were in a hurry—“

“They won’t pull me over, I’m not driving by a police car in liberalsville—“

“That was Seattle, and that was one time—“

“My god,” Benny says loudly. “You two are as bad as….” He falls silent, presumably looking for an appropriate comparison.

“Fine.” Dean shoves the phone at Sam. “Tell me when there’s reception.”

“Who’re you calling?”

Dean turns the corner without turning on his indicator. “Cas.”

There's vampire breath on the back of Sam’s neck. Ugh. He turns the phone off and on again, because sometimes that helps it find bars.

“I thought the angel didn’t make it.”

White knuckles hold the steering wheel. “He’s back.”

“How?”

Dean goes quiet. Looks at Sam, who, in a brilliant move of goodwill, tells Benny that “We don’t actually know.” (There’s still no reception in this ungodly sunny, ungodly picturesque, populated part of Michigan, but hell, maybe it’s a Michigan thing.)

“Well, where is he now?”

They hit the highway.

“Nursing home,” Dean says sharply. “He decided to stay behind—“

“Yeah,” Benny says. “He seemed to like that idea.”

“—and look after a guy who lived there.”

A vein pulses in Dean’s neck, the car speeds up, and Sam watches the speedometer pass eighty. He wonders at what point he should start fearing for his life. Flashes back to the racist truck, the crash where Dean died for the first time, the—

Chirp, chirp.

T-Mobile is available.

Sam hits the speed-dial, passes it over. And Dean slows to sixty.

Benny lets out a slow stream of air, halfway to a whistle. “These cars, man,” he says. “Gotten a bit faster.”

Sam snorts. “This car is over fifty years old—shouldn’t be moving at all.”

“You two shut up,” Dean says. Then, “Cas?”

Cas says something indistinct, and Sam can’t help but be glad when Benny leans back again.

Dean is laughing. “And they believed you?”

Mumble mumble mumble.

Sam wonders if this is a good idea, this constant contact. Telling Castiel where they are all the time. Because he knows that Dean, every time, is giving the angel the opening to come back, but it’s still an opening for anything else. A set-up for destruction. It’s not like telling Bela where they were hadn't ended with a vamped-up Gordon on their tail, not like they'd never met a creature that could call people in the voice of whoever he chose.

“Me and Sam are with Benny,” Dean says. “Going after some fangs in Detriot.”

Sam’s thoughts have the voice of Amelia’s dad—Sam and I.

Mumble mumble mumble.

“Nah, jut ord—what do you mean?”

Silence on their end. Sam wonders if they’ll make it to Detroit after all, or if they’ll end up driving to wherever Castiel is. Knows that Dean would have a plausible excuse, and Sam misses Amelia so much it hurts. Creates an ache in his chest and he doesn’t know what to fill it with. It used to be that that ache was for Dean, but Dean’s back, so why does it still hurt? Why can’t he just have both of them?

And he misses her, misses her smile, the worry lines, her stories from the animal hospital. Misses that stupid time travel TV show she made him watch with her (and that had hurt too, because he remembered that Dean had liked it,) misses the stupid dog and how can he be happy to have his brother back and so sad at the same time? (And then he remembers that he did the exact same thing to Dean—came back without a soul and tore Dean out of his new life with Lisa, and even though Dean technically has a soul right now sometimes it doesn’t feel like it because he doesn’t know what Purgatory has done to his brother but he’s horrible himself because it’s not like he talks either so he deserves this, he does, he—)

“Sam? Sam? You listenin’?”

“Yes?”

Dean sighs. Apparently he’s been off the phone for a couple minutes. “Benny, tell him.”

Anything not to have to hear that ridiculous drawl for even longer. “No, no, I got it. We’re killing vampires.”

The Impala drops another two miles per hour as Dean snickers. “Right you are, Buffy.” Pause. Then, “tell Spike back there to pass me some goldfish.”

The three of them crouch below the window, glaring at each other. Silently blaming someone else for this change in plans.

“Those,” Dean says carefully, “are not vampires.”

Benny rolls his head around. “Oh, did you figure that one out yourself?”

“You said vamps,” Sam hisses. And ugh, if he’s going to accuse Benny of leading them into a trap— Dean so cannot deal with this right now.

“There were vamps,” Benny snaps back. “Although now they seem to be lying in pieces on the floor.”

One quick glance over the edge of the warehouse window shows that he’s right. Nothing like the scene of a— Christ, there had been, what, thirteen vampires in there? A quadruple-times-triple murder plus one? (Even though it’s not murder when it’s vampires. He still has to remind himself of this.)

What’s in there now is a— a something.They don’t look human, although maybe they could be mistaken as such from a distance. If you were squinting and in a place where mohawks were common. They’re made of— of a kind of darkness, slightly fuzzy around the edges.

Please don’t let them have empty eyes, please don’t let them have—

One of them turns around. Dean takes a second to appreciate that their eyes are not empty, but a sort of swirling, speckled color. And then he starts to be concerned about the fact that there are two beings made of darkness with rainbow eyes that just slaughtered a baker’s dozen of vampires without even—

“We should probably get out of here,” Sam hisses.

“I’ll drink to that.” Benny half unfolds from his crouch. “Let’s see if we can get to— Sam!”

Dean turns a second too slow because the fight has already started, because in the two seconds that they ducked below the edge of the roof one of the things has come outside and was wielding a knife dangerously close to Sam’s throat and Benny has lunged and now Dean has his gun out and he’s shooting. And it hits, so they’re solid, but it doesn’t kill them (and ugh, why can’t there be demons, monsters, whatever, that can be killed by a gun? A piece of metal to the heart, that’s pretty unpleasant, right? Is this just God’s way of making their lives more like His own personal video games?)

(Out of the blue, he remembers Charlie’s comment— the bad guys always need a special sword. Something like that.)

(And then he’s busy trying to sucker punch and/or kung-fu one of the things.)

He gets a hit, turns halfway away, and Sam and Benny are putting up a valiant fight against the other one, and “A little help here!” his brother says, ducking away from that knife, that fucking knife, and then

The next thing Dean’s fully aware of, they’re all tied to chairs.

He doesn’t think he’s passed out, but there was a certain element of blurriness to the whole thing. The kind of blurry that comes when he's just gotten his ass massively kicked. And they’re inside the warehouse. Concrete walls, random boards lying around for no apparent reason, a few boxes, the works. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is the rolling chalkboard, but hey.

Nothing like the scene of a classic murder to get Dean slightly concerned. Then again, it could be worse. An office building, for example. Or Hell.

(Blood, screaming, screaming, his own, other peoples’, bloody and organs everywhere and that bright light that never stopped, that made it look almost holy.)

He twists his wrists around, looking for give in the bonds. A chance to break free at the most opportune moment, after getting an explanation from the creates about what they are and what they want and a key way to stop them from getting it, as is the usual Winchester M.O.

So it’s slightly terrifying to see that his wrists won’t even twist.

“Uh, Dean?”

He turns to where Sam is tied to the chair next to him— Benny’s a little farther down— and then continues looking up, and in front of— ah. Yes.

He clears his throat. “What the hell are you?”

Rainbow-Eyes look at him for a second, and then at each other. They don’t speak, but fuck, their eyes are moving, just slightly, their hands and eyebrows making vague movements that carry a surprising amount of emotion.

We seem to have caught some meddling kids, the one of the left seems to be saying. What do we do with these?

The right one’s eyebrows lower, eyes scrunch in, and he twitches his head towards the knife. Dean has the uneasy feeling that he knows what that means, and he looks to the other two. Hoping someone has a molotov or some other form of convenient escape they could utilize.

(And he’s not terrified. He isn’t panicking. He’s calm and collected and rational, he’s not sweating, he’s not considering peeing himself. He’s tied up, but that’s just a normal day as a Winchester. He didn’t come through Purgatory to die like this, without even getting any good punches in.)

(Also, if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that unusual demons tend to have plans. Evil Plans. And somehow it always seems to fall on their shoulders to stop it.)

(Or start it. He should look into that.)

He turns to his brother. “Hey Sammy? You didn’t happen to start an apocalypse while I was in Purgatory, did you?”

The Rainbows don’t look away from each other, and yeah, that’s probably how they’re communicating. With all the nods in Benny’s direction, and the more animated way their eyebrows are moving, they’re probably arguing about his life. Or maybe just politely discussing. It’s hard to tell scale.

“Not that I recall. You didn’t go breaking any seals down there, yes?”

Dean wants Cas to be there, so that Cas can tell him that there was very little sea life in Purgatory. Except for that thing that he’d bet Benny five bucks was Cthuluhu, although they hadn’t found further investigation to be necessary. But Cas isn’t there, and Cas would never say that, anyway, because he’d know exactly what type of Seal Sam was referring to.

The thing on the left is facing him now. And Dean has the uneasy feeling that those freaky-ass eyes are staring, quite literally, into his soul. And not in a soul-mate, love-you-forever, I-understand-your-pain-now-here’s-some-sex-to-make-it-better way.

It gestures, and Leftie moves to the right (so that way of keeping them apart is now out) and pulls forward the chalkboard. Begins writing, in painstakingly neat letters.

Winchesters?

“So you can’t talk,” Sam says slowly.

The one not writing gives him a look that— well, the closest translation Dean can come up with is No shit, Sherlock. And then he gestures again to the board.

“Who wants to know?” Dean asks.

We have been told that if possible we should not kill Sam and Dean Winchester.

Oh, good. Demons that know their names. That always ends well.

“Why? I mean, I’m not saying we’re these Winchester guys, but they sound like douchebags. Who’s giving you instructions?”

The faces Benny and Sam give him are almost identical.

He gets the unamused face from the pride parade again, too.

“Worth a shot,” Sam mumbles.

And his wrists are seriously starting to hurt. He doesn’t like this.

But one of them is writing again.

We are the Galla.

That means exactly nothing to Dean.

“That means exactly nothing to me,” he says. And sometimes demons get offended when you haven’t heard of them, but these ones seem unaffected. And he looks to Sam, who shakes his head, and then—

“As in the ones who led dead Sumerians to hell?” Benny asks, seeming rather unaffected by the proceedings. It’s a look they’ve all gotten down cold at this point. (Sam’s current face, while appearing stoic, is actually ‘I’ve been thinking and I can’t find a way out of here so I’m going to look unconcerned’ and Benny’s is bored. And hell, maybe he is bored— but he’s never been able to resist new creatures, either. Which is why he stuck with Dean, why he put up with Cas as well as he did. Hell, maybe that bored face is covering up fascination.)

(After all, why should Benny be scared of dying? He knows where he’s going. Not like Dean who might be going to heaven but more likely going to Hell where screaming pain burning and he’s not going to give in, not this time, this is what he tells himself because he knows that he will because he always would.)

One of them nods. The other continues writing.

Call the angel.

“Who?” Sam asks.

Castiel.

Dean’s vocal cords seem to have trouble working because the last time Cas got caught up in-- they spent all that time running from—

“We ain’t got a clue whose Christmas tree Feathers is sittin’ on.”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “He left us awhile back.”

The look they get, Dean’s pretty sure, means we know you have ways of getting in contact with him. Do so now.

Dean swallows. “He didn’t want much to do with us. I doubt he’d come. Why don’t you just pray for him yourself?”

Pause.

“Oh, right. You can’t talk.”

Yeah, definitely not amused. Probably a bad idea to annoy the deadly deadly Galla demons, and “has anyone told you these vampire bodies are starting to smell, by the way? Can you smell?”

He’s pretty sure the chalkless one just rolled his— her? Its— eyes at him. And what, they expect him to be happy about being tied up in a cold-ass wreck?

“What do you want him for?” Sam asks.

No response.

“What I think,” Dean says, because once he’s gotten his ability to snark back he’s going to go out full blast because he’s not going to betray Cas, not again, “is that if, hypothetically, someone wanted to chat with an angel— we’ll call him… uh, Casti….mmy Nova…manuel, they could maybe write it down, let…. Castimmynovamanuel’s hypothetical acquaintances go, so they could maybe tell Castiwhatever what the Galla things wanted so that he could decide whether to parley with them himself. I mean, if they’re not out to hurt him.”

“Yeah,” Benny says, ever helpful. “Otherwise, a fella might think that you’re just trying to get him in here so you can set fire to tha' ring a' holy oil.”

He’s used to angels, which appear and disappear at will. These things, they just move fast. The next blink one of them is holding that rather unpleasant looking knife to Benny’s throat, and is pressing down, and Benny tries to lean backwards but he can’t move and then Sam flings himself forward (apparentlysomeone had figured out that ‘perfectly timed escape plan’ thing) and Dean wishes he could pull a Black Widow and pulverize them with the chair but he can’t do more than shout— and fuck, maybe that’ll work, because they don’t talk, maybe they don’t like noise, so he yells something at them and and the one still at the chalkboard looks over, but doesn’t do anything more than narrow its eyes and rap at the words again.

Call the angel.

Dean grimaces. “I will not pray for Castiel to walk right into a trap set by Galla things.” Because at least this way Cas will know they’re after him, he can—

“There’s no need.”

Fuck. And, relieved. But also, fuck.

The second Galla pauses, from where he has Sam pinned and Benny at knifepoint, and stands. Steps away from them, as though it is some sort of signal.

“Cas,” Sam says, “It’s a trap—”

After months spent in close proximity, Dean thinks he’s gotten a lot better at reading Cas’s expressions. This one, he’s ninety-eight percent sure, is numberI’m not an idiot, I obviously wiped away some of the holy oil and/or used decapitated vampires as handy bridges before making my presence known.

And then both Gallas are running at him and he’s dodging, he’s spun out of the way and grabbed Benny’s chair and disappeared and Dean’s started to get righteously indignant before he’s back and they’re all moving so quickly and he can barely see and there are lights and he has a mouthful of carpet and is pretty certain that he’s just pulled all the muscles in his back and legs.

And then thump, thump, and Sam is sprawled next to them and Cas is cutting through the ropes on his hands.

His stomach hits the floor, and nothing has ever felt so good.

He takes a minute to breathe before asking the obligatory— “what the fuck?”

Castiel grimaces. “Hello, Dean.”

He wants to laugh and hug him and get piss drunk and a back massage all at once. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stands, and looks around a rather standard-looking hotel room. “Where are we?”

“New Zealand.”

Dean could have fit at least forty grapes in Sam’s mouth. “What?”

Cas waves a hand, then brings it up to stop the bleeding that has started in his nose. “The Galla demons can only move across earth. They cannot appear and disappear. They’d have to get on an airplane.”

Dean decides that bitching about the Impala and all their stuff would be ungrateful. Clearly he’s grown as a person. Though not so much that he isn't going to laugh at the image of Rainbow-Eyes going through airport security.

“So, angel.” Benny rubs his wrists. “You want to explain why demons out of Sumerian mythology are after you?”

Gotta love it when the pagan gods get involved. But this can’t be weirder than anything else this year. And maybe these ones won’t eat people.

“I really do,” Cas says. “But I cannot.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean walks to the window, looks out at the New Zealand sunlight. It looks a lot like American sunlight. “So there’s some new fuckery up,” he says. “Must be Wednesday.”

Castiel diagnoses himself with exhaustion, and prescribes himself at least three cheeseburgers.

“Since when do you eat?” asks Sam.

“Do they have burgers here?” asks Dean.

“This is New Zealand, not Middle Earth.”

So Dean, ever the gracious one, volunteers as tribute for the burger-retrieval. Because he doesn’t trust Sam to order his food, not since that time he came back without the pie. (It might have been four years ago, but Winchesters never forget.) He also brings Benny with him, in the interests of having both vampire and brother alive when he returns.

“I can handle your little brother, Dean."

“What? I just want you to get a chance to see this lovely… what is it, sub-continent? Giantass island?”

They get a glare from a passerby, and Dean looks down, shoving his hands into his pockets. The less time they’re here, the better, probably.

The sign on the building they’ve just left tells them that they were in Penny’s Backpacker’s Lodge. The man they ask for directions (in painfully American accents) seems amused by this: “You’ve backpacked a long way.”

Dean spreads his hands. “What can I say? I walk on water.”

That gets a laugh, and then a “Head down Princes until you hit George.”

“You know,” Dean says after they’ve moved on, “people talk about travel like it’s a great experience. But this place? Looks like Traverse City. And Boston. And Richmond.” Pause. “Except it’s called Dunedin. Don’t tell me that doesn’t sound Middle-Earthy.”

“Well, if it means so much to you, then I won’t. Bet people ‘round here get tired of hearing it, though.”

“Hobbits,” Dean says. “Now that’s something I’d like to hunt. Hang out, drink, eat food. And if one was killing people or somethin’, you could prob’ly trap it with pie.”

Benny grins. “Not if you ate it first, brother.”

“I never should have let you talk to Sam.”

But there’s a seriousness there, and they’re both quiet for a few minutes. They pass something called the Stiletto bar, and Dean is tempted to go in, before he remembers that he'd probably get yelled at. He never gets to do anything fun.

“I’m not gonna give Sam a reason to hurt me,” Benny says. “I promise you.”

And it’s comforting, even though he knows better than to take promises at face value (and he remembers pointing the gun at Sam— “The only one who’s never let me down is Benny!”) but they’re nice to hear. Even if he can’t admit that. Can’t do anything more than clap him on the shoulder and say “I think that’s a green school bus. This place is freaking weird.”

Benny and Dean have been gone ten minutes when Sam realizes they don’t have any money. Just some fake ATM cards, and they don’t always let those work overseas, in case of theft— he has his cell open, before he realizes that that’s probably a no-go, too.

He wants to turn around and ask Castiel to make it all better, but Castiel is flopped on the bed, staring at the ceiling as though it holds the secrets to the universe.

And the angel might not think the silence is awkward, or maybe he’s just ignoring it in the interests of world peace. But Sam also can’t help but remember that the last time he talked with Castiel had been in an old cabin as the world fell down around them, and before that had been when Castiel took on all that crazy for him, and the time before that Sam had been stabbing him in the back—

He’s forgiven him for the wall thing. At least, he’s pretty sure he has. It’s been a long time. And it’s not like Sam hasn’t done stupid shit himself, and anyway, Dean seems to have forgiven— but what is Dean’s judgment now, anyway?

“You can trust him, Sam.”

Okay, maybe Castiel isn’t so comatose. Sam glares. “What?”

“Dean.

“What about him?”

Castiel rolls over, far enough to look at him. And it’s usually Dean who’s on the receiving end of those stares: Sam looks away.

“You can trust him,” the angel says again. (Sam takes a second to realize how ridiculous this all is, being told by an angel that he can trust his brother in a New Zealand hotel that looks like every other hotel but with stupid outlets and what if someone comes in here and sees that they’ve just materialized in a room—) “Benny is not unworthy of your trust either.”

Scratch that. An angel telling him to trust a vampire. “How did Dean ever—”

“He saved my life.”

Silence.

“What?”

Castiel sits up now, wincing. Leans against the headboard, fingers tapping his leg in an all-too human gesture. But if he's in pain, there's no sign of it in his voice. “The Leviathans attacked us. Benny saved my life.”

Sam never had the most solid math education, but even he can add up the variables. “You were going to let them kill you.”

There’s the stare again. And clearly Cas has no intention of answering, but he’s always been a shitty liar. Yes. That’s exactly what Balthazar did. (And he’d been too distracted at the time, by the look on Dean’s face, because they all knew that Castiel had sunk the Titanic for Dean, not Sam, and so he hadn’t given much thought to how off that moment felt, not until they learned Crowley was alive…)

Fuck. Dean can accuse him of being a chick-flick all he wants, but that doesn’t mean that Sam really wants to have a Deep Talk with Castiel about past injuries and depression and guilt and a rather unnerving sense of loyalty towards Dean. Maybe he’s gotten out of practice, not being able to tell Amelia the whole truth, and then having to deal with look-at-how-manly-I-am-I-don’t-have-feelings Dean for the last few months...

And he should have told Amelia, but she would have thought he was crazy. And even if she believed him— Christ, sue him, but he didn’t want her to know. He had wanted her to feel safe in this world that she was having to rebuild. Most people go through their lives without knowing of the monsters and the demons that threaten every minute of it. Most people do this just fine. (And maybe Sam had wanted to pretend for himself, too.)

They sit in silence.

He wishes he knows what to say. Cas is Dean’s angel; Dean is Cas’s human; and Sam doesn’t know where Benny fit in, down in Purgatory, but he knows that he sure doesn’t. It wasn’t Cas who was the third wheel in Oklahoma.

“Can I trust you, Castiel?” he finally asks.

The door is flung open, and Dean runs in, holding a McDonald’s bag aloft. “I’m taking these burgers to Isengard!”

“Gotta get him out,” Benny says, “a’fore he starts wantin’ secon’ breakfast.”

“Shaddap.” Dean chucks a Burger at Sam before dumping the rest of them in Castiel’s lap. “Medium rare, double.”

“No way we’re leaving without a trace,” Sam says. “This room reeks of Americans.”

Chewing is his only answer.

“You know,” Benny says, “we coulda snuck into that pork butcher.”

“What, squatting in a hotel and then arrested for stealing blood? Yeah that wouldn’t send up a red flag to everything everywhere.” The fact that Dean manages to say this around his giant mouthful of burger is quite impressive.

“We’ll be back in Detroit soon,” Castiel says. “If the Galla demons are interested in pursuing us, and if they know where we are, they’ll already be in an airplane.” Do they hvae passports?

“Shame our hex bags are in the Impala.” Sam rubs his face. “Along with everything we have to make them.”

It’s a beautiful moment of timing that the angel has finished his third burger right as they hear voices outside.

“Room two-two-one, right?”

Fuck.

Castiel jumps off the bed, arms spread, and group-hugs them all to the other side of the world.

Dean maintains that Castiel gets to ride shotgun. “Think of it as a rain-check. You know, from last time.” Then, at Sam’s stare, “What? He did good.”

There’s ‘doing good’, but when Dean lets him pick the music, too, Sam is practically waiting for him to get down on one knee.

“I don’t know what any of this is.”

His brother shrugs. “Just pop something in; it’s all good stuff.”

Sam thinks about how he’s in the backseat of a car with a vampire, and how many jokes Dean could be making. Gives him credit for not making them, because Sam is still not okay with this, no matter what Castiel says.

It sort of hurts when he realizes that he’s in a car with three people, two of whom are essentially the only family he has left (not thinking of Amelia, not thinking of Amelia,) and he doesn’t know if he can trust any of them.

So crawl on my belly till the sun goes down, I’ll never wear your broken crown—

Dean spins around, and the car swerves. “Why is there a Mumford & Sons tape in my car?”/p>

Sam shrugs. “I got tired of Black Sabbath. So I made a tape, since apparently this car is allergic to Apple technology.”

“Damn straight.” Pause. “You know, I think we still have that room reserved in Traverse City. Maybe we should—”

God, how is it not even five o’clock? Sure, it had been morning in New Zealand, and then they came back, three hours from Traverse to Detriot, one hour to get the crap kicked out of them, maybe one or two in— man, his life was so much easier this morning.

And in this twilight, our choices seal our fate.

“No wifi,” Sam reminds him. And he wants to ask if Castiel and Benny are going to be staying with them, just for practical reasons, but that’ll be worked out. Dean pulls up outside a Holiday Inn, and Sam has heard too many stories about Detroit. His own experiences (helpless, pinned, Lucifer laughing) nonwithstanding. “Someone should stay with the car,” he says, thinking about the arsenal in the trunk. “You and Cas go get a room.”

One concerned glance, and then they go. Benny frowns, hand moving a little closer to his knife. In the interest of world peace, Sam shakes his head. He's not about to kill his brother’s bestie. Dean might forgive him for that, but not for the blood on the seats.

Awkward silence.

Is Sam just naturally an awkward person? He's pretty sure he used to be the one who knew how to deal with people.

“Get a room?” the vampire asks, finally.

Sam snorts. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You sure?”

No, not really. “Was it— um, were they this ridiculous in Purgatory?”

He has to remind himself that there are fangs behind Benny’s grin. “I was gonna ask you if they were always like this.”

“You mean with the intense staring and the dying for each other and the profound bond?”

Benny chuckles. Turns to look at the streetlights outside. Sam wonders when he died. Wonders how strange this world looks to him. Clearly he’d had time for a Lord of the Rings marathon, and he has a cell phone, but there are all those smaller changes, all the—

“When we were at the warehouse this morning,” Sam says, “you warned me. You attacked the Galla before I saw it.”

Benny shrugs. “Dean’s been a good friend to me," he says, and if he notices how much that hurts Sam he doesn’t let on. “And you’re his brother. And he told me how you fought to save those vamps in Montana a few years back— Lenore? I’d never heard of her but I guess that was her point— and how you were friends with that kitsune gal. So I figure, maybe eventually you’ll stop believing that I want to kill you in your sleep.”

Sam snorts a little. “Did he also tell you about other demons I trusted?”

“He did.”

Knock knock. Sam Winchester does not jump, obviously. He was merely concerned that they were under attack from a demon that saw fit to warn them of its arrival.

“You know, Dean, I’m sure you could have just shared a bed with your brother.”

“Pfft, no.” Dean rub his back, winces. “I’ve just gone soft, that’s all. Didn’t have beds in Purgatory.”

“The dirt was softer than that carpet.”

“Shut up, Cas.”

The car is silent for about five seconds, before— “Sam, can you pass me that bag?”

Dean glances at the rear-view mirror. “Ugh, Benny. You have to do that now?” Then, “You okay, Sammy?”

Sam gives him face numberOf course I’m okay, that’s not demon blood, now please refrain from mentioning it, and Dean nods to show he understands.

Absently, he wonders how much money Bobby had put into photocopying his various books. It would have been easier if he’d just scanned them all, gotten them on a computer— massively encrypted— and actually, that’s not a bad idea. He wonders if Frank had something like that, but he doesn’t want to think about Frank. Bastard is probably in heaven, where no annoying hunters are yelling at him or peer pressuring him to decode messages.

E-database of books. Control F “wendigo”. He realizes that’s basically what the internet is, but Bobby had all that other weird shit.

Maybe he’ll suggest it to Kevin.

It takes them at least an hour longer than it should have to find the cabin. In Dean’s defense, it’s not like he’d been there more than once. And it was a long time ago. He's also not sure if it really qualifies as a cabin: two rooms, crumbling ceiling, pit toilet, and holes for windows. And wrappers suggesting that this was where kids go to do drugs and hook up. Lucky for everyone Bobby Singer was a paranoid bastard and nobody thought to look underneath the floorboards, where hundreds of three-ring binders wait.

It’s going to be a long fucking night.

“Okay.” Sam picks up one at random. “We’re looking for Galla demons. Or anything Sumerian, I guess, since that seems to be a thing now.”

Coffee. Dean needs coffee. Lots of coffee, if he's going to get through this. He’s tempted by the alcohol stores, but— he should probably break out the hunter’s helper after they figure out why demons from Sumerian mythology are out to get them and how they can be killed.

Oh look. Was that a mature thought he had?

There's an old Mr. Coffee in here, but the closest thing they have to mugs is the red solo cups from the trunk. Dean's pretty sure he's breaking at least twelve rules by filling them with coffee, but he's nothing if not a rebel.

In the spirit of the game, picks up the first book he touches.

The binders surrounding Cas make him look even more like a tax accountant. Hell, it makes him look even more like what Dean has come to know as angels. Suit, binders, cold and calculating. The focus that he’s giving the pages. Dean's stomach squeezes up a little—don’tbeangelCasagainplease.

He’s obviously not staring, which is why he’s noticed that Cas hasn’t moved for several seconds now. Shakes his head for a second as he seems to wake up from a kind of trance. Turns a page.

Dean wonders if he’s started to get tired. But that can’t be right. Cas was perfectly, angelically awake all night last night.

He looks back at his own binder and continues skimming a log of all sea monster sightings near Manila. Slowly, too slowly, the hours begin to twirl away. General bitching goes unanswered, and silence takes them. Interrupted only occasionally by the gurgling of Mr. Coffee, and a rhetorical request for cream and sugar.

"Real men drink it black, Sam," Dean says around hour five. And that's when Sam snaps, sliding one binder across the floor. It knocks over Dean's cup— to Benny’s call of “ten points!”— and Sam leans back in his chair.

“There isn’t anything more here than there is on Wikipedia,” he fumes. "Enki’s flying monkeys, blah blah blah. They only do what Enki tells them, which means—”

“So we really think that there’s a Sumerian god around?” Benny asks. “I mean, I know you guys have run into some pagan gods, and some Mayan gods—”

“One Mayan god, and technically we didn’t run into him, because he was dead.” The picture of defeat, Sam picks up another binder. “He killed himself because he didn’t want to live without his human wife and she was getting old and he wasn’t.” Pause. “So we had to go to a strip club and let Dean get sexually harassed by organ donation recipients.”

Benny raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like a good time.”

Dean snorts. “Ever had your heart ripped out?”

He regrets the word choice as he flashes back to Benny, holding a sword, standing over the body of the woman he’d loved. And killed. Because the Andrea he'd fallen in love with had died long ago. Like Bobby killing Karen, and Dean and Death plotting to—

The silence has gone on too long, and Dean doesn’t look at Cas. Or Sam. Or Benny. Or anyone. Just the badly photocopied words on the badly photocopied page telling him how to kill a Rugaru and, been there, done that. Three times, actually.

The next binder is all of Bobby’s notes on angels. Known abilities, traps. How to kill them.

I’m afraid I might kill myself.

Cas looks fine right now. Reading, the eternal head-tilt of fascination, eyes darting from page to page. He doesn’t look suicidal, but fuck, Dean knows better than anyone how easy it is to put on a show.

And Cas isn’t going to die. Not because of some stupid demons with pride-parade eyes, certainly not because he can’t deal with his own guilt. How the fuck would that be fair? (Where’s the angel? Where’s the angel?) And he’s fine, he can deal with this, they’ve been here for hours and there’s only so much canned peaches can feed the four of them.

Castiel informs them in no uncertain terms that he’s driving to the diner.

“Do you even know how?” Dean asks, but his face is cracked in half by a yawn. Cas makes a face at him— Sam isn’t quite sure what the face means, but it’s probably something close to bitch, please. He can’t actually imagine Cas saying “bitch, please” but the idea is really entertaining, and he starts to laugh.

“’M riding shotgun,” Benny says. “Not wild about people falling asleep on me.”

“You’ve fallen asleep on me,” Dean protests.

“I’d just had half my guts torn out.”

This reminder of All The Things Sam Doesn’t Know annoys him more than it would if he was fully in control of his mental capacities— but he doesn’t want to fall asleep on the vampire, either, so he and Dean climb into the back.

“You’re sure you can drive, angel?” Benny asks. As if in answer, Cas backs out of the thin parking strip and turns, barely jerking the car.

Sam fumbles with his seatbelt, but he isn’t sure where the little catch-y thing is, and he doesn’t know what they’re called. And then two tall, bearded men are walking down a sidewalk. Behind them, cars drive by. Both are wearing button-up suits that they don’t seem comfortable with— they walk slightly awkwardly. One has silver hair; the other, dark brown, with a much longer, bushier beard.

“You might want to consider getting that cut,” the silver haired man says. “They notice you for it, they’ll think you’re a Jew or a Muslim. You stick out.”

Brown-hair seems to consider this. “These people are mostly Christian, yes?”

“Yes.”

“The Christians, Jews and Muslims all worship the One?”

“The One who is missing. Yes.”

“And yet they will not trust me if I have facial hair, because they will assume that I also worship the One?”

Silver waves a hand. “I know. Do not waste your time trying to make sense of these ones. Although—” he pauses, eyes following a woman up the sidewalk “—they are not all for the worse.”

They stop in a park. Seat themselves on a bench, not noticing the edgy parents that pull their children a little farther away.

“I assume,” says Brown, “that you didn’t raise a white banner just to speak with me about local customs.”

Silver chuckles. “No, although indulging in those local customs can be quite fulfilling. No, I was going to tell you that Odin has made alliance with the African strays. Apedmak, Dedun, Ammit, Apep, Anhur, Isis, and Anubis.”

Pause. “And does that frighten you, Lord Zeus?”

They both watch as a young child runs up the slide steps and goes down on his stomach, screeching the entire way.

“It disquiets me,” Zeus admits. “I did not wake preparing for war, but much has changed. The world is larger, and we are not so set in our boundaries.” Pause. “Also, according to the people here, that might be for the best. The Greeks seem to be having something called a ‘Euro-crisis.’ I looked it up on the internet— have you tried internet yet? Isn’t it fantastic?— although my daughter is doing a more thorough investigation. Either way. It’s very different from what it was… did you know that fifty percent of marriages do not last? If only Hera were awake, she would put it right.”

Brown laughs a little. “At least there is still a Greece, so to speak. There are but few ziggurat remaining, and they are entered by anyone who chooses. The Ishtar gate rots indoors. They call themselves Iraq and they worship the One.”

“Take heart, Enlil— the One is missing, is gone. No, this world is ours to take back, as it was ours Before.”

“You want to be allies,” says Enlil.

Zeus’s nod is slight. “Together, we shall be far more powerful than Odin and his African consorts.”

Enlil laughs. “Oh, now there’s a picture. You want to share this world, Zeus son of Cronus?”

“I do. If your people are as good as you claim.”

He gets a grin. “I may have been born from the exhausted breath of the heavens and earth, but I never tire. Me and mine shall take back this world with you. And I shall shave my face.”

Zeus’s smile is strained. “Already, Loki’s beast runs towards Wisconsin. Let us hope we are not too late.”

“Oh, my new brother. We are never Sam? Sam!”

He’s hit, lightly, across the face. “Get up, Aurora, or you’ll miss the chow.”

In true hunter fashion, the hour’s nap seems to have brought his brother back to his annoying self. That or he knows something about the pie in this restaurant that Sam does not.

Sam rubs his eyes, trying to hold the images of the dream in his mind. It doesn’t feel— it’s not hurried flashes, not like his Azazel dreams. Here there had been— there had been words, conversations— Zeus and Enlil. Enlil, a name that has become very familiar as they delved into Sumer.

“Sammy? You alright?”

He didn’t tell Dean right away the last time this was happening. And maybe he should keep it to himself— god knows Dean has been tight-lipped about everything— but then again… Loki’s beast runs towards Wisconsin. Sam so does not like the sound of that, not when they’re eating at a diner that boasts the best buttermilks in Waukesha.

“I’ll tell you about it inside.”

“Oh come on, you two, you got to order something,” Dean hisses. “You don’t have to get nutritional value out of it— that’s not the American way.” Then, to Sam, “I thought that psychic crap wasn’t supposed to happen anymore.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Despite all your objections, I’d like to point out the number of lives my psychic crap has saved in the past. Max’s mom—”

“All of Carthage, all the people Lucifer—”

“Castiel. Alastair?”

Dean has no response to that, and Sam knows it.

“I think,” Benny says, “we might want to focus less on how Sam knows what he knows and more on the fact that Zeus and Enlil are apparently forming an alliance against Odin, and who did you say was from Africa?”

Sam pokes sadly at his pancakes. “I can’t remember all of them. Uh, Isis, Horus, Ammit, I think he said?”

Cas blinks. “The soul eater.”

It’s the first thing he’s said since Sam started talking, and Dean turns to him. “What do you think?”

The angel seems to consider this question for a moment. “What do I think about the fact that your brother is having prophetic dreams involving the kinds of Greece and Sumer forming an alliance to take back the world?”

“Yes.”

“I think we should… imbibe copious amounts of alcohol.” His smile is flickering around his mouth, though, and Dean knows. ‘Cause the last time he said that, he came and helped save the world with a Molotov cocktail.

And got exploded. And god, Dean can’t do that again, no, no no, and his stomach twists.

“I’m an angel this time, Dean,” Cas says. It’s another promise— one from Benny, one from Cas, and it shouldn’t comfort him as much as it does.

Sam turns to Benny. “Is that Purgatory code I don’t know?”

The vampire shrugs. “I was about to ask you if it was Hunter code.”

Dean watches them carefully. He doesn’t know Sam’s current stance on Benny— hasn’t gotten a chance alone to ask him— but, fuck. If there are more pagan gods out there (then we’ll just go back to killing each other like normal, goddammit, killing them seems so much harder now and he’s killed angels, ) they’re going to need all the hands possible. Especially ones that’ve spent awhile in Purgatory, that can fight like Benny.

Surely Sam will realize that.

He’s still exhausted, albeit coherent, and so that’s why, as they leave, it takes him a minute to realize that yes, that gorgeous blonde woman is checking out his baby. She turns around at their approach, eyebrows raised. “This yours?” And Dean’s smile comes easily—she’s blonde, and he doesn’t usually go for blondes, hasn’t gone for anyone, really, since Purgatory, and that’s something he should start to be concerned about— but he still knows how to behave.

“Yep.”

“She’s gorgeous. A sixty-seven?”

The woman is running her hands along the trunk, and Dean starts to get worried about this just as he feels Cas’s hand on his arm, the hiss of Dean in his ear. And Cas has moved closer next to him, and Sam and Benny close in behind. All naturally shifting into fighting stance. And the woman sighs, tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“Okay. How about I tell it to you straight.”

He can just barely see Cas’s angel sword flick out of his sleeve, Sam’s hand go to the pocket to close around Ruby’s knife.

“That’d be nice,” Benny says easily. “People so rarely do, these days.”

The sidewalk is strangely devoid of people. Maybe it’s because they sense confrontation; maybe because it’s barely eight in the morning. Dean isn’t sure. He's also not sure if this is to their advantage, or if they should shag ass to the nearest mall.

The woman leans against the car, shifting just slightly so that they can see the— yes, that is a sword hidden under her jacket. Awkward. “My name is Sif,” she says. “And you have something that belongs to my husband. I’d like it back.”

An hour ago he had just learned that maybe Odin existed. Now there’s freaking Sif, and he hopes she’s not as deadly as she was in the Thor movie.

“Your husband,” Sam repeats. “Thor?”

She snorts— maybe looks a little offended. “I have no other.”

“And um,” Cas does The Tilt. “What do we have of Thor’s?”

At that moment, Sam says something that sounds suspiciously like “Fucking hell.”

All eyes turn to him expectantly; he rubs his palm across his forehead. “I may have thrown Mjolnir in the trunk.”

“What?”

“Remember that freaking auction? I based in a guy’s head with it—”

Cas turns to look at the younger Winchester. “You bashed in a man’s head with the hammer of Thor?”

“He’d paid for it with five-eighths of a virgin!”

“So what,” Dean says, “now we’re slut-shaming?”

At the same time, from Benny— “you forgot?”

“There’s a lot of stuff in the trunk,” Sam says.

Sif’s curtsy is nothing if not sarcastic. “Thank you, boys,” she says, reaching for that latch. “I’ll just be—”

“No.” Cas is at her side in an instant, hand on her arm. She reaches for her sword just as he reaches for his, and Dean takes a minute to appreciate the bamfery before he decides to try and talk his way out of it.

“Now what did Thor want it for, e’zactly?”

Sif doesn’t take her eyes off Castiel as she answers. “He’s awake now, and he wants it. It is his. It is his right. He also likes people, you know— one of his jobs is protecting the human race. Well, that and oak trees. He said that if possible no mortals should be hurt when I retrieved Mjolnir for him. Didn’t extend that specification to angels and vampires, though.” Her muscles strain a little as she pulls away, though she’s still too close to the Impala.

“Well, I don’t know how Odin made it out,” Dean says, knowing that he’s just playing for time and not sure what he’s planning on accomplishing. But damn if he is going to shut up now. “But a lot of your friend pagans? Wiped out by Lucifer. Snapped Mercury’s neck, Ganesh… Lucifer is an archangel, just like Castiel here. What was it, Cas? Seraph?”

Cas looks up at her, eyes bright. A challenge. And she’s still looking back, and her hand is on her sword, and okay maybe this was a bad idea.

And that’s when the growl echoes down the street.

“Is it just me,” Sam says slowly, “or is there a giant wolf running towards us?”

“I really wish it was just you.” Benny tugs open the car, yanks his own blade out from under the seat. Tosses Dean’s over as well. And damn, Dean hasn’t used this thing much since Purgatory— he’s a little surprised at how comfortable the makeshift weapon is in his hand.

He feels stronger this way, somehow. Purgatory Dean survived all the monsters, and he knows how to fight these fights.

Sif takes a few steps away from the car, raises a hand. “Fenrir!” she calls. “Cease!”

But maybe he hasn’t learned English, or maybe he doesn’t give a damn, because he doesn’t slow, just sweeps her out of the way. And it’s definitely too late to get in the car now, and they can’t leave because they can’t let it prey on civilians, and there’s nothing for it.

He hasn’t been in a fight like this in so long. The pure mindless motion of it— there are fangs and there are claws and it’s a giant motherfucking wolf beast.

Faces appear at windows, and he makes a few run away gestures; they do, and he hopes that Wisconsin is red enough that someone will come out with a gun. But that doesn’t really matter either way, because Sam is firing at it as he stands in front of the Impala's trunk, and it doesn’t seem to be doing much good, but Dean sees the blood, Fenrir bleeds, and Dean's underneath him, slashing at his legs, and the wolf rears back, almost like a horse, but then Cas’s hand is on his arm and they’re standing on its back. Dean barely has a second to process the scene change before he’s digging his blade into its neck, trying to stay on— then they’re falling but they’ve landed safely on the ground, just in time for Cas to draw it away from Sam and Benny, and Dean dodges a claw, and they need more weapons, definitely, and there’s some gunshots, (BANG BANG BANG BANG) hello locals, but he doesn’t have time to do anything else and Sam has jumped off the Impala, trying to hold it back with probably decreasing bullets (BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG) and he’s fiddling and then the trunk is open, and where the fuck is Sif and did she set this thing on them because if so Dean is so not amused but then he doesn’t have time to worry about it because fuck there’s a claw on his arm and it hurts like a mother, and

“Distract!” Sam yells. And Dean pokes at its side again, yells something unintelligible in the hopes that maybe it doesn’t like noise, like the Galla, but that doesn’t make sense because Fenrir is still making a fuckton of it himself. But his head turns away from Sam, just long enough for Sam to grab from the back seat, and then he’s swinging at the wolf with Mjolnir. “Guys, run!”

“Oh hell no!” Dean makes another slash at the now bleeding wolf. Or maybe the blood is his own, he isn’t sure. And Fenrir takes a few steps backward and Sam presses forwards and apparently he’s successful and Dean is all too happy to get out of the way as the wolf goes tearing off down the street. (BANG BANG BANG BANG) and there’s maybe half a block before he vanishes in a shimmer.

Dean swallows, trying desperately to slow down the adrenaline (the part of him that maybe enjoyed that, what kind of sick freak would enjoy that,) and “is he dead?”

Cas is wiping blood off his blade. “No.”

“Well shouldn’t we—”

“What the hell was that thing?”

Ah, yes. Their local-at-arms. Dean turns, realizing the amount of blood that’s soaking into his sleeve and fuck it hurts. Tries to think up a lie, but—

“Rabid dog,” Benny says. Holds the woman’s stare as she lowers the gun.

“That was pretty damn big, for a dog.”

“Pretty damn big,” Benny agrees.

Pause.

“You want a ride to the hospital?”

Hospital? Oh. Oh, right. Dean is injured. Dean figures everyone else is injured but he hasn’t had time to take stock yet. Benny tells the woman that they’ll go themselves, thanks-so-much, and then Dean is half collapsing against the side of the car. Looks at Cas. “Don’t suppose you can—” gasp “—fix me up with all the people staring.”

“Come on.” It’s embarrassing, how Dean actually needs help to get into the back seat of his own car, but the wounds on Cas’s face and arms are already closing up, and so again he gets into the driver’s seat, and Dean reminds his thoughts that none of that was an innuendo.

“I’ll have to—ugh. I’ll probably have to fix my baby’s trunk and paint, won’t I.”

“Unless you want people asking why there’s claw marks on your car.” Sam winces as he moves the hammer down to the floor. “Anyone dead?”

“Yes,” says Benny. Then, “I’m still talking, though.”

“Good enough.”

Cas pulls over two streets away, away from where the sirens are headed. Twists around, reaches back, and grabs Dean’s shoulder— gripped you tight and raised you from perdition— and it glows for a second. Warmth and light spreading through his body and then it’s all gone. He feels slightly cold after. Cold but not in pain. And a little more awake than he had been previously, but there’s nothing like fighting a mythic fucking wolf to get a person woken up. Dean prefers a cold shower.

And then Benny’s nose pops back into place, and Sam’s scrapes disappear, and they’re driving.

“Fuck,” Dean says aloud. “So now the Norse creatures are running around too. I guess this is what Zeus meant when he talked about Loki’s whatever?”

“I’d been sort of hoping it would be the eight-legged horse,” Sam says tiredly.

The car jerks, nearly plows into a lamppost.

“Cas?!”

“It’s fine.” They straighten out.

“What was that?”

A shake of the head. And Dean remembers why he hates sitting in the back seat. Why he hates not driving.

“In the last forty-eight hours,” Dean says, “we’ve been held captive by Galla demons, had a nice chat with Sif, and then been attacked by Fenrir.”

He wishes Bobby was alive to see this.

But then, like Frank, he’s probably happier where he doesn’t have to deal with it.

It’s a strange way of looking at death— Dean’s seen all the afterlives. And if he can’t believe that Bobby and Frank made it to heaven, then there’s no hope for the universe. They must have.

He’s thinking about how awake he is when he falls asleep.

Sam flips his phone shut. “So, Garth and the Tran Clan are fine; they’re going to relocate though, just in case prophets are on their hit list.”

Castiel turns to stare out the window. “I should… I should go to heaven, see if they are any attacks there. If they want the angels out of the way.”

Sam bets on three seconds before his brother raises an objection. And his mouth is open, and he’s staring, eyebrows caught together. Then, quietly, “You sure that’s a good idea, Cas?”

The curtains flutter as Castiel turns around. The noonday light glows around his head like a halo, but his face is dark, in shadow. Half of Dean is light. And they look at each other, seeming to have a conversation (and it reminds him for a second of the Galla demons, but this is so much different than that. A head-tilt, an eyebrow, a mouth half opened, then closed, then finally a nod.) Sam looks down at the table, feel like he’s intruded on something private. Even though they were the ones to start their profound staring contest when he and Benny were in the room, thank-yew-very-much. Then there’s the rustle of wings, and with nobody in front of the window, Dean glows.

Only for a moment— he takes a quick step back into the shadows.

“If you guys want to sleep,” he says, “I’ll keep watch.”

Sam frowns. “You were out cold in the car on the way back.”

“Exactly. I’ve gotten my two interrupted hours.” The grin is pathetic, but Sam gives him a gold star for trying. “Seriously. Go.”

He checks to make sure that Mjolnir is still under the floorboards (not that he thinks it’ll do much good, but what the hell) before flopping down on the sofa. Too tired to think about all the bugs probably living in it, and how much Dean would make fun of him if he got lice. “You can take the bed,” he mumbles to Benny. “I don’t think I can walk that far.”

He takes a moment to hope that his dreams don’t tell him that something even deadlier is about to eat them before all the light is twisted, and he’s trying to skip stones in a parking lot. “They bounce better here then in water,” he says. “It’s ridiculous to skip stones in water.”

Dean watches the clock for the entire fifteen minutes that Cas is gone. Mentally going through each thing that could be happening up there that he and Sam could not fight, all the images from the stories they’d been reading— eight-legged horses, a spear that would never miss its target, Enlil, who wanted to wipe out humanity because he thought they were too noisy, men turned into bears and eaten by dogs, wars started over a golden apple, not to mention all the incest and rape and the fact that “soul eater” can mean nothing good— and wonders, again, why they even bother. If the world wants to end, maybe it’s time. Like keeping a pet alive to the point where it’s inhumane.

But he knows at the same time that that isn’t true, that they’re going to fight, to do what they can to protect people while gods measure their dicks. And then Cas returns, and for one moment, he forgets what it is to worry.

“Are you okay?”

A tight nod. “Heaven is… there are a few angels there. I tried to warn them. Perhaps some of them listened.” A pause, and Cas pulls out the other chair. Sits. “I didn’t think it prudent to stay long.”

Dean swallows. “So no idea who raised you, then?”

“No.” The word is quiet, gentle, because Cas knows, he always knows, that that’s the other thing on Dean’s mind, the other shoe that’s just waiting to drop. But they can’t do anything about it now— hell, they don’t even know where to start with the latest calamity. And Dean reaches out— considers hugging him, stops just in time, and sort of puts his hand on the angel’s shoulder for a moment. Then pulls away.

“The last couple months,” Dean says, “Um, before you came back. They were, um.” He swallows. “I missed you.” Pause. “And, um, I played a key role in getting the D, so I think that maybe… I didn’t deserve to be left without you.” And Cas is giving him that look again, the one from the side of the river.

“Dean…”

But he keeps talking, because Sam and Benny are asleep, and he has to get this all out now because he doesn’t want— him to leave again, and “And you feel like you deserved to be left in Purgatory, and, and maybe by some sense of justice you did, but, and okay, don’t laugh, but I saw on this episode of Doctor Who that, there was a rerun, it aired when you were down there, and in it, the Doctor— he tells this man that he doesn’t get to decide how his debt is paid. And— and you can’t either. Staying in Purgatory, what did that accomplish, Cas? There— I— we need you up here. I mean, without you, all this god shit? We’d be—” he closes his eyes for a second. Deep breath. Okay. Okay. Okay. Cas is here now, and that’s what matters. Cas is here, Benny is here, Sam is here, they’re everyone Dean has left and they’re even getting along for the most part and the world is trying to end, but the world is always trying to end. They beat the devil, the leviathans, fucking Purgatory, and they can do this.

“I missed you too,” Cas says softly. “Even when I was Emmanuel, even when I didn’t know who I was missing.” Pause. “I won’t leave again, if I can help it. We’re going to need… all feet on deck?”

Dean smiles. “Hands.”

“Hands on deck.” Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Are we going to save the world, Dean Winchester?”

Any response Dean could have made is lost when two women appear in the room.

One of them is Sif— uninjured, despite the literal run-in with Fenrir. Although there’s a new tear in her jeans. The other woman is a little taller, a little older. She’s wearing a coat made of— Christ, are those feathers?— over black cargo pants and a turtleneck. Above it is a necklace made of— red, but Dean doesn’t know what it is. Gold, red gold? Is that a thing? It’s the same color as her hair.

Color him officially intimidated.

“Uh, Sammy! Benny!” His voice is embarrassingly horse. “Get your lazy asses up, we have company.”

They’re there in seconds, rubbing sleep from their eyes.

The fact that it’s four against two does not comfort Dean in the slightest, and he tries to remember if gods have any convenient weakness-- throw at them the stuffing of an old sofa cushion, that sort of thing. The silence that follows is broken by Cas.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks. “We have alcohol.”

The ginger tilts her head in thanks. Cas looks at Sam, who edges over to the corner of the room to liberate the corona. It’s a shame, Dean thinks, that they don't have any of Rufus’s favorite scotch. But they can’t have everything in life.

“I’m Freyja,” she says. “You’ve met Sif.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, as Sam drags the box towards them. Takes a beer for himself because dammit, he needs one. “Yeah, we met Fenrir too. He one of yours?”

Cas waves a hand, and the chairs fly out from the kitchen. Dean’s pretty sure he’s just trying to remind their godly friends of his mojo. “Please, sit.”

Which is how Dean ended up sitting on the sofa in one of Bobby’s fallback cabins, between his brother and his— an angel, facing a semicircle consisting of two goddesses and a vampire. All six of them nursing coronas.

“Fenrir—” and Freyja pronounces the name with something akin to distaste— “comes from our family, but answers to none. Sometimes Loki has control over him, but—”

Dean and Sam look at each other.

“We thought,” Sam says tentatively, “we thought that— Loki was Gabriel. He’s dead.”

Sif grins. “Odin told us about that. No, Gabriel, as you call him— he hung around, yeah. I guess he and Loki were friends. Never knew he was an angel. But, well, once we managed to convince a bunch of people that Thor was Freyja, just by putting him in her clothes, so—”

“He tried to marry me off to get his precious hammer back!” Freyja snaps. Then brightens. “And isn’t that just the perfect segue. We’ve come, as I’m sure you can guess, for Mjolnir.”

The fact that they’re being friendly now doesn’t make Dean any less terrified. He might be able to get them all out of here without being smote, but he’s not seeing many ways. Give them the hammer and they’ll use it to fight their war and kill people. Don’t, and they’re all splatted and they’ll find the hammer anyway. Really, this whole sitting and drinking thing is probably just formality.

Or maybe they haven’t had beer in too long a time.

“We had guessed that, actually,” Sam says. “I’m kinda wondering why we’re still alive.”

“Thor is the protector of humans,” Sif says, sounding annoyed. “I thought we’d already established this. We don’t want humans killed to retrieve his weapon.”

And since it looks like maybe they’re in question-mode, Dean jumps in. “Why do the Galla demons want to kill Castiel?”

Four godly eyes look at him, and maybe talking was a bad idea. “You have seen Galla demons?” Freyja asks.

“Um, yes. Yesterday. In Detriot. They’re still there, probably— maybe you should go… check that out?”

Until this point, Benny has been silent— presumably not to remind them that he was there— but now he speaks as well. “So just so’s I know what’s going on here… you’ve allied yourselves with an African soul-eater and a few other gods, and you’re planning on fighting the Olympians and gods of Sumer?”

Freyja twitches an eyebrow. “The fighting has already begun, vampire.”

Oh, yeah. That’s great news.

“The Galla demons probably want to kill Castiel because he is an angel, just as we would prefer not to have Castiel around because he is an angel. In the interests of a peaceful acquisition, we’re ignoring him.”

And Benny laughs. Outright laughs, the way he does when he is winning a fight. “You’re gonna have to bargain better’n that,” he says. “I’ve seen what happens to things that get in between Dean Winchester and the angel. I know what happens when Winchesters die. They’ve both broken out of hell, of heaven, and Dean here’s gotten out of purgatory. And so you know if you try and hurt the angel, well, it’ll probably just hurt you more.”

“How about this,” Sam says quickly. “How about… I don’t know what oaths you guys have, but how about— swear by, swear by whatever matters to you, I suppose. We’ll give you Mjolnir, and you…” he hesitates. “You try and protect the civilians, the bystanders. Don’t let this fight hurt the innocent.”

Freyja considers. “That’s a difficult promise to make, boy.”

“Try. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Sam—” Dean starts. But Sif is already standing.

“I, Sif, mother of Ullr, wife of Thor, do swear.”

Freyja sighs, stands as well. “And I, Freyja, mother of Hnoss and Gersemi, wife of Óðr, do also.”

Sam nods shortly. Walks over to the right board, pulls it up. Holds the massive hammer for a second as though it weighed nothing before handing it to Sif.

The moment it touches her skin, they are gone.

And Dean rounds on his brother. “Doesn’t this stink of demon deal?”

Sam flings up his hands. “It was that or they kill us. At least this way, maybe we can lessen the collateral damage a little.”

“But less damage than they can do with it?”

“Ugh.” Sam flops back onto the sofa. “Maybe both sides will just wipe each other out.”

“Sam probably did right, Dean,” Benny says. “I don’t know how much time it’ll buy is, but I ain’t ready to go back down. Not today, anyway. Maybe tomorrow.”

Cas just nods a little at him. “It would be prudent to stay out of this, where possible,” he says.

Benny laughs. “Winchesters,” he says, “never stay out of anything.”

Dean rescues another beer.

Are we going to save the world, Dean Winchester?

He pauses, makes eye contact with Cas, and nods.

They relocate to a wifi’d hotel in the hopes of seeing signs of a giant wolf.

“And while you’re at it,” Dean says, “see if you can find a way to kill him.”

They’ve brought in a half-dozen of the most promising three-ring binders, but Dean doesn’t know how much more use they’re going to be. Except as footrests, and things to put the laptops on so that he can lie on the bed without its sensitive little fan getting caught and cooking his hard drive. Because seriously, whose idea was it to put the fan on the bottom of the laptop?

I can guarantee Dean Winchester was not consulted.The voice in his head is Cas’s, and he grins. Glances at the angel out of the corner of his eye as Sam tries for the third time to show him how to Google.

Benny lets out a long-suffering sigh, flicking the edge of the page with his finger. He’s seated on the other bed, looking perhaps as dignified as a vampire can attempt to look when he’s in a hotel room with two hunters and an angel and only one chair.

“Anything there?” Dean asks.

“Everything I’ve seen says that he’s going to kill Odin at this thing called Ragnarök, which is basically the end of the world. A bunch of the gods are gonna kill each other and then the ones that survive are gonna… I don’t know, seems like a Second Coming sort of deal. Rebuild the world and all that.”

“Lovely.”

Sam is waving his hands dramatically as he talks. “See the weirder, more obscure sites are the ones that are most likely to be helpful— but they’re also the ones most likely to be crack, so you have to be careful.”

“So what you’re saying,” says Cas, “is that there is no possible way to determine the accuracy of a source without testing it.”

Dean sits up. “Yeah, Cas, didn’t you know? You’re fighting something— a vampire, say— and they’re trying to kill you, and you go ‘Wait!’. To make it fair, they stand there politely as you see how they react to the cross, wooden stakes and sunlight.”

“Then, to make it even more fair,” Benny drawls, “you let them have a pint of your blood, just to freshen up. Speaking of which—”

Sam waves a hand. “In the cooler.”

Wow. Okay. Score one for wold peace.

Dean wonders if there are monsters or demon around that he can torture. He wonders if he should be worried that he’s wondering that. He wonders a lot of things, but most of what it comes down to is something along the lines of ‘where the fuck is this Fenrir and how do we kill him?’

That’s all he can think about. It’s just a hunt. A more elaborate hunt than usual, perhaps— but if their dad could track Azazel based on storms for twenty years, then they can find a giant motherfucking wolf. That’s harder to hide than a house fire. It’s just a hunt, and never mind the gods and shit. They can piss all over somebody else.

It’s just a hunt.

He skims more than reads, looking for anything related to death or dying— and apparently, with Fenrir, most everything is related to death or dying.

“Someone called Vidar is supposed to kill him at this Rag-rock thing,” Sam says. “Maybe we figure out where all these gods are— they called it sleeping, no idea what that actually means— and find him and convince him to do it early?”

“Solid plan,” Benny says, “ten points. So where, when and how do gods sleep, how do you wake one up, how do you convince one to kill a wolf early and not to just kill you, and is there any mention of how—”

“Fine,” Sam snaps.

Silence. Then—

“There’s a ribbon that can hold him,” Cas says. Dean leaps off the bed, because missing objects, they can usually find. They always know someone who knows someone, or a demon tips them off, or, or, they usually find it.

“Okay, how do we get one?”

Pause. The angel studies the gibberish in the book as though it makes some sense— Dean couldn’t even begin to guess at what language it was. Klingon, maybe.

“It was made of…” he trails off.

“Well, don’t keep us hanging,” Benny says.

“But in your own time.”

“Be quiet, Samuel.” Cas tilt the page sideways. And Sam opens his mouth, presumably to ask why he was shushed and Benny was not, because Dean’s little brother is so mature, and because Dean is so mature, too, he is planning on saying yeah, be quiet, Samuel, but then— “The ribbon was made out of, um. The footsteps of a cat, the root of a mountain, a woman’s beard, the breath of fish, and… um, the sinews of a bear. And a bird’s spittle. Possibly the order is significant; it’s hard to tell.”

Dean is already starting to calculate— they’ve done more impossible things, right? Except, what the hell is a sinew?

It sound like some test given to a grasshopper. Bring me the sound of one hand clapping. Or the sound thing from that book with the puns and the soup that made you hungry, a concept that had haunted him for weeks.

“It was made by dwarfs,” Cas adds, as though they aren’t already discouraged enough. He’s now turning the page the rest of the way around, like it’s in fucking Gallifreyan. “And he had to be tricked into it. Part of the deal was that he bit off the hand of Tyr.”

Silence.

“Well,” Dean says finally, “you’re not a real Jedi until you’ve lost a hand or three, right?”

More silence.

“The footsteps of a cat, Dean,” says Sam.

“The breath of fish, Dean,” says Benny.

“Dwarfs are extinct, Dean,” says Cas.

“Right,” says Dean, and he picks up another binder.

“Oh my god.” Sam sits up again and turns up the light. “If it’s that big a deal, just share a freaking bed with me, Dean. We’re not twelve.”

Dean grimaces. “Why can’t they have just given us four singles?”

“Because that’s not how hotels work. You’ve been in enough of them to know.” Sam realizes that they stayed in hotels just as long as they might have stayed in an apartment or something while they were younger, and isn’t that a thought to ponder later.

“Ugh.”

“Well, I ain’t volunteering to move,” Benny says. “I mean, you can cuddle up with me if you like, but I ain’t sleeping on the floor.”

“All of you, shut your mouths.”

Silence comes immediately as three faces turn to a rather pissed looking angel. Sam will never admit that he pulled the blankets up a little closer to his body. Never ever.

Castiel is glowering at all of them. “There is more than one room in this hotel,” he says. “If you would like to go book another one, then fine. Otherwise, please be quiet and sort out sleeping arrangements like capable human beings.” That might be an oxymoron is the unspoken addition, and Sam grins.

Dean swears a couple times before curling up on the floor. And despite all his bitching, he’s out in seconds. Knees pulled slightly up towards his head. Rolling his neck a few times as he tries to get comfortable on the thin motel pillow.

Sam lies down again, trying to calm his mind (another thing he’d learned at one of his in-patient stays) and it’s just another hotel room in Waukesha. He thinks he might be slipping off when there’s a soft rustle, like wings, and he looks to see if Castiel has left but he’s still there, still where he was before. But something is off— and then Sam realizes, and he looks at Benny, to see if the vampire sees it too. Or if it’s just Sam dreaming again.

Benny’s mouth twitches, barely visible in the light that sneaks in through the curtains. And all three of them look for a moment at Dean, covered in Cas’s coat. And then Sam’s lying back, stacks two pillows on top of each other to make it more comfortable. Benny breathes, Dean breathes, Cas does whatever he does, and then the sun is hot on his face as a playground comes into focus around him. A park— grass that’s too green under a sky that’s too blue. And a giant wolf head rises, a snarl, and and it loops around the edge before bounding off into the woods.

Distantly: A scream, and the sound of feet.

Three women running down a highway, bows on their backs.

Feet running down the hotel hallway, because Sam is awake now, and now fully aware of where Fenrir is.

He’s not convinced that God is missing, because someone is sure messing with his life.

It’s been five hours since they fell asleep; it feels like longer. He wonders if there were other dreams, other things he saw that he can’t remember. He’d read somewhere that you only remember your dreams if you wake up in the middle, but surely that doesn’t apply to prophetic ones. Freakyass magic ones that come from having demon blood dripped into your mouth as a child.

He sits, and Cas looks up at him. Around him are the rest of the binders, all open to different pages, and on the computer an open word document— though the letters haven’t stopped appearing even though Cas has looked away.

“Did you dream, Sam?” Sam swallows. “I… I think I did, but I think I must have been… I think it was an actual dream. About Fenrir. But there’s no way that it was, you know. Real.”

After all, being eaten by a giant wolf is perfectly acceptable nightmare material. And when he’s not thinking about the giant wolf, he’s thinking about Amelia, about Kermit. So Fenrir being in that park? Logical connection for his dreams to make. Logical nightmare fodder.

“Sam,” Castiel says. “What exactly did you see?”

“S’mmy saw’sm’thn?” Dean opens one eye. Doesn’t react to the fact that he’s now curled around the coat more than covered by it. Sam gives him at least two minutes before he notices. But then the vampire is moving too and man, isn’t this just a party.

“I think it was just an ordinary dream, guys,” he says. But there’s a lie there too. Because he knows how the prophetic dreams feel, and it’s— it’s— why the hell is this happening to him? Sure, there are advantages. He’s yelled the advantages at Dean until he’s blue in the face— he’s freaking Harry Potter seeing into Voldemort’s mind and maybe he should use it but he doesn’t have a choice here does he, because he can’t go to Kermit. Doesn’t trust himself.

Doesn’t trust himself to leave again.

“Cas,” Dean says hoarsely, “I think your coat fell on me when I was sleeping. Sorry. And Sam— why do you think it was just a dream? Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

visioncrapfreak.

“Because,” Sam says again. “It was at a park where I used to go with— with Amelia.” (Haven’t you ever seen a birthday cake before? Of course I’ve seen one before. Dean stole one for me when I turned ten, because double-digits was important, and then Jess made one before she died a painful death in the name of narrative symmetry.) “Of all the places in the universe, Fenrir wouldn’t just go there. They wouldn’t send him there. There’s nothing in Kermit, that’s why I moved there. Like, the odds of that are so small—”

But Team Purgatory is looking at each other, like, someone’s in denial, and Sam sighs. “I guess I should go pack up the car, shouldn’t I.”

So much for sleep while they had it.

The hallway is quiet. Most people, apparently, don’t leave at five in the morning, not counting that earlier runner. The parking lot is equally deserted.

Lazy working class.

It’s good, though, because it means no one is stopping to care about the number of weapons in his backpack. Bullets, silver and otherwise. Knives, silver and otherwise. Rock salt and a shotgun and it’s hilarious because whenever he’s in one place long enough to vote, he votes for the people that say they support gun control. He’s barely started organizing them by size and function when Dean joins him.

“So,” his brother says, leaning against it. Watches Sam finish unpacking and close the trunk. “Fenrir. You think he’s in— Kermit?”

“He is.”

Pause. “Do you, um,” Dean is shifting, slightly uncomfortable. And Sam at least gives him credit for trying. “Want to sit this one out? We could go without you, pick you up…?”

Sam laughs a little. Checks around again to make sure that they’re alone. “I’m twenty-five percent of our team,” he says. “Don’t think I can let you guys go battle a giant wolf alone. Especially seeing as we’ve given away our only weapon that seemed to have an impact.” And have no idea how to defeat him.

Dean opens the car, digs around under the drivers seat for a moment before unearthing a six-pack. Sam will never stop wondering how he carries all those, because he’s sure that that wasn’t there before. At least Dean’s been drinking less lately. Still, he accepts the beer offered to him. It’s warm, but this is no time to be choosy.

“Yeah about that. There’s not anything in the anything about how to kill him?”

“He doesn’t die, Dean.”

But of course they’re going to go anyway, because they’re stupid and reckless and couldn’t live with themselves if they didn’t. Even though they don’t have the fart of an alpaca, or whatever.

“You want to go check up on her?” Dean asks. “See if she’s okay?”

Yes. Yes yes yes yes and yes. He totally hasn’t been looking for her online either, just to make sure. Too many things happen when you take your eye off someone. Even just for a weekend. “Nah,” Sam says. “She’s got— she’s got her life.”

“You don’t think she’d, um, want to see you? I mean—” Dean’s focusing quite hard on his beer now. “I mean, when someone you love leaves, it sucks, you know? So maybe she’d want to know that you’re okay. Being alone sucks.”

“She’s got Don,” he says quickly. “She’s got Don. She’s not alone.”

“Who’s Don?”

They really haven’t had a conversation in a while, have they. Those weeks since Dean had been back, and bringing up Benny or Amelia had just ended in yelling. “Her husband,” Sam says finally. And expecting Dean’s comment— “He was… he enlisted, in the military, one day. Just up and left, didn’t tell her in advance or anything. And they thought he was KIA, and then they found him, and then he came home, so I sort of left.”

Dean is quiet for several seconds. “Just enlisted without asking? Man, something was broken there.”

Sam knows. But he also knows that Dean is projecting a little bit. His brother might not be talking to him much lately, but he’s still Sam’s brother, and Sam can still read him.

“You and Cas?” he asks. “Are you two okay?”

Dean blinks. “Yeah.”

Silence and the smell of alcohol. It’s probably too early in the morning for this, but hell. It’s eight o’clock somewhere.

“Did you two, um, work things out? In Purgatory?”

Dean shrugs. “I hate what he did, but he’s Cas. I forgave him before the Emmanuel thing. We’ve all done stupid shit. And yeah. I mean, we didn’t exactly have time to pour our hearts out, but whatever. We’re cool.”

Glad that’s settled.

“Did you ask her?”

Behind them, he can see the shadows of Cas and Benny moving around the hotel room. Corner room, first level, good for escapes. Every time. Sam turns away.

“What?”

“Before you left. Did she tell you to leave?”

Sam swallows. It’s getting light now, stripes of red across the horizon. “No,” he says. “No, I…”

“So you did what Don did.”

“No. God, Dean. How can you— I had reasons. I loved her, I still love her, but I…”

“Then why’d you go?”

Sam shrugs. “Same reason Cas left you, I bet.”

They both watch it get a little brighter. “That’s not the same,” Dean says finally. “He— he— he said he felt like he deserved it. To be left in Purgatory.”

“But he wanted you out.” Sam shrugs again. It seems to be the only motion left to him. “He helped you get out, wanted to give you your life back. Let you go on helping people, right? And you couldn’t do that if he was bringing all his shit along with you, the angels, the demons, that might be after him. He pissed off a lot of people.”

Dean shakes his head again. “It’s not the same.” Pause. “I haven’t— I haven’t had time to talk to you, you know, the last couple days. But I just wanted to say, um…” he sighs, twisting the bottle in his hands. “Thanks, for. You know. Putting up with Benny. I don’t know what you two— but, I know it’s been, and um, I appreciate it.”

Sam can’t help smirking a little at the awkwardness. “I still don’t trust him,” he says finally. “But he’s been— I mean, he’s twenty-five percent of our team too, I guess.” Pause. “What made you trust him?”

He thinks he knows, of course. Remembers what Cas had said. But he wants to hear it from Dean.

He doesn’t.

“He’s my friend, I guess,” Dean says. “I guess he’s my best friend I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those before.”

Sam looks at him. “What about Cas?”

“Cas.” Dean doesn’t meet his gaze. And Sam’s not an idiot, and this might be pushing this emotion allergy a little too far, might cause Dean to break out in hives. But—

“Are you in love with him?”

The beer that was headed into his brother’s mouth stops, and he chokes a little. Spews some over the sidewalk. Wheezes a moment before— “Don’t ask stupid questions, Sammy.”

“I just wondered. God.”

“Well, stop wondering. God,” Dean mimics.

“Hey.” Sam grins. “We’re drinking and talking about our feelings on the Impala. It’s just like old times.”

“Except for the angel and the vampire.”

“And the mythic giant wolf and warring gods.”

Dean takes another pull. “Our lives are fuckin’ weird.” But he glances over his shoulder into the room again. “We should probably head out. Giant wolf and all. And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me you said goodbye to her.”

It hits Sam right then that Don’t ask stupid questions doesn’t mean “no”. (And then he realizes where he’d heard that phrase before— Castiel, the false prophet, and the moment Dean left them.) “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I said goodbye.”

“We’re with animal control,” Benny says. “There’ve been reports of a rabid dog in the park?”

The parks worker seems all too willing to let him in. “Looks bigger’n a dog. Real glad you’re here. Go on through.”

Benny says goodbye— the rest of them just nod. Sam and Dean had both been told in the car that their Southern accents were ridiculous, that they couldn’t pass for Texan to save their lives, and there was no way they’d be able to convince anyone they were with Winkler county talking like “a couple’a Yanks.” (It also seemed to have been decided that Cas should not be allowed to talk to people, period: Cas didn’t object too much.)

“This the place, Sammy?” Dean asks. But he doesn’t really need to. It’s a nice, sunny afternoon, and the park is grassy and green, and there are pretty trees, and it’s the type of place he can clearly imagine a family doing normal family things. The type of place where he watched Ben try and earn the respect of some bullies, where he used to take Sam while they dad was otherwise occupied. Of course, those didn’t have a pile of shit that was definitely not left by a golden retriever. Not to mention the claw marks and the— yep.

“Alright,” Benny says when they stop. “Shall we?”

By the time they get out, Castiel is already standing next to the trunk, tossing weapons to everyone. Guns had slowed him down, slightly less than decapitating a leviathan but more than stabbing an angel. Cas’s angel-sword had done better; but they don’t have time to go over what may and may not work because hello, Fenrir. Long time no see. That ridiculously long car ride; couldn’t he have given them time to stretch first?

(And Dean’s not scared, he’s definitely not scared, and he doesn’t even look like a wolf, really, but a grey thing charging them and—)

The fighting turns out to be a moot, though. Dean doesn’t have time to raise his gun, to get a shot off, before the wolf is tearing past them. Barely giving them a second glance. And they’re turning to go after it and then there are there is a shout of “Get out of the way!” and they turn and there are three people with bows and arrows bearing down on them and then Fenrir is streaking towards the town and shimmers away.

A woman slams into Dean with a ridiculous amount of momentum, and they both go down. She rolls away instantly, back on her feet. Doesn’t offer Dean a hand up, of course, but it’s not like Dean needs one at all. He doesn’t even wince as he stands again.

And then another one has Benny in a headlock and a knife pressed to his throat and “Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?” but Cas is there and he’s got a hand on her arm and she spins to deal with him, blonde hair flying and—

“Claire.”

Everything stops, then, and Dean gets a good look at the situation. The girl who knocked him over is— probably eighteen, nineteen. Hispanic, maybe, or Native American. Then there’s the blonde one, and shit, the last time, the only time Dean had seen Claire Novak she’d been thirteen, and she’d stayed that way in his mind. But of course she’s four, five years older now. She’s looking at Cas and there are so many emotions, so clear on her face for a second, before she shuts down.

“This is the angel?” asks the third woman. ‘

And she’s not human, Dean knows that right off. Faster than he did with Sif. Something about her— sharp features, brown hair, all looking perfectly normal, but she’s— and why is Claire Novak running around with—

“Yeah,” Claire says. “Yeah, that’s him.”

Cas looks from her to the not-woman. “Artemis?”

He gets a dry laugh in response. “So you’re Castiel. The angel that everyone is obsessed with.”

Dean isn’t sure which half of that is more worrisome. Neither sounds good. They’d been here looking to get killed by a wolf, not chat with yet another fucking goddess. This time they don’t even have a giant hammer to attract their attention, so what? Are they just that cool? Do normal people run into this many gods and just not know it?

“So.” It’s the first one Dean’s met from the other side— the Greco-Sumerian alliance, and he hopes the fact that they kind of had to hand over Mjolnir counts in their favor. If she isn’t planning on killing them right out. “You’re after Fenrir?”

“As are you, it seems.” The goddess frowns. “Probably good for yourselves that we were here; you think you can fight him with those?”

Dean shrugs. “He bleeds.” (If it bleeds, you can kill it.) “But yeah, I guess. Lucky for us. Seem to be running into a lot of your kind, lately.”

Artemis’s lip curls. “They are not our kind. And you should not be interfering with our hunt.”

“Hey, you didn’t exactly send out a memo.” And, because he’s Dean Winchester and can’t let something lie, “so what happens now? Have we done anything to anger you? Do you kill us? Because in all fairness, that Mjolnir thing—”

Oh, man. If looks could kill— but the thing is, a goddess’s looks might be able to kill. “You saved Claire once,” she allows. “I’ll let you live this once for that.”

The girl in question is still staring at Cas, looking for something that Dean knows she won’t find. Knows because Dean saw nothing of Cas in Jimmy Novak.

“Well, thanks,” Sam says. “That’s very, um, generous. Of you. So, any idea where our mutual enemy is headed?”

There’s a terrific howling coming up from the edge of the park. Howling, and screaming, and it shatters the air around them.

“Small favors,” Dean says, and then— “CASNO!”

But Cas is already gone, and then Artemis is as well, and “Get in the car,” Dean says. Everyone flings themselves inside, and he floors the accelerator.

“So what’s your name?” Sam asks the dark-haired girl. And she says her name is Lily, and Dean looks at Claire Novak, looking to see how much she looks like Cas— no, Jimmy— and there is park roaring by and they’re headed towards— and everything is bouncing bouncing bouncing and Dean is sorry, baby, really..

“Is that the vet’s office?” Dean yells.

Sam’s entire face shuts down as he nods, and Dean pumps the gas pedal a few more times. Long ruts left in their wake, but he figures that the mowers will manage. And they jump out and then, holy hell.

“Who let the dogs out?” Sam mutters.

Because there are dogs, dogs everywhere. More dogs than there should have been in a “Veterinary Hospital and Kennel” at any given time. And unlike Fenrir, these guys actually do look rabid— lunging at scattering people. Dean doesn’t know much about rabies, but he did learn from To Kill A Mockingbird that they don’t reach the violent, foaming-at-mouth stage that fast. And then he doesn’t think, can’t think about the fact that these are pets, that they’re like Sam’s dumbass dog, because there’s one lunging for him and he has to shoot it.

An arrow flies over his shoulder, taking out another one.

“Where’s Cas?!” Dean yells, trying his best to be heard over the barking.

Sam shrugs, slamming one in the head with the barrel of his gun. “Try not to kill them!”

Yeah, he’s trying, but it’s not like there’s a lot of time to think. They’re on a public street, surrounded by yelling, running civilians, and vets trying to calm things down but they’re being bitten at just like the rest of them, and there’s a fucking dachshund that leaps impossibly high, teeth going for a little girl’s throat as she screams “SPOCK, SPOCK NO”, and Dean closes his eyes for half a second as he pulls the trigger and the girl screams even louder.

And then there’s Cas, hand spread, touching as many as possible, making them fall down asleep. And Artemis, doing the same, which Dean doesn’t quite get because she’s supposed to be a hunter but then there’s a retriever going for him and he jabs at it and and what the hell is going on here.

Almost as quickly as it had started, the last howls die away. The screams of civilians linger.

“IS ANYBODY HURT?” Claire yells, starting towards the largest group. They don’t even seem all that weirded out by the massively high-tech bow she’s holding (the kind with many strings and wheels, more Hawkeye than Legolas, but Dean will never admit that he made that comparison,) but maybe it's because of what they've just seen. Maybe they think she just came from the gym.

“Cas.” Dean dodges around canine bodies. “Cas, you okay?”

“Of course.” The angel kneels next to one of the sleeping dogs. “They’ll wake up in a few hours. We should probably move the live ones inside.” Pause. “The rest of the town will be here soon. It might make them uncomfortable to have to look for their pets.”

“Yeah but…” Dean looks around. “There’s no way there’s this many dogs in the kennel at once, right?”

All he gets is a shrug. “We should probably see what Artemis and Claire have.”

Dean follows him through the carnage. Biting his tongue as he tries not to ask if it’s weird, seeing Claire, if he has Jimmy’s memories, or if there’s a connection between father and daughter that goes past consciousness.

Claire is standing next to the dachshund girl, who is screaming, bleeding, and holding a weakly moving Spock in her arms. The woman next to her tries to stop the blood with her own hand, but she’s scraped up too, and— “Castiel.” Claire turns. “Castiel, heal them. You can, right?”

He does. The girl and the mother and then the dog, and Dean can’t be annoyed at him for wasting mojo on a glorified frankfurter with legs because Spock looks up at the girl, eyes wide, tail slapping her thigh like sorry I just tried to kill you, please love me, please love me, please tell me you still love me, you still love me, right? and licking her face and the mother is gaping at the angel but Cas has moved on, healing those he can, both dog and human like he makes no distinction.

Dean realizes that that’s probably true. He hopes it’s because of his regard for animals as opposed to a low opinion of humanity.

The goddess is touching the ground, eyes closed. “Fenrir is still near,” she says. “He hasn’t left this plane.”

“Really?” Lily frowns. “Didn’t he sort of shimmer—” she wiggles her fingers “—off to Asgard or whatever?”

Dean decides that, for what it’s worth, he likes Lily. And he watches Claire for a moment as she comforts another panicked man, artfully deflecting questions as Cas heals him. It’d be easier if he just made the people fall asleep as well, but—

Then Claire is standing, her bow raised, running back towards them. “Over there.”

They all turn, and Dean gives a shout, and Sam and Benny fall back. Castiel looks up, looks at them, then at Fenrir, before resuming his healing, and Dean has to remind himself that Cas can handle this, that those people are the reason they need to put this sonofabitch down. And if the lighting were a little more dramatic, it would have been a shot from a suspense movie. Or a horror, like that one with the haunted set. Fenrir is peering around the edge of one of the buildings, so that only half is face is visible. Eyes sparkling and a low growl— and perhaps to add that missing effect, Benny starts whistling “In the Hall of the Mountain King.”

“Shut up,” Sam tells him. And then all the weapon are out again.

Apparently Fenrir doesn’t like the look of this, because he makes for the group of civilians instead— they scatter, there’s yelling, there’s snarling and biting, and then Claire’s arrow hits him in the eye, and he turns, and then Cas is behind him, in front of him, slashing, sword twirling and that is so badass and Artemis is flitting around him and then she’s on his back and she’s another wolf tearing at his neck, and Dean has barely managed to get two shots off before Fenrir flips Artemis off, and she lands on human feet, and Fenrir pulls back and gets the hell out of Dodge and Dean can’t blame him and then he makes lay swipes at some of the people as almost an afterthought and Artemis is a hawk, zooming over him, going for his eyes, and Lily lands an arrow almost up his ass and then there’s a shimmer and he’s gone. Can’t have been more than thirty seconds, but there’s still the screaming. And Sam is running towards them, because—

“Amelia!”

Awk. Ward.

Dean is one hundred and thirty percent sure that there are only five seats in the Impala— but somehow, Amelia, Sam, Benny, Castiel, Artemis, Claire and Lily are all inside. He’s pretty sure that this is godly influence, and he’s pretty sure that this is not a comfortable silence.

Amelia, of course, is still reeling from the sudden appearance of her ex and the fact that not only had she just watched all her patients turn rabid and had a giant wolf tear at her side, she had been miraculously healed. It’s a couple minutes before she manages the traditional “What the hell is going on?”

“Ah. Yes.” Sam shifts. “Amelia, I’m so sorry, I—”

Dean cuts him off. “This world is a fantasy kitchen sink. Almost all urban legends have some element of truth to them. Except for aliens. And bigfoot. The only Sasquatch that exists is my brother back there.”

“He thinks he’s funny,” Sam says.

Amelia blinks. “Wait. That’s Dean?”

(“So,” Benny says to Artemis, “what with our common enemy, I was wondering if you knew how to make an unbreakable ribbon out of the footsteps of a cat, the roots of a mountain, the breath of a fish, the… some tendon thing in a bear and, what was it? The burp of a fourth-born virginal Filipino cocker spaniel?”

“Bird saliva, I think,” says Dean.

“We know not where Gleipnir is, nor how to recreate it,” Artemis says. “Our current plan has been to hunt, kill. Not to trap. We are stronger than the Norse.”)

Dean turns a corner at random. “I really hope someone is planning on telling me where I’m going.” Then, to Amelia: “And yeah, I’m Dean. Pleased to meet you.”

Amelia looks around. Clearly disregarding, for a moment, the side conversation about the magic ribbon. “You said Dean was dead.”

“He was,” says Sam. “I thought he was. He was in Purgatory.”

“Purgatory.”

“Yeah, it was a great time. Shits and giggles for all. Now where the hell am I going?”

The car jerks around a corner, although that was definitely not Dean’s doing. He’s also pretty sure that he had just been on a different street, because that tree wasn’t there a second ago, and that he didn’t put the brakes on.

He turns around to glare at Cas and Artemis. “I don’t know which one of you—”

“It was me,” the goddess says. “You were being slow.” The doors all pop open.

“Why are you even still here?” Sam asks, as the party makes their way towards the house. White, although there’s no picket fence. Large, spacey. Very all-American, and did Sammy really want to live here?.

“I’m trying to get into your minds,” she says carelessly, “to see what Freyja and Sif told you.”

“Are you fucking—”

Everyone shoves through the door at once, possibly with a divine push, and then they’re in one of those living-room-dining-room mash-ups, and then Don— unless Amelia has a string of lovers that Sam didn’t know about, or a very old son— is coming out and what-the-helling on his own, and he’s swept along with the tide.

The next few minutes find Amelia and Don on the sofa, Sam squatting awkwardly close by, and everyone else standing in various poses of defensiveness and I have a weapon so back off.

“So,” Dean says again. “How’s breaking into my mind going? I can save you the trouble. They didn’t exactly tell us anything other than ‘we want our hammer.’”

Shrug. “Those things on your ribs are making it hard. I’ll get there.”

Amelia and Don have a nice house. Dean wonders if it’s the same one that she lived in with Sam. He can see his brother in these rooms, painting the walls, moving the furniture. Wonders if he ever kissed Amelia on this sofa, all slow, like they had all the time in the world because they did. If Sam showed off his ability to put Kraft in a pot in that kitchen and if they were the type of people that shouted out Jeopardy answers. “Yeah well, can’t you just take my word for it?”

“Surprisingly, I’m disinclined.”

Dean’s about to make another remark, disregarding his earlier looks-kill observation, and then Cas is speaking.

“Claire. How did you get…”

She looks away. “We were camping. Artemis found us. Demons killed— Lily’s parents, a few years ago. We both knew.”

Lily’s hand goes to her knife, ,and Dean isn’t quite sure if he should start defending himself or not.

“Claire and Lily are my friends, my companions,” says Artemis. “I dislike hunting alone.”

Cas is still frowning. “But your mother—”

And then Claire’s hand is twitching for her own weapon. “Oh, so now you’re concerned about my mother?”

It takes Dean a moment to catch up, but luckily Cas is faster.“Your father made his choice, Claire.”

She takes a step forward, and now seems to be a good time to get out of the way. Dean looks at the very bewildered Don and Amelia, and Benny, who is trying to figure it out. But they’re all frozen, waiting for—

“You didn’t leave him much of one, did you?” she’s half shouting now. (Perhaps she’s been working on what she wants to say for years, just as Dean wrote all those speeches to Yellow-Eyes. My mother, my brother, my father, you ruined my family, you..) “You could have had me, you could have— he was dying because of you.”

“I know.”

The girl has her eyes closed now. She's not crying, there aren't tears in her voice.

It somehow makes it sadder.

“I know you’re not my dad,” she says. “But is he— when you— I was there, even when you were there. Is he— is he there?”

Dean hasn’t thought about Jimmy Novak, as a person, not a meatsuit, in a long time. Too long, probably; he’s somewhat ashamed. Hadn’t asked.

“No,” Cas says. “No, he went to heaven after— not long after. When Raphael…”

She nods. Once, twice, three times, swallows. “Right,” she says. “Right.”

Dean glances around, but everyone else is silent. Watching the conversation go down, not looking like they’re about to stab Dean, so he allows himself to relax slightly.

“Claire—”

“No, no don’t. Don’t. You’re walking around in— that’s his coat, he wore it every day, even though Mom told him it made him look like a— he wore it every day.”

Dean hadn’t thought about that, really. How the coat might be as much a part of Jimmy Novak as it was now of Cas. That coat that had gone through everything, and he can’t imagine the angel without it.

“Hold up.” Benny raises a hand. “So your father is Cas here’s meatsuit?”

Silence.

“Well, that’s a whole can of awkward.” Benny leans back.

“I’m sorry,” Don says, “but who the hell are all of you?”

It’s too pretty a room. Sofa, coffee table, the whole life. And Dean knows that they’re bringing it all down, that when they explain, it’ll be only the first nail in the coffin, and he doesn’t know how to start, when Artemis is saying that “Claire, we need to go.”

Claire swallows. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Yeah.”

“Your father isn’t there anymore.” (And Dean has never heard a goddess, an anything, speak so gently.) “I just wanted you to understand that.”

Dean turns. “So this was the other reason you wanted to come along? To… teach Claire a lesson?”

Gods don’t have meatsuits, so her eyes are not bound by the constraints of human genetics. They’re so fucking silver. Moons in her face, but that’s one of her things, isn’t it? Either way, it’s intimidating as all hell. “Yes,” she says. “I wanted to confirm that Jimmy Novak was already gone, so that it wouldn’t hurt Claire as much when Castiel dies.”

He looks in disbelief from Claire to Lily to Artemis and tries to keep away the icy fist that’s closing around his stomach, his insides, and he doesn’t realize that he’s taken a step forward. “No.” He tries again to get a breath. “You are not getting Cas, and he’s not gonna die.”

She literally grows a few inches taller, so that she’s looking right into his eyes. Looks, kill. He should have remembered that, again, but they’re practically nose to nose. “I can’t take him on my own. I know that. But there are more of us. There are so many more of us, and we’re not stupid. You hunt demons so that humanity can take over; the things that are a threat to your people; and we do the same. Our world does not have space for his kind. We are not such fools as to underestimate you, but there is nobody you can fight. Is not our side or theirs; it is both that will want him dead. No side will protect you.”

“What about the demons?” Dean shoots back. “You want angels, what about the demons, the monsters, the real threats to your new fucking kingdom? What are you going to do about them?”

She smiles, and it doesn’t improve her features. “We shall hunt them, like we always have done.”

“No.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “Can’t I—”

“Shut up, Cas.” Dean swallows. But the gods can piss on each other all they want, but they’re not— “We stopped the last apocalypse. Sam held Lucifer inside him and won. I am— was— the Michael-sword. I killed Zachariah, I spent a year in Purgatory and lived to tell the tale. I spent forty years in hell, and spent ten of them learning the fine art of torture under the greatest torture master Hell has known— before my brother killed him with a thought. I’ve been dealing with the shit that’s in this world and all the afterlives while you’ve been getting your beauty sleep. So trust me, okay? You even touch him, and I swear, to the ends of the earth and through every afterlife that you can find to put me in, I will end you.”

Her lip curls. “You are arrogant, overconfident and self-righteous.”

“It’s been said.”

“Yet how many have you killed? Claire mourns her father— what about the man who housed Zachariah? Your brother, Adam, who lingers in the pit? You place so much emphasis on human life—” (and Dean thinks of watching a man being forced to shoot himself without lifting a finger and I wouldn’t be too sure about that.)

“Artemis,” Claire whispers. “Artemis, please, don’t—”

Everyone turns to look at her, and she cringes behind Lily. Then takes a deep breath. Friends, companions. “Can we just go?” she says.

Artemis takes a moment to consider, then nods. Strides to the door without any preamble.

Claire looks back once. “Seeya, Cas,” she says quietly.

Dean crosses his arms, glaring after them.

“Dean,” Cas says, “maybe you should—”

He turns. Anger, all anger, and they are not, they are not interfering with his life, his everything, not again.

“I’ll give you the run-down,” Benny is saying to Don. “Basically, the Winchesters here are hunters of monsters and demons and shit. Castiel over there is an angel, but God is missing— if he ever was there— and some pagan gods are trying to take the world back. That there if you hadn’t guessed was Artemis, it seems the Greeks and the Sumerians have teamed up against the Norse and some other ones. Oh, and I’m a vampire, but I’m all cuddles—”

“If Artemis hurts Claire,” Cas is saying, fists clenched. “If she—”

Sam stands up, walks over to them. “I don’t think she will. She seems to really care about them.”

Cas looks at him, face blank. “Yes, she’s very attached to her companions. Until they’re raped and she turns them into bears—”

“Artemis is psychotic and totally missed second-wave feminism,” Dean mutters.

Benny seems to have finished his CliffNotes, because now he’s talking to them— “Shouldn’t we all be getting in the car?”

“We all?” Don asks. “What do you— you people are insane.”

“Well I mean, Artemis now knows of the connection. If someone were to threaten you, Sam’d come running, and where Sam goes, Dean goes, and where Dean goes, Feather-ass goes. So if we want to keep everyone safe—”

“Fair,” Dean says. Then points. “You two, go pack a bag. Couple changes of clothes, cellphones, computers, favorite novels and iPods, whatever. Wait, no, phones are probably tracked, we’ll get you new cell phones.”

Amelia’s mouth is hanging open. “Sam, what— you hunt—”

“Demons,” he says. “Demons, ghosts, monsters. All that shit. That’s what we did, us and my dad.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You just got healed by an angel, lady,” Dean says. “Don’t start.”

“It would be safest,” Cas says, “if I were to leave. I could take them off your trail—”

And they can’t be having this, not again. Because he’s heard this enough. “No.” He takes a few steps backwards, crosses his arms, because he cannot do this. “No. First of all, you’re the reason the haven’t killed us, so no. Second, we don’t give a damn. They want to kill you? They’ll try, and they’ll come after us, and we’ll panic and figure something out at the last minute like we always do.” And the angel is opening his mouth to protest, but he’s going. “I did not fight through Purgatory just— I thought we’d been through this, Cas. We’re not leaving without you. Understand?”

And Cas’s face melts. “I understand,” he whispers.

“Good.” Dean swallows. “Good. Glad that’s settled. Are you two packed yet?”

The Richardsons are still staring, still frozen.

“We can get them new clothes,” Sam says. “And get them tatted and stuff. Preferably in another state.”

“Before we get another god or rabid dog on our tail.” Benny shoves his knife back into his pocket, begins rummaging around.

“Speaking of dogs—” Sam says.

“No.” Dean glares. “The dog is not coming.”

“But we can’t just leave—”

“Dump him on the neighbors—”

“I’ll go explain things to the canine,” Castiel says, and vanishes.

Amelia yelps. Then stands up. “I want an actual explanation,” she says. “I want to know what the hell is going on here— more than just ‘some gods are annoyed’— before I’m going with you anywhere.”

Silence.

“Sam.” She turns to him. “Sam, when you said that you worked with your brother. It was tracking down this stuff.”

“Well, not gods, most days.”

“And when you thought he was dead, he was actually in Purgatory.”

Dean nods at Don. “Lots of fighting and terror. I figure you can relate.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She’s glaring. “Nine months, Sam. You never thought that maybe that might be important?”

Benny throws up his hands. “First off, I know no better way to make you understand the fact that there are angels and demons than straight-up telling you there are angel and demons. Also, am I the only one that seems to understand that we have gods on our asses? They’re not going to waste time having heart-to-hearts. Dean’s gas guzzler only has five seats, so do you have a car?”

“Um, yes,” Don says. “What—”

“Good. Sam and Amelia will have to have their either awkward silence or touching reunion later.”

“Wait, two cars?” Dean shakes his head. “Oh, no no. Splitting up is never good. Last time, Sam got a dog.”

Cas reappears then. “The dog has been made aware of the situation.”

“You’re all crazy,” Don says. Then, “I have a Subaru.”

“Awesome. Let’s motor.” Dean sighs. “I promise you’ll get a better version of the story once we’re moving. Actually, Don, ’Melia, you go with Sam, you know him better.” He looks at Cas, and there are so many emotions leaking through his especially stoic face that he can’t not add, “I think Claire can handle herself.”

She reminds him a little bit of Jo. Not that that ended well.

He’s probably doomed Don and Amelia to the same fate.

But then there’s shit to get done, and they don’t have time for this. They’ll keep them alive a little longer.

He pulls out his phone and looks up tattoo parlors in Arizona.

Sam has driven enough cars in his life to know when one is awesome, and he revels in the anti-lock brakes and the lack of stick shift. He also starts privately racing his brother, because— come on, they’d last filled the Impala in Oklahoma and Don’s Outback gets at least twice the miles to the gallon. So he should be overtaking his brother any minute now.

“So.” Amelia takes a deep breath. She’d claimed shotgun, and quite literally: there’s a sawed-off in her lap. “Vampire?”

“Yeah.” Sam tells them as much as he knows of the Benny story; tries to strike the delicate balance between ‘don’t blindly trust the guy, keep an eye out’ and ‘Dean does tend to have good judgment, try not to pick a fight, and don’t run away.’ Then he has to follow up with the Purgatory story, fractured though his knowledge is. And then a brief description of how angels and demon work and “Angels need permission to possess you but then they can do whatever the hell they want, including die, and the vessel dies to, so once you get down to it there’s barely a difference.”

“Okay,” Don says. “I’m still not convinced I ain’t hallucinating, or that you ain’t, because— do you know a guy named Carver Edland?”

Sam valiantly resists the urge to slam his head against the horn. Instead, he limits himself to a loud groan, trying not to think about anything he’d done in those three years that he really hadn’t planned on sharing. Being a whiny brat about his dad, the whole vision thing (visioncrapfreak), the codependency that perhaps they’re only now getting over and oh god what if he’d seen the fans—

But Don is still looking at him expectantly. Probably waiting for a confirmation that he’d just had a little too much to drink; perhaps a bit proud that he’d worked out the game they were playing. Waiting for his prize, waiting for Sam to laugh and yell ‘punk’d’.

“Carver Edland is really Chuck,” Sam says. “He’s sort— well, was— sort of a prophet of the Lord.”

“Proph—Lo—Was?”

Shrug. “Another prophet woke up, but luckily this one doesn’t get a running narrative of our lives. Cas says Chuck must be dead.” Which is too bad. He likes his privacy, but he also did like the guy. Hopes he didn’t go out too painfully, since Raphael had probably stopped defending him.

Don is chuckling, though, and Sam isn’t sure if this (laughter in the face of death) makes him uncomfortable or not.

“I get what you saw in him then, Amie. If he’s still as good in bed a he was then.”

Sam turns to scowl at him. “I’m even better with guns now,” he says.

Don stops laughing.

Wait.

Back up.

“So you believe me?” Sam asks.

Don waves a hand. “Weird shit has happened today. I just saw your friend disappear and reappear and—I think you’re crazy, but I’m gonna go with it for now.”

“Okay.” Amelia picks at a sticker on the side of the gun. “Back up. Those ridiculous books that Don read a few years ago—”

“Don’t ever read them,” Sam says firmly. Must be Madison that Don’s thinking of, right? Because as impromptu sex goes, that was especially— and he hasn’t thought about Madison in so long. That shouldn't be something you forget, killing a woman you thought you could build something with.

“I’m sorry about, you know.” Don shifts around awkwardly in the back seat. “Jess and your parents and wait— didn’t Dean go to Hell?”

Amelia is tapping away on Sam’s smartphone; he’s explaining how Castiel had pulled him out when he realizes.

“What are you doing?”

She smirks. “Reading about the Supernatural books on Wikipedia.”

“Hey, don’t—”

“Don’t worry, you’re portrayed quite flatteringly. Except, was there really a racist truck?”

Sam does not dignify that with a response, but instead turns to answer Don’s “Wait, so is Castiel Dean’s guardian angel?” And he starts to laugh, but then he stops. Considers.

“Sometimes I think so,” he admits. “And sometimes, I think Dean is his.”

Amelia flicks the page down with her thumb. “You mentioned Jess,” she says. “You never told me she died.”

Sam is going to have permanent muscle damage from all this shrugging he’s been doing lately. “Didn’t want you to think I was too traumatized and pathetic. Anyway. It was a long time ago.” And he launches into the story of the apocalypse, surreptitiously passing them a bottle of holy water just to make extra certain that they weren’t demons fishing for information, and conveniently leaving out the part with Ruby and the blood— and that’s not a lie, so much as an omission. And he’ll tell them— at least, he’ll tell Amelia— someday. Probably. If they’re still talking after the next twenty four hours. There’s so much he wants to say to her, and probably a fair bit of her mind that she wants to give him, but he can’t. Not with Don in the backseat, not after she got her life back together. They’re over, they’ve been over for months, he doesn’t have the obligation— hell, he probably doesn’t have the right to talk to her, but— he’s halfway through glossing over the time he spent soulless when I USED TO WONDER WHAT FRIENDSHIP COULD BE, UNTIL YOU SHARED ALL ITS MAGIC WITH ME starts blasting from his phone.

“What did you do?” Sam asks.

She shakes it a couple times. “Um, it says Dean is calling.”

He grabs it from her, hits answer, and puts his brother on speaker. “Don’t touch my phone!” he yells.

“I didn’t touch your phone,” Dean yells back, voice distorted. In the background, there’s a muffled “Yes you—” and a “Shut up, Cas.”

“Well, I didn’t set the ringtone to My Little Pony. How old are you, anyway?”

There’s a brief pause, then “Beats me. Okay, so I’m getting gas—”

“HA!”

“What? Anyway, we were gonna head to the tattoo parlor on—” and that’s when a turn makes the phone fall off the dashboard. Amelia tells Sam that she’s got it, please try not to crash, and then it’s a couple minutes before she’s able to work it out from the crack between the seat and whatever that little thing in between them is supposed to be. By the time it’s free, an argument seems to have broken out on the other end.

”So it’s called Club Tattoo—”

“—No Regrets has better ratings on Yelp,” Cas says.

“As long as they have an autoclave it doesn’t matter— just get the directions.”

“Um, ‘write your review in the—’”

“No, no, to Club Tattoo, dumbass. We need somewhere that takes drop-ins.”

Pause. Sam has to bite down hard on his lip and think about the serious situation that they’re in to keep from laughing.

“This is quite sensitive to touch.”

“Oh, for— give me that.”

“You’re driving, Dean.”

There is a scuffle, then Benny’s distinct voice echoes through the car. “This is hilarious. March through Purg’tory, they’re all grim determination and ‘I’m-not-leaving-you’. Now—”

“Yes, nice,” Sam says. “Can you just tell me where the hell I’m going?”

“Just as soon as your brother an’ his boyfrien’ finish comparing cust’mer reviews. Wings has been drawing some symbols that should hide us from gods, too, so I hope you’re prepared to get inked.”

“Yes, fine.” Although that hadn’t featured on Sam’s plan for the day. “Where—”

Castiel comes back on, says they should look for a place called University Drive. Sam can barely hear his brother start to object, and then the line goes dead.

“Did he say boyfriend?” Amelia is squinting at him.

“Benny thinks he’s funny.” Sam gives her the phone. “Read the directions and then change my ringtone.”

“Right,” she says. “Right. Okay. I’ll humor you.”

“Amelia—”

”You want me to get a tattoo?”

Sam grits his teeth. “You saw Artemis battling Fenrir—”

She rubs her eyes, cuts him off. “Do you want Rock of Ages, Cousin Kevin, the TARDIS noise—”

“Are you in the shop?”

“No, I’m in your music. The Buffy theme, Bon Jovi—”

“No,” he says quickly. “Just— pick something.”

She puts the phone down, tells him where to turn.

“I don’t suppose,” Don says, “that I can call my sister, tell her we’re—” but he stops at Sam’s expression. “Yeah. Christ. She’s going to freak. And Amie’s dad—”

Sam is about to offer— he isn’t sure what, maybe a consolation, maybe a ‘we can stop somewhere and you can shoot her an email or something’, maybe one of Dean’s infamous cross-that-bridges, he hasn’t decided yet, when they’re interrupted by the sound of wings.

Sam doesn’t flinch this time, but Don makes up for it, yelling something rude and diving towards one of the doors. Realizes that they’re moving, and contents himself to pressing up against the window.

“What’s up, Cas?” (And maybe Sam is trying too hard to look totally cool with this.)

“Dean’s phone is out of battery. The vampire was playing Fruit Ninja.” Castiel looks around. “Hello.”

Sam mentally updates his checklist: it’s not okay to use an iPhone to store music, it is okay to use one to download games.

“So, um, what’d you want to say?”

“That you’re missing the exit.”

Sam jerks the Outback around, and Castiel vanishes again. But he’s back before Amelia can finish ‘what the fuck’ing at him.

“I don’t know why Dean insisted on my coming if he was only going to yell,” the angel says, somewhere between confused and annoyed.

Sam sighs. “Dean is a confusing person. Don’t put up with the shit, Cas. Repeat after me: ‘Dean, go fuck yourself.’”

Pause.

“That sounds like an acrobatic feat.” This is said in the most serious of voices. “He’d have to bend his—”

Amelia makes a choking sound, and then she’s howling with laughter. And maybe it’s just tension release, maybe she genuinely thinks the angel is that funny— either way, Castiel looks pleased with himself for a moment— and then he disappears again.

“I think,” Don says, staring at the empty seat next to him, “I think I believe you a little more now. That or I’ve lost my last marble.”

“Oh, good.” And he can’t help the paranoia— they’re still unprotected, still sans anti-possession. “Here.” Sam reaches around to give Don a bottle. “Have some more water.”

Dean really hopes that the No Regrets Tattoo Parlor lives up to its name.

“Hey, Benny.” He points to the image of a massive dragon, breathing fire on a naked woman. “Think I should get that tattooed on my ass?”

“Only if you pierce the tip of your dick as well.”

“Well, that quarter centimeter is all I need to reach double digits, so—”

Sam interrupts them, rotating the image Cas had drawn in the car. “You sure this is going to work?” he asks quietly.

He gets Cas-frown number seven. “If anything can keep a god from finding us, it’s that.”

“And you couldn’t just put that on our ribs because—”

“You don’t have enough ribs.”

Dean rubs his chest, a little uncomfortable— as he always is— with the idea that there are things written on his bones. He wonders what the doctors ever made of Bobby’s x-rays.

“Hey, Cas, what about your bones?” he asks. “I mean, they’re looking for angels. What if they get one of the other ones to try and start dicking with you?”

A few meters away, Amelia gestures to the place on her stomach that she want the tattoo to go. (Nowhere visible, Sam had said. That lesson they’d learned from the Trans.) She’s biting her lip, but she sort of shrugs when Dean looks over.

“The angels…” Cas stops. Opens his mouth for a second. “The angels aren’t… yes, that’s probably a good idea.”

Dean glances around, then grab the trench coat sleeve and pulls him outside. The whispering is getting to him. “I mean it can’t hurt to have them off your ass, right? If they’re really out for blood?”

Fuck, it’s hot. It should not be this hot in December anywhere. They should make that illegal. Add another to the list of his beefs with God.

“Yes.” Cas nods. “That should work. I’ll…” he stops, studying a spot over Dean’s shoulder.

“Cas?” Dean’s forehead wrinkles. Flashing back to the other times this has happened, hope that his vessel or something isn’t breaking down. Worries that he’s getting tired, that he’s falling— he snaps his fingers in front of his friend’s face. “Cas?”

“It won’t work,” the angel says.

“But just a second ago—”

“I was wrong.”

This makes no sense. The impulse decision changes, the— what exactly— “Cas,” Dean says. “Why won’t it work?”

He gets a blink and a headtilt. A passerby gives them a weird look, but that’s nothing new. “I… I don’t know. I just— I can’t, Dean.” (Dean. I said no.)

The hair on the back of his neck rises and there is definitely, definitely something wrong. “Cas. Cas, you said it would work. There’s something not—” he grabs one clenched fists, curls his own fingers around until the other’s fingers are lying flat. “If it doesn’t work, you can just wipe ‘em off, right?” He takes Cas’s palm and presses it against the beige, as though he can will Cas to mojo designs on his ribs. “Please.”

He’s getting a headshake, but it’s a slightly bewildered one. “I—”

“Hey. Look at me.”

Ridiculously blue eyes meet his. And then Cas swallows (another human motion), takes a deep breath. And there’s a soft flash of light, a wince—

And then Cas is collapsing, grabbing his head, falling into a ball on the ground.

“No— no— no—”

And Dean’s done it he’s pushed it too far he’s encouraged him to do something and this is the end and he flashes back to mental hospitals and dropped tablets and avoiding conflict and talk of monkeys. Because he’s sitting on the sidewalk, eyes closed. “No— no— no—”

“Cas.” Dean drops down next to him, grabs him by the shoulders. “Castiel. What’s going on?”

Those eyes, opening again. “They made me forget,” he says, voice hard. “They made me forget again.”

And he’s falling, falling, sinking. “Forget what?” Dean manages. And he can’t stop the nightmares flooding his head— Sam in the cage, him in hell, tearing, blood, screaming, worse, his, other peoples’, Alastair’s voice crooning in his ear.

“They—” he stops, gasps again, and it’s almost as though his head is hurting. (Sam’sbrokenwall). And Cas seems to know what he’s thinking, because he’s trying again— “Heaven, they called me back to heaven—” (NobodybreaksupgoingofftobiblecampreeducatingIserveheavennotmanandIcertainlydon’tserveyou) “—they told me— I told them—” and then he’s dry heaving again, memories repressed by heaven flooding back to him. “Naomi—”

It takes him until a wincing Sam is telling him it’s his turn for ink to gather bits and pieces of the story— control, erased memories, trip to heaven. And Cas is getting over the initial pain, the panic, and now he’s just fury, hard edges and voice telling Dean to go back inside and get his stupid tattoos.

Dean does. Looks back several times. But at least the inside is air conditioned.

“Your friend okay?” asks the guy wielding the machine.

“Yeah,” Dean says, having no idea. But Cas is then in there, standing next to him. Eyes darting from person to person. Looks for even longer at a woman in a corner, eyes flickering from her to Dean and back again.

Dean shifts a little as they put on the tracing paper. Demon? he mouths. Gets a slight nod in response. And he hopes that the angel isn’t going to go smiting anyone right now because he’d like to finish having his skin permanently altered, a ring of symbols around his shoulder. Close to where his handprint used to be. And it’s been— well, for him, it’s been forty-seven odd years since his last tattoo. It’s less than that, but somehow still more— he isn’t quite sure how Hell fits in his timeline anymore. There are moments he remembers— the first time he picked up the knife, how best to use different tools, the faces of his victims who would sometimes come back to haunt his dreams. And then there were the first thirty years, of pain and regrowth, and as he’s spent more time on earth the sense of time has slipped away. Sometimes he wakes up and it’s all there; he’s seventy-four years old in a thirty-four year old body and every moment is painful. But other days, he’s in his thirties, and there is a smudge in his memory that’s the color of hell.

How old are you, Sam had asked him earlier.

He doesn’t know.

Either way, the tat is more painful than it really has a right to be. But at least gods can’t get their peep on.

He also doesn’t remember it taking this long. They’re only permanently putting some lines on his body— that should take half an hour, tops.

He forks over some cash when they’re done, glances again at the demon woman. She’s sitting next to the autoclave, hasn’t moved since they entered.

She meets his gaze, eyes flashing black. Then she smiles, taps the side of her nose, and walks out the back door.

Nobody seems to notice.

“We should follow her,” Dean sighs.

By the time they get outside, Sam, bless his soul, seems to already have the situation under control. He’s got her pinned to the side of the building and is muttering an exorcism under his breath. Dean frowns as he watches the black smoke go screaming away.

“Why didn’t you kill her?”

Sam gives him face number-it would leave a bad impression to stab a woman outside the No Regrets tattoo parlor in Tempe, Arizona.

Don watches it go. “I always thought there’d be more smoke.”

Everyone turn to stare at him.

“Oh, yeah.” Face number-don’t kill the messenger. “Don here is a fan of Chuck.”

Well. Isn’t that splendid. Then again, it’ll save them time with some of the explanation of the basics. “Well,” Dean says, “those are a few years out of date.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Then Cas is telling them that they need to get moving, and he’s storming back towards the Impala. Dean fears for his headlights.

“We should find a place to bunk up,” Benny says, looking at the sky. “Gettin’ dark. Also, if we’re staying in A-Z, you’re buying me sunglasses.”

“Yeah.” Dean shoves his hand in his pockets. “Should we pull off at the next hotel exit?”

“Only if there’s a bar nearby,” says Amelia. She’s still staring at the newly-exorcised woman, who is rubbing her eyes, somewhat confused, and backing rather quickly away from their group. “I think I need a drink.”

Crash.

One of the street lights shatters, reminding Dean of the furious angel. He runs after him.

Castiel is standing next to the car. He doesn’t have his arms crossed, he’s not glaring, sulking— his anger is only visible in the lines around his eyes. And Dean tries not to be terrified.

“Cas. Cas, you—” of course he’s not alright. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

Then he’s on the receiving end of the Blank Face of Fury. “I want—” the angel starts. Then stops, yanking open the car door and sitting down. Dean notes Benny climb into the Outback, presumably trying to avoid the potential celestial meltdown, so with no other passengers to collect Dean gets into the Impala’s driver’s seat and starts it up.

“You want?”

But all he gets is closed eyes and a grimace. “I want. Angels don’t want. Free will. I fought a war— I lost everything for that idea. And then I find out they’ve just been— ordering me around since I got back. Pulling me out, making me forget, I—”

Dean knows he can’t do anything to help this. Keeps his eyes on the road. “You chose, though, Cas. To put those marks on your bones. You disobeyed.”

A snort. “Does it matter? Was that my choice? Or did I just go with your opinion instead?” he shakes his head. Lightning flickers in the distance. Coming from nowhere— but Dean can see the shadows of wings for a second against the seat of the car. Across his face, it seems, because there’s a weird sensation, a smell, and then it’s gone.

“Well if you argue that,” Dean says, “then nobody has free will. I mean, I didn’t choose to start hunting. My parents didn’t choose to fall in love. I’m the result of freakin’ angel breeding. Hell, I’ve been raised from the dead enough times that I’m startin’ to wonder if I got the Mark of Cain. What I do, I do ‘cause of other people. For other people.” He considers this for a moment. “I mean, even me telling Zachariah to fuck off all those times, I did that ‘cause of who I was and my friends an’ family and what I believed. If I’d been raised somethin’ different— religious, maybe, or to respect authority, or if I didn’t have you to beat the shit out of me when I fucked up, then maybe I woulda.”

Cas smiles a little. “It was, perhaps, a mistake in angel breeding for you to end up so stubborn.”

But Dean is on a roll now. “So’s near as I figure, maybe we don’t have total free will in the purest sense, but we got what you can take. I guess we’re all the result of influence, really, and then we just gotta choose… I don’t know. Guess we gotta figure out what’s right and wrong and then work with that. And wanting things— that’s not so bad either. Helps, to some extent. I mean, I want demons dead, I want a double cheeseburger, and I want you and Sammy safe— so that influences a lot of what I do, you know? I’ve decided that those things are right.”

“I dislike wanting things,” the angel says. A glance over shows Dean that he’s being stared at— and that isn’t anything new, but it’s different, somehow. And he knows, he understands what that means. And maybe that’s why he looks away again. He’s Dean Winchester, and he doesn’t know how to do anything but want.

“You want something bad enough,” he says after a minute, “sometime it’s better for everyone if you just… take it.”

And doesn’t that just hang in the air.

“You’re a very unusual person,” Cas says finally.

Dean smiles a little. “I’m really not.”

The hotel is called the Eight-Pointed Star. Don asks if it’s some sort of secret wiccan hang-out; Sam tells him that wiccans are more about the pentagons.

“You don’t have a room for six, by any chance?” Dean asks the man at the desk. The idea of splitting up again makes him a little uneasy.

The guy types away. “We got the party room with four queens, if y’all aren’t too squeamish.”

Dean considers. “Party, you said?”

“Oh yeah. Comes with a minibar. You have to pay extra for that, of course.”

“That sounds fantastic.” Dean slaps a credit card down on the counter. It’s on the top floor, but they can deal with that just the once.

The guy’s face light up when he sees the bandage on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey, is that a new tat?” And he should have worn his coat, but it’s a million freaking degrees out and it hurts.

“Yeah.”

“I have a tattoo, too.” The guy shakes up his own sleeve to show the eight-point star on his wrist. “It’s not ‘cause of the hotel— I started working here after. I mean, I have their freakin’ star tattooed on my arm; they couldn’t not hire me.”

“Sweet deal, man,” Dean says. “Hey, Sam, next job change, I should look for a hotel called uh—” he cranes his neck around to see what he can see of the design through the bandage. Benny tells him that he’s really not funny and then they’re schlepping up to the ninth floor.

In the elevator, Amelia leans against the wall. Closes her eyes. “When I went to work this morning,” she said, “I was planning on digging a cyst out of a goldie.”

Benny holds up his hand, a mockery of a toast. “Welcome to the life.”

“Next time, how about you don’t give me a ride home?”

Sam grimaces. “Yeah well.”

And Dean thinks that next time, Sam won’t talk to her at all. Won’t move in with her, won’t sleep with her, won’t… won’t play house, whatever. Because they always, always bring everybody down. But Dean also knows that you can’t change the past. And knows that piece of Sam will always be with Amelia, just as he left a piece of himself with Ben Braeden, in Hell, in Purgatory, with their dad and Bobby. Christ. They’re both in pieces, aren’t they?

The room is pretty impressive, as far as hotel rooms go. Doesn’t top the Elysian or that honeymoon suite, of course— but Elysian Fields had featured a group of carnivorous pagans and Dean doesn’t want to think about what went down in that honeymoon suite ever again. This one has a large star on the wall, surrounded by a circle. And as artwork goes, it’s a little weird. But there are four beds, and numerous pillows. And—

“Sammy, check out the bathroom.”

Sam looks around. “Okay. Now I’m suspicious.”

“Nope.” Dean reenters the main room. “Nope, nope. Unless something tries to eat us, we’re so not poking our noses into anything.” He flops dramatically down onto one of the beds. Benny takes another, and Dean tries not to notice Sam and Amelia sneaking awkward glances at each other as it’s awkwardly assumed that she’s going to bunk up with Don.

“Where are you going to sleep?” she asks Cas. Cas has been silent since they showed up— and Dean isn’t sure what he can do for him, but figures if something really was off about this place, he’d pick up on it. He’ll talk to him later.

“I’ll probably just sit,” Cas says, turning around one of the wooden chairs. There’s no kitchen unit here, which sucks, but Dean figures they can just order a pizza or something. He isn’t really up for bringing the whole crew to a diner. Speaking of which— he pulls out his wallet, starts leafing through.

“Should probably make a pool run soon,” he says. “If we’re going to keep paying for things in cash.”

“Oh, right.” Don points. “You guys make money through credit card scams and such, right?”

Amelia turns. “What?”

“Chill.” Dean leans back on his bed, closes his eyes. “It’s not like they pay us for what we actually do. Anyway, we get more of it from, um.”

“Hustling pool,” she says, sounding decidedly unimpressed.

“Anyone who falls for that doesn’t deserve their money,” Dean says. Then Cas asks him if this is one of those moral things that he decided, and Dean says that yes, it is. Right, wrong. And then he leaves Sam to try and convince Amelia that they really are morally righteous and shit. Dean figures he’s got the monopoly on that, what with being the Righteous Man and all, but whatever.

“If you’re worried about it,” he says, “you can always pay for the pizza yourself.”

Sam frowns. “What pizza?”

Oh. Yeah. He hadn’t exactly told them of that plan. “The pizza that we’re going to order because I really don’t want to have to actually leave this room.”

Pause.

“Fair enough,” Don says, and picks up the phone.

Sam tucks his phone under his ear and begins typing away on his laptop.

“Yeah— Garth. Hey. Is Kevin there?”

There’s a pause. “Sam. Hey. This isn’t ‘zactly the best— no, you have to stab it seven times, idjit— time, we’ve got a bit of a—”

There’s a crashing sound. And then a voice that sounds a lot like Mrs. Tran belting out an exorcism. Sam drums his fingers on his knee as he waits.

“I thought you were trying to keep them safe,” he says, “not taking them hunting.”

“It found us,” Garth says. “Anyway. So what can I do for you, amigo?”

“Can you give Kevin the phone?”

“No problemo.” (Sam assumes that they’re not all that far away, then, if Garth has taken to speaking Spanglish.) There’s a scuffle, and then a—

“Hello?”

Sam leans back on the bed, adjusts the phone again. “Kevin, hey.”

“Hi, Sam.”

(“Is that the prophet?” Benny asks. “Ask him who I should bet on for the Packers game.”

“The Seahawks,” says Don.

“They aren’t playing the Seahawks.”

“That doesn’t mean that the Seahawks won’t win.”

“Oh my god,” Amelia says. “Get over that one, already.”

“Never,” says Don.

“Fucking cheeseheads,” says Dean.

“Everybody shut up,” says Sam.)

“So is there any word from heaven?” he asks.

There’s a sigh on the other end. “Nope,” Kevin says. “Heaven’s been quiet. Why?”

“They were— messing with Castiel. Thought you might know something ‘bout why.”

He gets a laugh. “The angels don’t talk to me, man. I don’t know what kind of prophet you’re used to, but all I do is read those tablets. No chance you got any more of those?”

Ha. “Nope. Word of God not present or an issue right now.”

“Well, I’ll let you know if we find one. I gotta go, though. Hotel security is going to be on us in T-minus-two.”

Click.

Sam looks up. “I think we need to get Kevin away from Garth.”

Cas’s eyebrows scrunch. “You think he is unsafe?”

“No, I think he’s starting to speak fake-Bobbyish.”

Dean rubs his face. “I tried to tell him to stop that.”

“Yeah and then you had a touching moment where you gave him the hat back— anyway, it’s not like he needs our permission. Someone had to—”

“Yes. Yes, I’m aware.” And now his brother is sitting up, checking his watch. “Doesn’t mean I have to— I don’t know.” He waves a hand. “You know, we should really stop being on a volunteer basis. Demons run rampant, it wouldn’t be too hard to prove to like, HomeSec that they’re real. Then there can be some sort of hunter agency that gets us into places and pays salaries.” Pause. “Except if government folk knew of demon deals…”

“Who’s to say they don’t?” Benny asks.

Dean groans. “When’s the pizza supposed to get here?”

Sam goes to bed full of pizza and perhaps a little bit of alcohol. It had been a long four days. And he’s definitely not thinking about Amelia lying next to Don just a few feet away— he’s exhausted and he buries his face in his pillow. Counts the breaths of the others and figures that if anyone tries to kill him in his sleep, Castiel will let them know. And then there’s a woman, tall, with dark red hair. She’s pretty much gorgeous; lines of her body somehow soft and hard at the same time. She weaves through stacks of books in what looks like some sort of college library. Doesn’t make a sound, despite the laws of physics in regard to army boots and tile floors.

“Enki!” She looks around one of the rooms before marching up the escalator. “Oi! Enki?”

There’s a response, muffled by the shelves— but after a couple more minutes, she finds a man surrounded by tomes and typing away on a MacBook. “Morning,” Enki says cheerfully. “Would you care for some bottled water?”

She laughs. “Is that yours, now, then?”

“Might as well be. There’s pretty much no difference between that and the old rivers. Well, less urine, but a little urine never hurt anybody.”

The woman laughs again— she has a nice laugh— and drops into the seat across from him. “These humans would probably disagree. They’re so clean. I smelled forty different types of soap this morning.”

Enki raises an eyebrow. “And is that all you were smelling? You’ve been gone for two weeks. What did you do to your hair?”

"Blending in! Enlil was all about blending in."

"That is not blending in. You've never blended anywhere in your life."

She shrugs. “Just been seeing what’s changed.” Pause. “Wars are fought by robots and children, and they’ve invented a pill that keeps women from getting pregnant. Wish we’d thought of that one— you could have used it.”

“Inanna.” But he looks kind of amused, too.

“I jest. But they also have things they call cock rings, and pay-per-view porn, and weapons that can fire hundreds of lethal scraps of metal in seconds. And something called ‘purple nurples’.”

Enki closes the laptop. “As always, your interests are focused.”

Inanna looks offended. “Please. You’ve seen the internet, and those phone things. They can build things higher and more colorful than the Gate, they can freeze moments in time and look at them later, and they say ‘can we talk about’ before proceeding to not talk about whatever they wanted to talk about even though nobody has actually denied their requests. They have knives that can kill demons and everybody knows about something minutes after it happened.”

“So I take it you’ve been having fun? You already speak like a native.”

She shrugs. Leans back in her chair. “There’s other stuff, too. Less good stuff. American congress and North Korea, for a start. And I don’t want to look at the Homeland. But that’s not the point. There’s so much here that we don’t know, that we never dreamed of.”

Enki is shaking his head. “I have a feeling that I know where this is going.”

“And I come back and find out that now we’re in bed with Zeus?”

“Oh, come now. You know that we are limited in our options; you know about Odin.”

“Screw him. Look.” She takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to go back to our old world. It was fun, sure, but it’s over. And you know that Enlil and Zeus are just waiting for the right moment to stab each other in the back— literally, metaphorically and euphemistically.”

Enki’s lips twitch again. “Enlil, and the rest— they’re family. Incestuous, imperfect family, but the only one that we’ll know.”

Inanna stands. Begins leafing through one of the books— a gnostic gospel— with what is clearly forced calm. “Family? My sister murdered me and hung my corpse on the wall. And everyone else—”

“Said you were arrogant. Too ambitious. And I assume that that hasn’t changed, given your reason for being here.”

Arms that are at the same time delicate and muscular cross, and she pulls them a little closer to her body. “Ambition isn’t a bad thing here, anymore. Kids are praised for it. They’re lied to and told they can be anything. Some of them grow up to be everything. Tell me honestly that you’re okay with this. That you trust Enlil and Zeus.”

“This isn’t a matter of trust.” He’s standing too, now.

“I trust you,” she says. “You are the closest thing I have to a— father. You’re the only one on this godsforsaken earth that I trust. Even when I hate you, you’ve always given good counsel. Can you trust me? Enki— you told me once that I have the power to destroy what cannot be destroyed. Your Gallas found the angel within hours. You think that together, we cannot save this plane?”

Enki takes a deep breath, rubs his palms down his face. “You think this is wise?”

“It might not be wise, but I think— I feel it is right. We cannot let Enlil and Zeus hold the Mes.”

She gets a look of amusement. “Well, you always were good at stealing them.” Then Enki nods, briefly. “I’ll stand with you.”

“Shut up.” But she’s more relaxed now, her smile comes more easily. “Want to go see Italy with me? I hear they have awesome pizza. Have you tried pizza yet?”

“Someday,” says Enki, “you’re going to ask for too much.”

She looks at him. “And I trust that you’ll tell me when that happens. Now c’mon, Enk. You’ve been in the libraries too long. You need to learn about condoms. This way, you won’t impregnate all your limbs.”

They disappear and then there are just images flashing past— the curve of Amelia’s breast, angel wings and hellfire. Lucifer’s voice drawls in his ear. “Sammy?” he saying. “Sammy, it’s time to get up.” And then Lucifer turns and he’s Chuck and he’s saying that he saw Sam having sex and that he should probably be more careful and then something attacks him with a pillow. “Come on! Up and at ‘em! We’re all gonna have to wash our freaking tats before we get outta here.”

Sam sits up. Looks around for Castiel. “What is the Me?”

Dean wants to bang his head against the wall. “So, what, you’re not even going to try and figure out what’s causing this?”

Sam takes a couple steps back, crosses his arms. “Of course I want to try, of course I’m curious. It just doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Dean! It could help us!”

“Right.” Dean looks at Benny, Cas, and the Richardsons, hoping one of them would back him up— but they’re pointedly not looking at them. “Right. Except, when has shit like this ever ended well?”

“Oh. Let’s think.” Sam makes a show of counting on his fingers. “There was that time I saved the family living in our old house, and— right! Really, I think it was only a couple day ago that I reminded you that— what was it? Oh. Right. I saved Castiel and killed Alastair. I’d count that as a benefit.”

“Killing Alastair wasn’t your job, Sam!” But he’ll never understand that, never understand any of the— and Christ, he’s glad Cas is alive, but—

“Oh. I’m sorry. He was— what did he say? He’s your father? Or did he just like it when you called him ‘Daddy’—?”

And then Dean sees white (white white light of hell and pain and that voice) and he’s lunging forward, his fist making a solid connection with Sam’s face. “Don’t you ever—” (Because he’s forgotten, he’s forgotten, he doesn’t, can’t remember, all those things, years and years of—)

At least Sam has the decency to look ashamed of himself. As he tries to stop the bleeding in his nose. “Sorry. That was— I’m sorry—”

Dean doesn’t want to hear it. “Have you forgotten what you were doing then, Sammy? Because I’m pretty damn sure it was Ruby— but you can’t be blamed for that, because her new body was hot and you became best pals while I—” and from the flicker of Sam’s eyes, the way he looks at Amelia and away— guess he’d failed to mention that. But Dean can’t let himself feel bad. Nope. Not at all.

“While you were torturing souls? Oh, right. That was so awful for you, wasn’t it. Because last time I checked, you—”

“—You have no idea what the fuck you’re—”

“—And you got Castiel out of the deal—”

“—Shaking up with a married woman—”

“—Like you weren’t playing house with Lisa— and then, what happened to them? Oh, right, you got Castiel to mind-rape—”

“—Don’t you dare—”

“Sorry, am I interrupting a moment?”

Dead silence. And Dean is still seeing red, seeing hatred, seeing fury, and he’s got Ruby’s knife out and is lunging— but Crowley is swaying out of the way, looking mildly amused. “Ah, Castiel. How’s the mojo feeling?”

Cas’s sword slips out of his sleeve, and Dean will never, ever quite understand where that thing goes. “Fine.”

“Oh, good. Look! Newbies!” Crowley waves. “A vampire, then? That one yours, Moose?”

Sam raises a hand. “Exorcizamus te—”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Are we really going to be so boring?”

“What do you want,” Cas says. Voice low, threatening— doesn’t go up at the end, isn’t really a question. And Dean can’t help it if he thinks it’s a little bit hot. Timing.

Crowley tilts his head. “I just thought I’d let you know— I’m done with your little angel friend, so you can come and pick him up now.” Grins at their blank faces. “Oh, you didn’t know, did you? Heaven is really falling apart.”

More blank faces.

“Samandriel, idiots. We’ve been chatting for the last few weeks. I was planning on killing him myself, but then I thought— why mess up the carpet when I know that Heaven has such excellent rehabilitation services for traitors? You can confirm that, right, Castiel?”

Dean tries to remember which one Samandri— wait. “Alfie?” And that’s a punch to the gut, because he has no patience for most angels, but Alfie— too much heart was always Castiel’s problem. And how could— yes, it’s just another thing to add to his guilt list.

Crowley folds a piece of paper into an airplane and throws it at Cas’s head. “Have fun. Don’t worry, it’s not a trap; I’m sure Heaven will welcome you back with open arms when you bring little Samandriel back.” He frowns at their defensive stances. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you. Or even attack you, because this is a new suit. God knows I should. But see, I still haven’t fully paid Cas here back, and I can’t decide what would be funnier— Dean’s reaction if I killed Castiel first, or Castiel’s reaction if I killed Dean first. It’s a shame I can’t have both.”

He still looks too smug— how the hell is he standing in their hotel room— and Dean swallows. Looks over at Cas for a signal— fight or flight— but Crowley is already sighing.

“I miss Bobby Singer. He was more fun than you lot. Oh well.” He nods. “Have fun with the Cult of Dionysus. Until next time. Chao.”

It’s over in about three minutes, and they’re reeling.

“I’m going to kill him,” Dean says. “I swear to God, or whoever is running— I don’t care. I’m going to kill him.”

Sam frowns. “Get in line.”

“So that was the demon you teamed up with?” Benny asks. “I think I like him.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, he’s a real charmer.” Then, at Don’s disbelieving look, “it’s a complicated relationship.”

Cas is stowing his sword and unfolding the paper. “We need to go.”

Dean stares in disbelief. “You think we need to go to the place where he’s keeping an angel and then retrieve him and it’s totally not a trap?”

He receives face number I am an angel of the lord and I’ve already thought of your argument. “We aren’t going anywhere,” Cas says. “I will go, get Samandriel, bring him back to heaven, and then I’ll call you and meet up with you again.”

This would probably be easier to discuss rationally if he and Sam hadn’t just been yelling at each other.

“Hold up. Are you insane? There are at least thirty things wrong with that plan. Starting with, Crowley’s little vendetta against you. And then there’s the part where it’s a trap. And then there’s the you-going-back-to-heaven part which I thought was a— I mean, these are the—” he turns to Benny and Sam. “Come on guys, help me out here.”

Benny shrugs. “I’d rather he go than all of us; I’m in no mood to be captured.”

“Sam?”

But he can see it on his brother’s face— and no no no this isn’t happening Cas isn’t leaving them not again. Except, except, free will, and he’d originally planned on going back to heaven, and Cas can make his own decisions, and he can fight, he’s tough, and he knows what he’s doing, he’d been in heaven for a couple minutes just a couple of days ago, this isn’t different, and Dean can’t order him to do anything. Because that’s what they had decided, right? Free will, free choice, and he— okay. Okay. He can do this like a mature adult—

He turns back to the angel. “Be careful,” he says shortly. “Don’t you dare—” Do anything stupid and reckless because you’re playing the martyr.

Cas tilts his head, raises an eyebrow. Smiles a little. An I’ll be fine, Dean. Take care of yourself. And Dean swallows, nods, turns away. Then back because he doesn’t want Cas to think he’s— and they make eye contact for a second before there’s the sound of wings and he vanishes.

And he’s not going to worry he’s not going to worry.

“Erm.” Amelia raises her hand. “What was that about the cult of Dionysus?”

Dean grabs his pack. “Come on. We gotta get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Yeah.” Sam starts getting his own stuff together. “Where to?”

Dean flips him a newspaper and decides that all is forgiven because there’s other shit to do. “Page three.”

Rustling, then— “Um… ‘Utah Cult Leader arrested for public nudity?’”

“No, next to that.”

“…‘Biblical Miracle: Utah Water Tower Filled With Wine?’ Really, Dean?”

Dean shrugs. “Hey, if nothing else, we can have a good drink.”

Benny clears his throat, glancing between the Wincheters and the Richardsons. “I thought we were trying to keep these ones here safe?”

Dean’s already halfway out the door. “It’s an entire town drunk, and I haven’t actually killed anything in a few days. How bad can it be?”

After all, godly politics are not the family business.

“I’m takin’ the Outback,” Benny says. “Alone. Need some freakin’ peace’n quiet.”

Sam tosses him the keys, and despite the situation, Dean tries to hide a smile. Tries to be happy that Sam isn’t trying to gank him, or accuse him of running off, at least this week. But Benny won’t— he’s pretty sure of that. Benny won’t leave them right now, for better or for worse. They're all In This Shit together and stuff.

Don and Amelia are stowed in the back of the Impala, and Dean needs to figure out what to do about them. He doesn’t really have an opinion so far; Don seems amusing enough, but whatever Sam had seen in Amelia seems to be hidden.

Then again, he doesn’t really blame them for being pretty quiet. What with what their lives have turned into in the last day or so.

“Come back soon,” the tattooed desk man says cheerfully.

Then they’re in the Impala, and Sam says “I’m sorry. About, you know—” and Dean tells him that nope, it’s all fine.

It’s been twenty minutes since Cas left and they’re heading North.

The car is silent for a few minutes. Then—

“Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

“Dean.” Sam closes his eyes. “It’s been half an hour.”

“Yeah. Pop over to where Alfie is, grab him, take him to heaven, pop back. Coulda done it in five minutes. Something’s wrong.”

“Oh my god.” It’s a long-suffering sigh that fills the car. “Castiel can take care of himself. You know that, or you wouldn’t have let—”

“I don’t let Cas do anything,” Dean cuts in. “He can make his own decisions.”

Sam flings up his hands. “That’s what I’ve been saying! He’s fine, Dean. He checked out Heaven the other day, didn’t he?”

Yes but Dean had been scared shitless then, too. Plus he’d barely been gone fifteen minutes.

“Just to clarify,” Don says, “Heaven is real, angels are real, but Heaven isn’t a good place and angels are—”

“Dicks,” says Dean. “Well, most of them. Um, Alf— Samandriel, he seemed alright.”

“Balthazar is okay,” Sam says. “I mean, besides that parallel world thing. And the encouraging-me-to-kill-Bobby thing. And the Titani— you know, never mind. Balthazar is as well.”

Dean pulls onto the highway. Takes a deep breath. “Balthazar is dead, Sam.”

Silence.

“What?”

How have they not talked about this? But then, Dean had just assumed that the angels were intentionally on the DL all of the last couple years— “Balthazar is dead. Pretty soon after we last saw him. Cas, um. Cas killed him.”

More silence.

“Tell me,” Sam says tightly, “that you didn’t know about this at the time and conveniently neglect to tell me.”

“I didn’t know about that at the time and not tell you,” Dean says. “I, um. Cas told me. In Purgatory.” When he was trying to convince Dean to leave him behind. And he’s not that worried about it— it’s not like Dean hadn’t sort of assumed that Balthazar was dead, and he’d never liked him, and he knew. Knew what Cas had done and knew and he’d already forgiven him for that, in that year he was gone, because he’d move the trench coat from car to car and he’d missed him and it had hurt so fucking much. So, whatever. He might be going back to hell for that when he died, but it was like he’d told Cas earlier. Right and wrong. And what Cas had done was wrong, but there was so much he had done that was right, too.

It’s a lot easier to forgive other people than yourself.

“Right,” Sam says. “Right. So.” He turns. “’Melia, can you go online and see if you can find anything else out about this Jesus tower?”

“Watchtower,” Don says.

Dean grins. “Good one.” Pause. “Sam, we still got our utilities badges?”

His name is Brandon Nickle, and he seems more than willing to take them around the tower. He barely glanced at their ID.

“Some Public Utilities people already came,” he says, leading Dean and Don up the stairs.

“Just expanding our official report,” Dean says. “And I’ll admit, I wanted to see it for myself.”

Nickle chuckles. “You wouldn’t be the first. Man, if I hadn’t turned on my faucet— thought for a moment it was blood. But nope. Just red wine. Pretty good red wine too.”

“What kind?” Don asks. Dean looks at him, a little surprised— although he hadn’t considered it. Valid question, he figures.

“There’s some experts looking into that,” Nickle says. “I think they think it’s some kind of Merlot or Amoretto.” They stop. “Here ya go, Guys.” Pause. “Not sure what you think you’re gonna find though. There’s nothing on the security tape, and there’s nobody in town with enough money to buy several thousand gallons of the stuff.”

Dean grunts. “Bet there’s a lot of happy people, though.” Then again, it might make all this easier to investigate. He loves cases that involve drunk people.

He gets a laugh. “Sure, well enough. I mean, whole town’ gonna reek somethin’ awful soon if we don’t get showers.”

Chirp.

literally no demons, vamps here— everything quiet.
B

He notices the first sign of weirdness when he looks up.

“Did somebody change their logo?” he asks, pointing to a snake-and-ivy symbol on the wall. He isn’t sure why, but that— doesn’t seem like something that should be in a water tower. Then again, this is Utah.

Nickle looks at it, shrugs a little. “I dunno, I never noticed it. So I guess it’s been there for awhile.” Then he grin. “Maybe it’s the evil wine’s doing. I mean, people are already blaming it for that kid…”

“Yeah,” Dean says, wedging his phone more securely under his ear as he fumbles for car keys. “Blind, deaf and dumb. Full-on Tommy.”

Sam sighs. “Everyone nearby has checked out. Most suspicious thing they have here is a book club.”

“Hey, last book club—”

“I remember.”

“Alright. Well, you two go talk to the kid. Me and Don are gonna hear what the locals are saying.” One of the things that he doesn’t like about the iPhone is that he can’t hang up with his chin. There’s something about hitting the ‘end call’ button that just feels so unnecessary.

They get in the car. Don frowns. “Um, does that mean ‘go to a bar’?”

“Hell, yes.” Dean check the time. Seven hours since they left Flagstaff. That’s nearly eight since Cas left. He takes a deep breath.

“What do Sam and Amelia have?” Don asks.

“A book club.”

Don’s frown gets, if possible, even frown-ier. “Sounds highly suspicious.”

“Right?” Dean sighs. Then— “Why would people go to a bar? There’s not going to be anyone in the bar. They get unlimited alcohol at home. I were them, I’d be bottling it and selling it later. And trying to keep my kids away.”

“I dunno. I could go for something a little stronger than Merlot right now.”

“Sorry.” Dean attempts to wiggle out of his bad parallel parking job. (If any word of this gets back to Sammy, he’s going to claim possession. After all, his new tattoos are barely forming scabs; maybe they aren’t entirely effective.) (And that thought is distinctly uncomforting.) “I guess this is all a little—”

“You think? Nah.” Pause. “It’ not any crazier than this last year, really.”

“Why’d you go?” Dean asks. “Seems like you had it alright with Amelia.”

And he’s curious, really. Knows that he couldn’t have stayed with Lisa and maybe it’s the same reason— Don’s studying the window, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to line up words.

“I needed— you ever wake up and feel like your life’s too small…? I guess not with your lives. Anyway. In retrospect, the military wasn’ the best way to go to fix that. And I do love Amelia. And Amelia loves me. She also loves Sam.” Don shrugs. “I don’t know, now. Right now I’m thinkin’ about surviving this god-war thing.”

“Fair enough.” Dean pauses at a red light and pulls a bag of M&Ms out from under the seat. “L’chaim.”

Chirp

He looks at the phone again.

No underground— gonna go check out the sewers.
B.

Don looks over his shoulder. “He gonna need backup?”

“He’d have said if he did.”

“Fair enough.”

Dean decides that he likes Don.

Sam and Amelia are led to the upper corner of the hospital.

“Nobody knows who his parents are,” the nurse says. “Just one of those kids on the street, you know? I saw him around some, too. Name of Lewis, or so he said. Then, yesterday—” she cracks the door in question, then opens it slowly. “Yesterday he just shows up like this. Some man brought him in. Not a relation.”

The boy is sitting on a hospital bed— exactly the same as the ones Sam had slept on, and he wonders if it’s a requirement to be a hospital of any reasonable standing. He’s surrounded by various games; a rubix cube with textured instead of colored squares, a wooden triangle with pegs in it. Right now, though, he’s clutching a fuzzy blanket. His eyes are closed.

“His eyes still react to light,” the nurse says. “Nothing here makes sense.”

Have you given him a pinball machine?

Amelia is approaching him slowly. Stands next to the bed for a moment, then reaches out and places her hand on his shoulder.

“Nobody is coming for him?” she asks. Her face is pinched. Then— “I didn’t see any of this in the papers, either.”

“It’s been pretty quiet.”

“It’s despicable,” Amelia says. “If he was a skinny white kid there’d be people lining up to—” she stops when Lewis turns his head towards her. Everyone goes quiet. And she reaches out, slowly. Takes his hand, sways it side to side in the mockery of a ‘hello’. Then places it against her face, and Sam loves her just that much more.

Lewis feels her face, her hair for a moment before reaching out. Hand crawling across the bed and picking up the rubix cube. He reaches for Amelia again, pulls her hand down to the cube. Together, they spin the pieces.

“Wow,” the nurse says softly. “He hasn’t reacted to anyone…”

’Melia has a way with strays, Sam thinks.

And then he remembers that he shouldn’t love her anymore, so he tries to stop.

But the nurse won’t let them stay long.

“What?” Amelia asks, looking at him as they leave.

Sam shrugs. “Nothing. I just— missed you.”

She’s silent a moment. “You’re the one that left me, Sam.”

He flashes back to Dean, disapproving of that same decision. Road to hell, intentions.

“Is it really pathetic,” Amelia says, punching the elevator button, “that all these ghosts and gods are real and I spend a lot of my time worryin’ about that— and at the same time I’m also caught up in our freaking soap opera?”

He figures he should take offense to this. They hit the lobby, smile and wave at the person at the desk before they go out onto the sidewalk. “I’m not a soap opera.”

“Oh, come on. Husband dies, get hot mysterious new boyfriend, husband’s alive, hot mysterious boyfriend saved the world a few times over?”

Sam snorts. “Please. That’s just my life.”

Amelia stops in the middle of the sidewalk, only halfway down the block. Turns to face him. “Sam,” she says seriously. “I have something to tell you.”

Dramatic pause.

“I’m pregnant. With octuplets. And half of them are yours.”

Sam processes that sentence for a second, and then he’s laughing, and she is too, and he feels like he’s going to fall over because he’s laughing so hard and their lives are a little ridiculous. “Forget a book series,” Sam says. “We should be a TV show.”

Then he remembers that time everything was just a TV show and—

Ugh.

He wonders what happened in that world. Were the people there even real? Did it all juts fall apart after they left, or did Gen think he went insane? Did she think at all? Did her husband come back after they all just—

He can’t overthink angel tricks. Can’t think about them— all those fake memories he’ll never get back. His fake life as Sam Wesson or that Titanic universe. There he had remembered his entire past, but now he only knows the last couple days. The only real days. He can’t remember Ellen and Bobby’s wedding, or what Jo had been doing, or what had happened in Carthage—

“Sam.” Amelia frowns. “Sam, you in there? You didn’t drink too much of that tap water did you?”

He laughs again. It’s such a weird feeling— he can’t remember how long he’s been doing the whole ‘brooding and pensive’ routine.

Dean and Don are already at the hotel when they get back, and Sam might have to give Don a nickname (unless Don is a nickname— he’s pretty sure it’s short for Donald, so he’ll have to give him another nickname) because this whole short d-n name thing is going to get old fast. Dean is flicking through one of the binders, explaining the organizational system.

Amelia looks between them for a second, then storms up to the table. “Hands,” she barks.

Don looks up, face entirely innocent. “Eh?”

“Hands,” she says again. “C’mon.”

There is some guilty shuffling, and then four hands are offered.

“Hah!” She points, triumphant, to colored spots. “I knew it.” Turns to Sam. “They’ve got a secret M&M stash. They’ve been holding out on us.”

Dean groans, then chucks her the mostly empty bag. “So did you take Tommy to play pinball?”

Sam sits down on one of the beds. “No, but I did refrain from making that joke.”

His brother rolls his eyes, then hands him the phone. A picture of a snake and some ivy. “You recognize this?”

“Nope.”

Wrong answer— because that expression means “five points to Dean.” Or maybe “ha-ha-ha-ha.”

“It’s associated with Dionysus. Greek god of wine. He did the water-wine thing first— that’s part of why the Christians said Jesus did because if he couldn’t do something that Dionysus could do—”

Sam is still reeling from the fact that his brother seemed to have done some research of his own free will.

“By the way, I hope everyone is okay with burgers. Benny said he’d pick some up.”

The body snatchers have gotten his brother. “What’s with the wanting to stay in, Dean? We get all sorts of info from people in diners, and the food is usually better.” People to flirt with, whatever.

Dean gestures to the binders. “Can’t exactly bring these.”

Ah-ha. “Cas is probably fine,” Sam says. He gets a scowl for his wonderful intuition.

“I never—”

Yeah, Dean is really freaking obvious. “But if we went to a diner and Cas showed up injured, it would be hard to explain that.” He nods. “That makes sense. I don’t want bacon on my burger.”

Careful, Dean, or your face will freeze like that. “Anyway, it looks like they’re trying to wake him— Dionysus— up. Apparently the water-wine is like a pre-alarm clock thing. Remember what Crowley said?”

Amelia looks at the picture in the binder. “Or Crowley is just playing a joke, and wants you to think that they’re trying to raise Dionysus to distract you.”

“Or,” Sam realizes, “Crowley told us so that we would think that Crowley wanted us to think that he was pulling one over us so that we’ll think that Dionysus is not waking up and then we’ll let it happen.”

“Or,” says Amelia, “Crowley wants us to think that he wants us to—”

“Oh my god,” Don says. “Stop.”

“If anyone says something-ception, so help me—” but no one says it, and so Dean pulls open another page. “The kid fits the whole waking-up thing though. The Greek prophets tended to be blind so they could see what the gods saw. And then there’s that boy, right. They take his eyesight, his hearing, whatever, so that Dionysus can see and hear when he wakes up.”

Amelia narrows her eyes. “You mean someone did that to him? All the gods that are awake did this to a child?”

“There’s no sign of it happening anywhere else,” says Don from the computer. “But all the other gods woke up on their own, right?”

Sam tries to process away all the information, tries to figure out— “okay so how do we get his senses back? I mean, would stopping the ritual smash the mirror?”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno, but—”

“The ritual,” Amelia says. “When and where and how do we stop it?”

Before anyone can admit their ignorance, the door flies open. “HEYYYYY, SEXAH LADAY.” They all turn to stare in disbelief as Benny struts in, wearing sunglasses and— “Op, op op op op.”

Sam take a moment to appreciate that this really does seem to be his life.

Dean reaches for the bag in Benny’s hand. “Feed me, Seymour.”

“Rude.” The vampire makes a point of giving everyone else their food first. “You know, this is my first time getting drunk since Purgatory?”

At least he’s happier than drunk-Cas was. Although just as helpful.

“I didn’t find anything more demonic than a book club,” he’s saying. Takes the sunglasses off, which is probably good, since it’s dark, and only douchebags wear sunglasses after dark.

Dean and Sam look at each other.

“Think we should go check that out?” Sam asks, because earlier they’d talked to some woman called Maia who was too wholesome to be real, and who even goes to book clubs anymore anyway? “I mean, they meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And Wednesday was when people first started reporting the wine, and Thursday is—”

“Just go see if there’s anything weird,” Dean says. “Maybe all they’re doing is discussing Fifty Shades. Or reenacting?” His eyes widen. “Oh my god what if they’re—”

Amelia holds up a hand. “Stop.”

It’s a statement on his life that Sam hopes that the book club is evil. Because otherwise they’d have no idea where to start looking next.

“Scout, report.” Dean put Sam on speaker phone.

“Um… doesn’t seem too sketch. They’re all drinking wine, but everyone is around here so— Maia, that’s the organizer, just put her glass down on… an altar.”

Pause.

“And now they’re holding hands and— okay, I think those are human bones. You might want to get down here.”

Pause.

“Yeah that book is definitely not Fifty Shades…”

Dean grimaces. They’re parked only a couple blocks away, but—

He tosses a couple handguns into the back seat. Checks that Benny is reasonably sober. “Ready to motor?”

Don is tapping out a rhythm on the Taurus. “Do we actually have to kill them?”

“Better them than you.”

They catch up with Sam, and then make quite a dramatic entrance indeed into the house. There are maybe seven women inside, all middle-aged, none of them sporting black eyes or horns, gathered around a coffee table. It would all look relatively normal if it wasn’t for the ancient books and chanting and Dean isn’t sure what body part that was.

There are a few moments of confusion, and then that Maia woman launches into the typical villain monologue.

“Dionysus will wake,” she says. They’re weird words, coming from what looks like a soccer mom— but that figures. Anyone on the street could be a member of the Cult of Dionysus (or some other evil book club.) Dean learned that long ago. He sort of wishes that they’d just stuck with their phallic processions and drinking games, though. Instead of actually trying to raise their patron god. “He shall protect us,” she continues. “He’ll protect us if we’re the ones to wake him—”

Benny looks at Dean and shrugs. “Utah, man.”

Then Amelia has shoved Maia against the wall. Her hand is shaking, but she holds the gun fairly steady and aimed at the noggin. “Lewis,” she says. “How do we fix Lewis?”

Maia head-butts her, and Dean is about to shoot, but Amelia has slammed the gun into the side of her head and Maia falls. Another one moves up behind her but Sam is there, and even though Dean generally objects to the beating up of human women, he hope an exception can be made when they’re trying to raise an ancient Greek god.

It doesn’t take much, though. With their leader knocked out the other six don’t quite seem to know what to do, and so Dean lowers his gun and grabs a bunch of important looking books off the coffee table.

“Got any more of these?” he asks.

Deep breath. Then one of them— “Upstairs, in the closet. Please—”

Benny takes off.

“Don’t go raising gods,” Sam is saying. “What’s going down right now, it seems like they’re mostly going to kill people.”

“We know,” says another one. Hispanic woman— Dean wonders how she came into this. At least that Maia’s last name sounded Greek. But maybe Dean is just being racist. “The gods are rising. We thought—” she hesitates. Shakes her head. “What do you know.” Then, at Amelia, “These men, how can you blindly follow—”

Amelia rolls her eyes.

Benny comes back, a few books tucked under one arm. “Let’s scram.”

“Yeah.” Sam takes a few of the books that are shoved at him. “Gotta figure out how to give a kid his life back.”

And Dean is now over one hundred percent certain that any chance they had at staying off the godly radar is now gone for good.

He hopes no one else liked Dionysus either.

“You did good,” Sam says quietly.

Amelia shrugs. “I pistol-whipped a woman. I’m not exactly thrilled.”

Sam knows how that goes. Looks to his brother. “Shouldn’t we be leaving Dodge right about now?”

Dean stops his pacing up and down the little hall of their room. Bathroom to closet and back again. “We should go look for Cas.”

This again. “It hasn’t even been a day, Dean.”

“But—”

“And do you plan on dying, to get into heaven?”

“We have be—”

“We don’t even know if he’s in trouble!” And yeah he’s got no patience. “Let’s face it. When do we not get the Convenient Phone Call from the Dark Side whenever someone gets captured? Crowley wanted you, too, and if the angels wanted him to spy on us then they probably want something from us so if they had him—”

Dean turns on the sink, but it’s only water that comes out. Sam figures that that means that Lewis is okay too, but Dean only seems disappointed at the lack of free alcohol.

“He might—”

And Sam never hears what other tragedy may have befallen Castiel, because there’s a flutter of wings and a “Hello.”

Dean turns on the angel. One second to see his general uninjured state and then “Well, it’s about time!”

The elder Winchester then storms out of the room.

“And that,” Sam says, “is my brother in a nutshell.”

Dean leans against the outside of the hotel. Doesn’t react in any way to Cas’s appearance next to him for a few minutes, because he’s not mad at him for leaving or for coming back, he’s just pissed off in general and he doesn’t trust himself not to start yelling.

And look at him, all trying to control his reactions. (Four for you, Dean Winchester, you go Dean Winchester.)

“How was heaven?” he manages finally.

There’s a pause. “Samandriel is returned.”

It’s not an answer and Dean doesn’t push it. “You know, you guys have ridiculous names.” Then, at the blank look— “Samandriel? I mean, Michael, Raphael, sure, but—”

“Balthazar called him Sammy.”

That’s probably a punch in the gut for both of them. At least Dean doesn’t have to carry the memories of— stabbing him. At least that’s one thing Dean can say for himself. He’s never tried to kill a family member. Not like Sam and Bobby or Cas and— but it’s not much better, is it? Because he’s torn souls apart and put them back together again only to—

“Stop.”

“What?”

Cas is giving him face number don’t play stupid. “It was Hell, Dean. You—”

Dean laughs. It’s a twisted, broken sound. “Forty years, Cas. That’s longer than I’ve been on earth. Hell, the first ten years of my life, those don’t count, do they? I wasn’t me yet, so that’s twice as long—”

“I’m older.” And Dean is about to no shit Sherlock him when the angel continues. “Thousands upon thousands of years, and yet somehow the last five have been the most important.”

“Cas—”

But the angel just shakes his head. “Angels— they aren’t as emotionless as you accuse them of being. We laugh, we miss. I was sad when Anael— Anna— fell. I was concerned for Gabriel. We cared, we loved, we— we didn’t lust in the way that you do, but you did meet Gabriel.”

Yes. Yes, they certainly met Gabriel.

“But we wanted nothing on our own. It was always part of someone’s plan. And then Anna tore out her grace because she wished for the real thing. Gabriel created false women. And everything changed.”

Dean’s mouth has gone dry. “Cas—”

But Cas doesn’t seem to be paying attention. He’s studying the church across the street as though he still expects it to give him answers, as though the psalm quoted on the front— The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want… he restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake-- was an answer.

Weren’t those the days.

“He restoreth my soul,” Castiel murmers. “He put me back on the ground at Stull, I walked whole from the river. Perhaps I am merely what he made me, but that can’t make sense.”

Dean is pretty sure this is the part where he doesn’t say anything, because he’s never been good with Cas’s religious crises. His only god when he was young had been his father— real and tangible. He knew what John had wanted. He knew what would happen if he disobeyed him. Demons were bad, vampires were bad, saving people was good even if the people themselves were not. Right and wrong, like he’d told Cas earlier, and he’d stick by that. And along the way, there were things that fell in the middle— Lenore, angels, Sam and Cas— but he’d take those as he went, he’d decide what half of the spectrum they belonged on and then what to do about it.

Maybe he isn’t so different from an angel after all.

“It can’t make sense because he’s not answering his voice mail, or it can’t make sense because you don’t think you deserve to be saved?” Dean’s mouth twitches a little.

“It can’t make sense,” Cas repeats— “Because I want—” and he’s facing Dean now, and he’s not very far away, and so when he presses Dean against the slated hotel wall and kisses him, it barely seems like he’s moved at all. And then Dean stops wondering about it because he’s very okay with this course of action. But before he can attempt to express this, the angel is pulling away. Staring at the spot just over his head. (And he’s clearly around humans too much if he’s learned to avoid eye contact.) “It can’t make sense because there is no reason, no reason, that he, they, would make me want you. I want—”

There are many responses Dean could have to that. He could be a rational human being and suggest that that was all just Cas, that he did have feelings of his own; he could be a good human being and say that there was no reason at all and thus they shouldn’t fall into this because it’ll kill them both; he could make a bad joke or say that maybe God wanted to give him something good as sort of an apology; he could sit out here for hours and attempt to psychoanalyze angels and God and Heaven and the entire nature of desire. But he is Dean Winchester, and in the end, he will always avoid those conversations when at all possible. So he just grabs Cas’s shirtfront and pulls him forward again.

And then Castiel has one hand on his chest, holding him still, as though Dean is really going to try and go anywhere, and the other on his shoulder where I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition and they’ve both come a hell of a long way since then and it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, because he’s just Dean and Cas is just Cas and he wants and Cas wants and want want and that’s Cas’s teeth on his lower lip, just a little, and for someone who claims to be a virgin he’s ridiculously good at this, but he’s been watching people forever, must know how it works. And so Dean opens his mouth, lets their tongues slip together, and reaches out, for something. Anything. Finds the angel’s hips and pulls him closer. And everything is warm.

Until Cas rolls his hips, just a little, like he can’t stop. And then everything is burning.

“I want,” he repeats, like a broken record, and Dean just shakes his head. Flashes back to their conversation in the car.

“If you want something bad enough,” he says, “sometimes you should just—”

And then it’s all over and if Cas gave him room to move, he’d be falling, falling. But he can’t he doesn’t he doesn’t want to so he just clings tighter as they burn.

Benny cracks open the door— “to make sure that they’re both still alive, it’s uncannily quiet,” and closes it just as quickly.

“They okay?” Don asks.

Benny looks slowly from him, then at Sam, his eyebrows raised a little. “They seem to be working out their issues.”

And a few states away, Inanna-- skin darker, hair black, but with the same unmistakable presence-- loads the last box into a minivan.

“Thank you,” she says to the man helping her. When she reaches out a hand to shake, Ben Franklin is wrapped around her finger.

The man gapes. “Not a problem,” he says finally. “Have fun with your redecorating.”

Inanna sits on a park bench. Hair drifting around her face. Eyes closed.

She takes a deep breath, and then catches an arrow that’s about to hit her in the face.

“Bad idea,” she says. “Battle is the dance I know best.” Opens her eyes slowly. “Top of the morning, Artemis.”

The second goddess drops from a tree. Slings her bow across her back.

Her feet hit dirt without a sound.

“Enlil sent me.”

Inanna raises an eyebrow. “Enlil?”

“Well. He suggested to Zeus, and Zeus concurred. I also saw the need.” She smirks a little. “They thought I was the only one you wouldn’t be able to seduce.”

“Oh please. You haven’t given me the chance to try yet.” Inanna stands and stretches. “I sort of hoped they’d send your brother.”

“Which is precisely why they didn’t,” Artemis says. “I’m to retrieve the Mes at all costs.”

“You let them order you?”

“This is a war.”

They face each other under a gray sky. Water drips off the monkey bars. A children’s playground absent of children.

They are alone.

“And I shall protect them at all costs,” Inanna says.

Artemis shrugs, a motion that knocks her bow from her back into her hand.

“You know,” the other goddess continues, “I’m going to win this fight. If you’d rather be seduced, it could be much more—”

Artemis charges. Inanna raises a sword that not so much appears in her hand as grows from it.

They clash with a noise loud enough that Sam opens his eyes.

Well, this has gotten more interesting.

Of course he wants to know why this is happening to him and if it’s evil and blah blah blah, but it’s also— not fun, perhaps, but fascinating.

And terrifying.

Castiel’s description of heaven rings in his ears. The remaining angels, attempting to build up defenses. Knowing that a side of pagans can only win if they take Heaven. (That’s what a god is, really. Someone with a connection to heaven.’ ‘So what is God?’ Dean had asked.)

The angel in question isn’t present. Sam looks around again—Don and Amelia are curled into facing parenthesis, Benny has one hand thrown over his face. Dean, curled up into a ball.

“Cas?” Sam whispers. If Dean wakes up and Castiel isn’t there, he’s going to flip.

Sam sits up slowly. Pads out into the courtyard where—and there he is. Sitting on one of the benches, so straight and still you’d think he was posing for one of those statues. Falling Angel Contemplating.

“Can’t sleep?” Sam grins.

The angel doesn’t respond.

“I had another dream,” Sam says—this time he gets a look.

“What’s happened?”

“Artemis tried to get Inanna to tell her where the Mes were. They fought.”

“Who won?”

Sam sighs. “I woke up. You doing okay, Cas?”

Castiel tilts his head at the sky. “Of course.”

Well. Good.

The question he’s been thinking pops out before he can stop it. Maybe this is why everyone reveals their secrets in the dark.

“Um, hey—Cas—Castiel? Can you—you can’t read minds, right?

The angel looks vaguely amused. “No.”

“But you can like… tell how they’re doing? Or something?”

A man of many words Castiel isn’t. And as Sam sits down next to the bench, he admits to himself that he isn’t sure why he expects Castiel to have more insight. But surely there’s some—some network, some something. He’s seen something Sam hasn’t, he—“Is Amelia okay?”

Cas does that eye contact thing again. “She is not physically hurting.”

“I know, but—”

“You want to know if she’s just pretending to be… okay… with what has happened to her life.”

Sam nods.

“We are all pretending, Sam.”

That really isn’t helpful. Sam doesn’t tell him so, though, because there’s a shuffling behind them. “This a private slumber party?” Benny drawls.

Sam shrugs. “Not if you have beer.”

The next thing Sam knows, he’s popping the top off a Corona, flanked by an angel and a vampire.

This might be commonplace for Dean, but it’s weird as shit. Weird as weird shit, anyway. Sam starts to wonder what would make shit weird—it’s already a little weird, what with it being a brown paste of rejected food—and then stops that train of thought right there.

“So. Sam.” Benny tips the bottle towards him. “Where’s your demons?”

He thinks of Ruby. “What?”

“Not sleeping.” A hand is waved. “Just curious.”

And there’s really nothing for it. Benny did bring him beer. “Just tired of being connected to Olympus. Or whatever. “

“Asgard,” says Benny.

“Another name for Heaven,” Cas says—it’s the first time he’s spoken since the vampire showed up. “They ruled in different times. Then there was a war, and God took it back.” He pauses for a second. “We took it back.”

Sam frowns. “Then what about, like, Hinduism?”

Cas drinks half his bottle in one swallow. “Faces,” he says.

“I guess I don’t see what’s so bad about knowing what them gods are up to. I mean—I got no end of respect for your brother—“ Benny stops and takes another swallow.

“Dean is rash,” Castiel says dully. “And an idiot. And usually right. I don’t know why you can see key moments in this battle, Sam—I just hope no one can see us.”

Yeah, that’s not a comforting thought at all.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Benny admits. “you think that all our big moments are playing in the brain of—Ra or whoever?”

Nobody answers, and they sit in silence for a little while. Surrounded by cold cement, watching the dew form.

Again, it’s Benny who breaks it. “I’m sorry about.” He tilts his head towards the door to their room. “You know.”

Don and Amelia. Sam takes another drink. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Love’s a bitch.”

“Yeah.”

Castiel opens another bottle.

Amelia decides to ride in the Impala, because she wants to talk with Castiel more about the animal mind, or something. How they think. Something like that.

The consequence that Sam finds most relevant is that he is alone in the Outback with Don.

They're quiet for a long time.

“You know,” Don says, somewhere around the Four Corners, “it’s my car. I could drive.”

Shrugging is Sam’s go-to move to express his feelings at this point. “It’s easier for the passenger to bail. Also, no offense, but if someone starts following us, I’d rather have the wheel.”

“So this isn’t about music?”

They aren’t playing any music. “What?”

“Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole?”

Sam grimaces. “That sounds like something Dean would—aw, fuck. Dean said it, didn’t he.” He takes a deep breath. “Please stop reminding me that you remember oh-five through oh-eight better than I do.”

“Done.”

They go quiet.

It’s not any less awkward. Dean would be fine with that; Sam isn’t.

“I’m not after Amelia,” he says. “In case you were worried. I’m not using this—whole, running for our lives shit as, I didn’t want her to come with us—as a chance to—” an eloquent speaker he isn’t.

Don sighs. “What I said before stands. If Amelia wants to be with you—I’ll be a long shot from okay, but I can’t—I don’t know how long we’re going to be running together. I mean, you’ve already saved my life a couple times, I figure at some point I might have to return the favor—I don’t want—we’re stuck together, and most of the time, I’d rather you were alive. Don’t want—this drama thing to get in the way of us being alive.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Eh.” Don continues fiddling with his gun. “I don’t know, I was thinking, maybe, I’d keep on doing it. If we get out. You know. Alive.”

Sam barks a laugh. “Running from gods?”

“Ha. No. No, if I can—you know, walk, after this, maybe I’ll, I don’t know. Hunt a bit.”

“Why?”

Don leans over to turn the heat up. “Well, no offense, but it seems like there’s a shortage of hunters. And so there’s more people dyin’. And I know they’re—demons and shit—are out there, and a little bit of how to get ‘em, so it seems like I should do what I can to help.”

“You sound like Jo,” Sam says, smiling a little at the memory.

“Jo… the Roadhouse girl?”

Yes, but she would have hated to be remembered like that. Sam turns to give Don a suspicious squint. “You said you read them a long time ago.”

Recognizing guilt comes with the fake-FBI training. “I may be reading pages from the wiki your fans set up as a refresher. Also, there’s some stuff on tumblr.”

Remembering the content of such things, Sam shudders. “Anyway. She was the only one I knew who hunted for the right reasons. Everyone else—revenge, misguided sense of duty, bloodlust.”

Don is quiet for a second. “Past tense?”

Sam just stares at the lines on the road. When he was a kid, he used to tap out the patterns like it was one of those wii games—hold two fingers against his knee for a double-yellow, start tapping one of them if it was dashed on one side, whatever. He still does on the steering wheel sometimes. It can be comforting.

This is not one of those times.

“She died,” he says. “She and Ellen both. Three years ago. “Pause. “You know why there aren’t many hunters? They’re all dead. Ellen, Jo, Ash, Gordon, Isaac, Rufus, Bobby, all the Campbells. You can’t—when you died, the first time, Amelia—” he can’t keep going.

“Thought I was dead, too, you know,” Don says. “For awhile there. Everything was—god. So much blood, so many—I kept thinking that all I could do was survive for a minute, maybe. Every breath, every… I wasn’t sure, for a long time, that I’d ever move.”

Sam frowns. Don has seemed capable of a full range of motion. For someone who was only discovered alive a few months ago—Hell, he’s never seen him wince or pop a pain pill or anything. “And you’re walking?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I couldn’t—Doctors couldn’t believe it. I just healed. Got a couple of monster scars, but…”

“Let me guess,” Sam says grimly. “It was a miracle.”

Don half smiles. “That word was thrown around. Why?”

Sam isn’t sure, but—“Things just don’t happen. Don’t just happen. You might have been dead, almost dead, mostly dead—”

“—What, you think someone slipped me a chocolate miracle pill?”

“I think someone wanted me out of Kermit.” And maybe that’s a little self-centered of him, but fuck, when was the last time something wasn’t because of him? Apocalypse starting, Apocalypse ending, and okay the Leviathans weren’t his fault, exactly, but it was still connected, so— so things can’t just happen.

Don frowns. “Then wouldn’t they just have killed Ami—Amelia? Isn’t that their MO?”

“Not if they want to be on my good side.” (Sweet little Jessica. She had to die.)

Don squirms around a bit again. “Maybe I just got better.”

“Maybe.” But Sam is still pulling out his phone.

And then he remembers that they’re running for their lives from some godly war and this won’t be welcome news. Gift horse, mouth. Anyway. He can just ask Castiel about it later. It’s not like Don hasn’t been back for months; anything with a Plan is unlikely to strike now.

He puts the phone back in his pocket.

“Sammy. On your left. No. Other left. There.” Dean holds the phone up and waves Sam into the parking lot. “I hate having two cars.”

Sam looks up at the hotel sign. “Another Eight-Point Star? Is this like an overnight chain?”

“Beats me, but they got another party room. Benny’s up there right now holding fort.”

Benny’s idea of ‘holding fort’ seems to be ‘sprawled out on bed.’ Sam is talking as they enter—“Can’t stay long, when the end of the month rolls around, they’re going to see there’s no credit,” and Don is saying that if there’s a Chase nearby he can withdraw all their money, and Dean starts to accuse Benny of being lazy when he notices that there’s another person there.

“Um, lady.” Dean frowns. “I think you got the wrong room.”

Sam’s quiet “Dean” floors him. And he’s getting no read off her, no instinct—she didn’t set off his spidey senses when they came in, but he’s not at ease, either.

Except he is. She’s hot, but hot in an approachable way. Someone he might chat up at a bar, maybe, and the amount of comfort he has in her presence is a little unnerving.

Okay. Then probably a goddess.

“Sorry about immobilizing your vampire.” She flicks a hand, and Benny stands. Wincing, along with his pride. And he moves to stand at Dean’s side, striking what is an attempt at a defensive form.

His heart doesn’t seem to be in it either.

“Which one are you?” Dean asks. Her eyes dart over to him. Although from Sam’s description, he can guess—except they’re probably supposed to keep Sam’s dream-o visions on the DL.

“I am Inanna. Ishtar. Asarte. Et cetera, et cetera. That’s Inanna with two ‘n’s. In-ahh-nuh. I’ve been examining the varieties on your internet and selected my favorite option.”

Dean blinks. “Good.” Then, to Cas, “I think our god-repellant didn’t work.”

She sits down on the bed. “Oh, it did—you just walked into my hotel. I’ve been keeping an eye out ever since you got the jump on the Galla.”

The Eight-Pointed Star. Dean knew it was too good to be true.

“Your—” Sam splutters.

She rolls her eyes. “Relax, demon boy. I’m not gonna hurt you. Probably.” She stares at him for a moment longer, raises her eyebrows in a way that says unless that’s what you’re into as clearly as if she had spoken.

Sam lowers the knife.

Dean hadn’t even realized that he had it out.

“Good,” the goddess says. “Now that’s settled, I need a favor.”

Cas glares. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Yeah,” Sam echoes, but he stops as his eyes trail down her body. And Dean knows, rationally, that they’re all way too comfortable here, and it can’t be that bad to do a goddess a favor—

“Stop.” Amelia steps forward. “Just tell us. Don’t—” She gestures to Don, whose eyes are not to the front either. Then again, neither are Amelia's.

Inanna snorts. “Please. You guys are all too dysfunctional—normally if I pulled that you’d have been on your way to doing my bidding long ago. The amount of pining and sexual tension in this room is ridiculous. Anyway.” She waves a hand, and all eyes go back to her face.

Ah, there’s that fear that Dean had been wondering about.

If Dean Winchester was a man who peed his pants when frightened, he would have done so. As it is, he is most definitely not, and so it takes little restraint.

He wonders if she’s turned off lust and turned up terror.

He wonders if any of his emotions are his own anymore.

“I have a proposition.” She gestures to the bag that Dean hadn’t noticed until then—but then, his eyes were being unfairly manipulated. “I need you to hold on to these.”

Cas gives her a head-tilt. “Why.”

She smiles. “Because Reasons. Isn’t that what people say these days? Wrong context? Okay. Either way. Because if you do, I’ll—” she flips Dean a wallet. He looks inside warily. Pulls out a twenty.

Another twenty appears.

“Neat trick,” he says, throwing it back. “You want to pay us?”

She shrugs. “That seems to be how your world works. You want something, you pay someone to do it. I want you to carry the Mes. I have them in my possession, you’ve got a reasonable track record. Angel there is pretty powerful. And I can hide you from other gods, more effectively than you could on your own, so you won’t get stuck in their booby traps.”

Amelia scowls. “Why don’t you just hide them? If you can hide us—”

Dean has seen some people raise an eyebrow; he’d thought Cas was the master of it. He’s wrong. Inanna has that look down perfectly. “I trust you to win more than I trust Zeus not to learn how to pick locks. What do you say?”

Dean doesn’t think about it. “No. No way. We’re trying to escape your stupid war.”

The look he gets eerily resembles pity. “When have you ever stayed out of anything? You’ve already annoyed—well, no one likes Dionysus that much, except Hermes might be a little disappointed... How about I sweeten the deal. You take these,” she tilts her head towards the bag, “and I’ll give you this,” a small sword appears next to it, “which will, in fact, kill gods, unlike that pig sticker demon boy is holding, because I’d really like you to have that ability in case some… well, pretty much any gods come after them. And, I’ll keep Ammit off your trail.”

“Ammit,” Dean says, eyeing the god-sword and wondering if it’s a trick. Behind him, Cas mutters—

“The soul eater.”

Yeah that’s what he’d been afraid of.

But Cas is still talking. “Why does Ammit—”

“Angel,” Inanna says. “what part of ‘my people don’t like your people’ do you not comprehend?”

(They’re not getting Cas they’re not getting him.)

“Anyway. I’ll tell you when I need them back, and you tell me if anyone steals them. Don’t let anyone steal them.”

“How are you going to find us,” Sam asks, “if you’re really hiding us and if our tats really work?”

She winks. Tears something off a pad of paper that appears out of nowhere. Hands it to Benny. “Here’s my number,” she says, “so call me, maybe?”

They all stare at her some more.

“Good,” she says. “Glad that’s sorted. Now, Ammit.” Out comes an iPhone, and Inanna starts dragging her finger around the screen. “Ammit. Throwing your trail to…” tap tap “…Mozambique. She likes Africa, maybe she’ll decide to stay there.”

And just as fast as that, she disappears, and Dean remembers a week ago when— okay, how long? The Galla had been on Tuesday, they’d reached the Cabin Tuesday night, then Sif had been Wednesday, they’d been in Utah on Thursday—and he’s pretty sure today is Sunday and the world is ending.

In a few minutes, he’ll think about how a goddess just made them her bitch. He’ll rail and gripe and look for loopholes. Except he’s pretty sure that Inanna has just done that thing again where she knocks the sexual tension up a few notches because he was a lot more rational a second ago.

This isn’t fair.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Sam announces.

Amelia watches him go, but Sam doesn’t see it. She’s moving steadily closer to Don.

“Bar,” says Benny absently. “Need a drink.” (Dean doesn’t think there’s going to be anyone there at midday on a Sunday, but what does he know. Also, maybe this whole pheromones or whatever it is aren’t so strong outside the room so leaving, leaving is a good idea.)

(Because he has to restrain himself from pushing Cas up against everything he looks at and—) and Dean looks at Cas and that was a mistake because now he can’t—he can’t breathe, can’t think, just mumbles an excuse and goes into the hall.

Cas follows.

Their eyes meet.

Then his arm is caught in an iron grip and he’s being dragged to the room two doors down, and Cas opens it even though Dean’s pretty sure those things are locked but then he’s literally thrown inside and he lands in the crab position. He braces himself, starts to stand—but then the door slams shut and he has an angel on top of him.

He lands on his back, two feet from the bed.

“I think,” Cas mutters, digging his fingers into Dean’s shoulders, “that the—” he scrapes his teeth along Dean’s collar, and Dean groans, arches. Bares his neck, and Cas takes the invitation. Christ. And Dean needs— “I think,” Cas gasps again, pressing his hips down (and fuck, he’s hard, and Dean is too and he grinds upwards, desperate for something, anything.)

“What do you think, Cas?”

“The goddess has messed with our—” he’s grinding back down furiously now, hands going up Dean’s shirt, and that’s not really fair. Dean tries to sit up, to get to Cas’s clothes—and then he’s being shoved back down. Held with one hand.

That should not be as hot as it is.

“Inanna what?” he manages, not really caring about the answer.

“Has done something to affect our—” another groan as their clothed erections meet—“libidos.”

Dean manages a laugh. “You think?”

He should care. He should care that they’re all thoroughly distracted and not going anywhere, which, he realizes on some level, was probably the goal. He should care that there’s an angel pinning him to the floor, sucking and biting bruises into his skin. He should care that it’s Cas. That the aforementioned bruises are only below his collar, that even in his frenzy, Cas is letting them be hidden. He should care that he knows all these things and frankly, my dear, doesn’t give a damn.

“Cas,” he says weakly.

“Mm.”

He’s lost. Lost to Castiel’s hands, his touch, dancing around his body. He wraps his legs around Cas’s back, pulls him down, finds skin.

He’d had no idea that angels could make such sounds.

We should probably talk about this, he thinks absently, but then Cas lets out another soft “Dean” and his voice is so wrecked that Dean adds talking to that list of things he doesn’t care about.

Every ethics class they made Sam take in college is coming back to haunt him. That ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ thing Dean was telling Cas about. In no reality is it okay to listen at doors— but it’s not his fault if they seem to have forgotten that he is in the bathroom.

Although it’s not like he can hear them, technically, unless he presses his ear to the wall and holds his breath.

But Amelia and Don are alone in the room, and he heard his name, and he’s pretty sure they just had sex because he’s not an idiot, he knew what hit the room, and he’s not a fucking child anymore except for when he is.

Which is why he’s standing half naked in the bathroom after a good wank listening in on his ex-girlfriend’s conversation.

Amelia, and he’ll always know her voice. “How are you doing?”

Then, Don. “I’m… surprisingly okay.”

“I just— we haven’t had time to talk or— I’m kinda worried about you.”

A laugh. “Have you seen our lives? I’m worried about us too.”

Pause. “Remember when we got married—”

“No, I just woke up one day in bed with you.” A brief muffled motion, and then— “You didn’t need to shove me!”

“Anyway,” Amelia says. “My Aunt Marie was telling us about how if we weren’t careful there’d be hidden demons in our marriage, or something like that.”

“Yeah, she was obsessed with personal demons at the time, if I remember right.”

“It was just— well, now we’re running from literal ones. Wonder what she’d make of that.”

There’s another silence. “You know, that was funny— and then it wasn’t.”

“Yeah.”

A few words Sam doesn’t catch, and then his name again. He’s going to have a crick in his neck if he doesn’t move soon, but he can’ just walk out now or they’d think he’d been listening. Which he had been. Because he’s a creeper. And childish. “…in love with you.”

Amelia’s voice is even quieter. “I know.”

“I know you and he—”

“Don. Stop.” Beat. “Don. Sam left when you came back. And I have— I have a better understanding of why, now. And I—I can’t just ignore everything that happened and everything that happened between us but at the—” Beat. “He made his choice and I— please. Let’s not get into this, okay?”

“Very inappropriate time.”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t expect him to come back.”

“Certainly not like this.”

“And he lied to you.”

Sam cringes.

“I know.”

“Look.” A sigh makes its way through. “Look. I know— things are incredibly complicated. And I’m your husband, and I love you, but I also— Sam’s an okay guy. I mean, I won’t pretend that there are times I don’t want to punch him, or, you know, challenge him to a duel, or whatever us manly man-people are supposed to do. Except, I was a pretty great marksman, back in— you know, Afghanistan, but I’m pretty sure that Sam Winchester could still beat the shit out of me.”

“And even if you got lucky, his brother would be after you.”

“And if by some miracle I beat Dean, I think the angel would smite me. I don’ think there’s any miracles there.”

They laugh quietly for a second. Then—

“Hey Don?”

“Hmm?”

“Dean and the angel. You don’t think they’re—” Amelia stops.

“They’re what?”

“You know.”

Sam grins.

“You mean you think they’re a couple of—”

“I dunno, it’s just sort of a— I don’t know, they just seem… pretty close. And when they’re in the same room—”

“It’s probably just an angel thing.” Don clears his throat. “Not knowing how to act human and stuff. I mean they’re— Dean is, you know. I read those books. Dean is pretty damn straight. A guy doesn’t just— yeah. No, no. He’s not queer.”

A cold sort of feeling is settling in Sam’s stomach. He’s made jokes, obviously, and god knows Dean cares about Castiel more than— well, more than a lot of things. (More than him? Sam doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know.) And he’d sort of assumed that maybe there was—and Dean’s non-denial last week— but he didn’t expect Don and Amelia to be… weirded out. Although to be fair, in those months, Sam had never sat her down and said ‘so, honey, what’s your feeling on gay people? What about interspecies relationships?’

He’s probably imagining stuff.

Anyway, even if he knows his brother isn’t as straight as he pretends (Sam isn’t blind for fuck’s sake, and he’s more emotionally intelligent than his brother,) and even if Cas, it’s not like it matters, right? Hell, it might even be a good thing. Sexually frustrated Dean is a nightmare.

Although that provided a mental image he never, ever wants ever again.

It takes Sam a minute to realize that they’ve gone quiet. He decides this would be a safe time to leave the bathroom. He’s wondering when the Purgatory gang is going to come back, which is why it takes a second to process the sight of Amelia and Don kissing on the bed.

Sam knows that Amelia and Don kiss. He knows that they’re married. He knows that Don probably knows that she has very little reaction when her breasts are touched, but will arch up into a question mark with just the right pressure to her throat. He knows that Don knows the sound she makes when she’s comfortable— not in a sexual way, but when she sits down on the sofa after a long day or when the dog decides this is a good time to be a blanket. That doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

And this kiss isn’t particularly deep, or dirty, or sexual— there’s not even any tongue— but that somehow makes it— he doesn’t know. Sam has exactly zero emotional response. Totally casual. Go for the joke. That’s what Dean does, and Dean manages to hold it together. So Sam says, “You know, um, we’re pretty strict about the sock-on-the-door thing.”

They decide, against their better judgment, to stay in Inanna’s hotel. Inanna had seemed—well, legit, not that that means anything, but Cas had declared the blade and tablets genuine.

The blade is pretty sweet, Dean has to admit. It’s about the same size as Cas’s sword, but there are wires in cool patterns around the hilt and an actual blood gutter thing. He twirls the hilt on his finger. It hardly weighs anything.

So, that seems to be a thing.

Dean puts down the sword, picks up a tablet, looks at it, and then turns it upside down. It makes just as much sense.

“We should bring them to Kevin,” he says.

Sam is making some noises of agreement when his phone tells him that he if he’d liked it, he should have put a ring on it.

Dean snickers. Sam glares at Amelia.

Dean flips the Me over.

There are pictures on the back, too. Or maybe that’s the front.

“So these are civilization’s plans?” he asks Cas, (and he doesn’t look at Cas’s lips as he speaks and imagine what they could do because Dean This Is A Very Serious Investigation We Don’t Have Time For Any Of Your Blah Blah Blah Blah.)

“They order society. Detail different jobs, laws of nature.” Cas brings one up to his eye. “Inanna stole them once before—well, she tricked Enki into giving them to her. She waited until he was intoxicated.”

“Then she took a nap with them and someone raped her,” Dean recalls.

“Mhm.”

No wonder she doesn’t want to hold onto them again.

“Wish we had a camera,” Amelia mutters. “I feel really stupid doing crayon rubbings on an ancient Sumerian tablet created by the gods.”

They’d stolen the crayons from the kids menus downstairs. And it does look stupid, but—

“No, no. Should probably lie low,” Sam says into his phone. “Yes, pagans. Tell us if you see any signs, okay?... Mhm, mhm, stay safe.” He hangs up. “That was Martin.

Dean frowns. “Crazy Martin?”

Ooh, that was a good bitchface. “He was released. Asked if I knew of any easy hunts, get him back into it. I said to stay quiet.”

“Good call. Here, see if your Nerdiness is more useful here. You took Art History, right?”

“It didn’t teach me how to interpret the Mes.”

Dean is about to answer, but that’s when his own phone vibrates against his leg. He frowns. (Don’t be Inanna, don’t be Inanna.) “We’re so popular today.”

He answers it.

“Dean?” It’s a young female voice.

He’s pretty sure he hasn’t given any woman his phone number since—no, Lydia didn’t get it either. That is not a promising sign. He wonders if goddesses can change voices.

“Who is this?”

Pause. “It’s Claire. Claire Novak.”

His eyebrows shoot up, some of Friday’s anger coming back. “Claire,” he repeats, glancing at Cas.

“Can I—” pause. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Dean stands up. “O…kay?” But it’s silent then, and he taps his foot. “well?”

“Your older brother and the—Castiel are in there, aren’t they?”

This smells like trap. “Maybe.” He makes an ‘if I yell please come help me gesture’ to Cas and Benny and then steps out into the hall. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “About what Artemis said.”

Dean swallows. “Okay.”

“Look, I—” she hesitates. “Is he—is he… good? Because, because when he was—me—and his grace—and he’d just come back from Heaven, and—I don’t know what they did there, I didn’t understand, but I felt his, and I—” she takes a deep breath, and Dean thinks that if this is a trap, it’s one of the sickest. “I felt. What it did to him. He was still—still good. Not angel-good. But he—cared. So much. Tried not to, but he—I heard what he did. Saw him on TV and stuff.”

“Yeah,” Dean says to her earlier question. “Yeah, he’s still good. He’s.” Wonderful. The best. Better than Dean. “Yeah.”

“He’s not like the others.”

“No.” But then, Claire knew that.

“Okay.”

She’s quiet.

Dean frowns at the ugly painting the hotel had put up, presumably to make the hallway seem more cheerful.

It’s a battle scene.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks.

Pause. “I trust you. I mean, I don’t trust you, but I’ve seen—some of Castiel’s memories of you, and then what you did for me and Mom, and—and I had an angel in me. I can’t—he wasn’t me, but he was, for five minutes, I was closer to him than anything. He watched my father die through my eyes. I watched my father die through his eyes.”

The battle features a woman driving her sword through a body.

“Okay,” Dean says.

“Anyway.” It sounds awkward now. “I just wanted to know. Sorry—” it sounded more like she wanted just to talk about him, but that doesn’t quite make sense either.

“That’s alright,” Dean says quickly.

There’s also a child hiding in a tree. He’s holding a knife.

Claire hangs up.

Dean reenters the room. Meets Cas’s eyes.

“What was that?” asks Sam.

“Isn’t that the girl who was with Artemis?” asks Don.

Dean wants to touch Cas. Just reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. Wants Cas to touch him, hug, brush of elbows, anything. Just for the moment of warmth, comfort.

He looks away. “I don’t know,” he says to Sam. “I don’t know.”

Don looks up from the laptop. “The Mississippi River turned to blood for about five minutes.”

Sounds like Enlil didn’t take the break-up well.

Dean returns to his phone.

To: Kevin Tran
Think you can prophet something Sumerian?

The room is dark, high vaulted— would look like a cathedral, perhaps, if it weren’t for the large conference table in the middle and the smiling portrait of George H. W. Bush on the wall.

Artemis kneels— a figure in the blackness, lit just slightly by the candles in the hands of the statues that surround her.

She looks across them for a moment, her eyes meeting their wide, stone ones, before she selects one. Picks it up and brings it closer, ignoring the flame that’s now dangerously close to her t-shirt, her skin, and then her face.

She presses one finger to the votive’s lips. “Entering in two minutes.” Pause. “If I send out a distress signal, you better come save my ass, Inanna.”

"Um," says Amelia. "I'm rather hesitant to get on a boat called-"

"Fizzle's Folly?" Sam tilts his head ninety degrees to one side. It doesn't make any more sense that way either. "Fizzle— like that Magic School Bus lady?"

Dean looks offended. "That was Frizzle, dumbass. Nah, Garth probably named this one after his sock puppet."

Everyone stares at him. "It wasn't— he helped us find an alcoholic ghost with that sock puppet. It wasn’t my idea.”

Sam shrugs, looks at Cas. Who nods and disappears, revealing Amelia, who is making a face like I’m totally used to this by now no I’m not what the hell.

"Wait for it," Dean says. "Wait..."

There’s a shriek, and the boat rocks gently. It's only a few seconds after that that Kevin's appears above deck and lets them in.

It turns out that seven people is quite a lot for Fizzle's Folly. The room below is high enough for them to stand, but they’d probably have a hard time sitting, even if they took out the little table that's covered in Kevin's papers.

"If you're all going to stand in here," Kevin says, "don't."

Dean glances around. "How's that going?"

The room is small, dinky, dirty, and Sam wonders how long Kevin has been crouching there. Thinks about that big house that his mom lived in, his former career as an Advanced Placement. And he can't help feeling sorry for him, because nobody asked for this. Nobody asked him before dumping all that stress on his shoulders and hiding him on a boat with half a demon tablet.

Then again, nobody asked Sam before dripping demon blood into his mouth and all that fuckery, so, whatever. Life’s a bitch.

"You look like shit, man," he says.

Kevin scowls. "Thanks."

Cas glances at him. "I think that was rude.”

"Yeah," says Dean. "Ignore Sam."

Kevin sits back down. Straddles the back of the chair as he stares at them. Stifles a yawn. "So you want to tell me why you're on Garth's boat with two civvies and a vampire?"

Dean drops the backpack. "We have more tablets for you," he says, seemingly oblivious to Kevin's grimace. Sam sees, though; and maybe he'll tell Dean to be more sympathetic later on. Christ, the kid is, what? Eighteen? Nineteen? He’s back to sympathy now.

"More tablets," Kevin says. "Lovely. Really great." But he reaches out a hand anyway. "Add them to the pile. This is that Mess you texted about?"

"It's pronounced like May," Cas says helpfully.

The boat sways, either because of a gust of wind or people shuffling around; Don freezes midstep. "I think I'll go... up," he says, turning a faint shade of green.

Amelia rolls her eyes. "We're not even moving."

Don goes upstairs anyway; Benny follows, muttering about the smell. And Amelia settles herself down in the corner, glances at Sam and then gestures for him to join her. So he sits. Pulls his knees into his chest in an attempt to take up the smallest amount of space. It kind of sucks sometimes, being tall. One of the greater burdens he has to suffer.

"So this is the prophet?"

Sam nods as he squirms around a little, trying to get comfortable on the plastic floor. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah."

"He's a kid."

Yeah. "I started younger," he says, as though that makes it any better. Amelia snorts.

"Yeah. I just- the angels are calling on kids now to protect their stuff?"

"Not protect, really; just read."

Castiel takes a step towards the bag, blocking Sam's vision. He considers going over, but he's seen the damn Mes quite enough lately. Part of him can’t remember a few weeks ago when they’d never freaking heard of them; it hadn’t been nice then, without all the drama and the tension and he can’t say he’s not a tiny bit glad that Amelia is here but it’s just a tiny bit.

"So what," Amelia says, "we just leave them here, wait till he gets around to translating them?"

"If he can." But. "Except, we can't, we can't just leave them because—"

"Inanna thought that we might possibly be able to protect them with the angel power." She shakes her head a few times. "There's no way we're leaving them with a kid. Advanced Placement or no."

Sam agrees, but also feels like Kevin deserves more credit. He'd survived on his own for a year, constantly led Sam and Dean off the trail of him and his mom; and speaking of which—

But Dean seems to have the same thought. "Where's your mom?" he asks. Yells, actually, from the stairs.

Sam doesn't hear the response. "I think," he says quietly, "I think that... .well, maybe he'll be happy to get away from Fizzle's Folly." Pause. "I wonder what Garth is going to say when he comes back."

Garth’s response can be narrowed to a bulleted list:

A. We cannot all fit on this boat
B. I’m not leaving Kevin alone.
C. Mrs. Tran is in the safest place I can think of
D. We need to keep Kevin, this innocent couple you’re a vet how awesome is that I love animals, and these hunks of clay safe.

Which is how they add a prophet and a papa hunter to their cast as they head towards Garth’s fortress.

“Maybe my mom will make us pie,” Kevin says.

Dean offers him ‘the highest of fives.’

Sam pretends that they aren’t related.

Dean counts his blessings that Sam and Kevin were in the front of their group, because it means they got the full holy water soaking.

Although his drenched state doesn’t stop Mrs. Tran from giving her son a hug after determining his non-demon status. (Dean makes a mental note to teach her about shifters and leviathans later, although he hasn’t heard from any levis lately.) (He makes another mental note to check up on that.)

While they’re having an uncomfortably touching reunion, Dean looks around. It’s a house. Not even a particularly abnormal one— it’s got neighbors on both sides, a living room filled with weapons, a front door into a kitchen with an oven and and—

Benny springs back from the sink, yelping. His hand smokes. “Jesus Christ, lady!”

Instantly, Mrs. Tran has a squirt gun at his throat. “I glued a rosary in the pipes, you—”

Dean pulls her back. Tries not to be amused. “It’s okay. He’s a vampire. We know.”

“He is, huh? Dracula or Anne Rice?”

“Edward,” says Sam.

“Spike,” says Dean.

“Shut up,” says Benny.

Mrs. Tran ignores all of them. Points to the Richardsons with her chin, hand still on her supersoaker. “And who are they?”

“Human,” Dean says, glancing at Benny. The vampire shrugs, mouths I’m okay. “Don and Amelia Richardson. Don and Amelia, this is—”

“Oh,” says Mrs. Tran brightly. “So you’re the woman that Sam abandoned my son for.”

Amelia had been about to sit down in one of the plastic chairs, but she freezes, turns to Sam. “What—”

“Hey.” God knows Dean has given Sam enough shit for that very thing— he was our responsibility— but— “Lay off. Kevin did pretty damn well.”

Cue the awkward silence. Benny opens the freezer, stares at the ice for a second, and then puts his fingers in his mouth. Dean is unfamiliar with some of the obscenities that are coming out in a steady drizzle.

“Well,” Amelia says. “Thank God there’s another female here. I swear to God, gods, if the—”

“Testosterone doesn’t get diluted, you’ll go insane?” Mrs. Tran nods, with a change in mood so fast that Dean gets whiplash. “I know. Gotta love hunters, but—”

“They’re too manly for their own good.”

Pause.

“Linda Tran.” A hand is offered. Amelia shakes it.

Sam and Dean share a look of terror.

“These sigils are old.” And he realizes that Cas is examining something on the windowsill. “You didn’t carve them.”

Garth steps forward, clearly happy to be of use. “We carved some of them, but— it’s an old safehouse. Owner had a wendigo incident last year— so he don’t need it anymore, but it’s got everything we know. He’ll, it ain’t even visible from the street anymore. Safe as— houses.”

“Not very,” Cas says. “Benny and I were able to enter.”

“Oh yeah?” Linda eyes him. “What are you, then?”

“I’m an angel of—” Cas stops. “I’m an angel.”

Dean studies his feet. Wonders how true that will remain. The floor is hideous linoleum-- how much would Garth spring for a renovation of his safe-as-houses-house? Because if he looks at this too long he might go insane. Like that woman who didn’t like her wallpaper. Fortunately for his insides, they’re all waved into the living room. They sit.

“I’ll put up more,” Cas continues, looking around to the doors, windows and potential exits that Dean has already cataloged. “We cannot be too careful.”

“I could see it from the street,” Benny says around a mouth full of fingers.

“That’s ‘cause I told you where it was, gave you permission,” Garth says proudly. “Like that thing in Harry Potter— you know, the Fiddle—”

“Fidelius,” Dean says before he can stop himself, and then looks around innocently as though wondering who said that. It’s a pretty small living room: at least, it’s smaller than Lisa’s. But then again, Lisa had a large house. And most houses Dean’s in are bigger, older, more with the hauntings. So maybe he’s got a skewed perspective of the average size of a non-hotel space.

It’s six hours before Dean finally gets up the nerve to ask. After all, it’s definitely been enough time for him to determine whether he can read the damn things. He plops down next to the tired-looking prophet.

“Any luck?”

He gets a glare. “Don’t you think I would have told you?”

Dean is tempted to say that he knows more about cars and electronics than the rest of them and will everyone stop treating him like an idiot, but he refrains. After all, he’s in his thirties-slash-seventies, and he’s more mature than that.

“So is there something blocking you, or can you just not read…” he tilts his head, studying the scratches on there. “I don’t even know what language that is.”

“Sumerian. It's Cuneiform.”

Oh. He should have been able to guess.

“It’s not the words,” Kevin sighs, shoving one of them away. “It’s that when I look at them— it’s like they’re changing.”

What?

“What?”

Kevin pulls over an old piece of printer paper, covered in purple crayon. It takes a moment for Dean to recognize it as one of the rubbings. The rest slide out from under it, and the prophet waves them around. “These— these are all different. They’re in a language I feel like I should be able to understand. Like… like when you look at Lorem Ipsum, right? It looks like words, it looks like English. Or maybe if words are all out of order or something. I don’t know. I just— I look at these and they’re all different. You know, like different pages of a book. But when I look at the tablets themselves, they all look the same. It's like they're all copies of each other.”

Dean frowns. “They look different to me.”

“Of course they look different to you.” Kevin sighs. “I— I look at the demon tablet and I see words. I look at this and I see words I can’t understand. But here, on the tablets themselves… it’s just a repeating image. Like someone has rolled something all over it to keep me from reading it.”

Dean continues staring. All he sees are things carved into clay.

But that’s probably the point.

He wonders how Kevin has been able to stare at them for several hours straight. Hell, he’d stared at the demon one for—weeks?

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, so what is it?”

Kevin might have been Advanced Placement in something, but it wasn’t art. Dean stares at the stick figures and rough lines on the paper offered to him.

“It repeats,” Kevin says apologetically. “Over and over and over and over and over.”

His head lands on the table with a thud.

“Have you asked Sammy or Cas about this?” Dean asks, holding the drawing up to the light as though there’d actually be a watermark in it. He’s probably the least qualified to decode art. Especially stick-figured art.

Kevin shrugs. “No. I asked Garth. He said that it looked like some sort of seal. Beyond that, we got nothing.”

Dean’s kind of amazed that Garth hadn’t shared that information. But he guesses it’s Kevin’s business. Except for it’s not. “Ask Cas,” he says, standing up, and heading into the kitchen. He’d ask himself, except that feels like it’s not his job.

And then there’s the fact that he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to interact with Cas. Because they hadn’t talked about— it— and okay, it in this case was one rather intense kiss after an emotional breakdown and one was after a physical-love goddess had upped their libidos so the second one wasn’t strictly consensual although it’s not like they— the circumstances could have been worse. He guesses. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling slightly used. No matter how good it had been. Doesn’t know if Cas feels—even though Cas had literally manhandled him into an empty hotel room and Christ that was hot— But he doesn’t know if that had just permanently fucked everything up and it probably has (“Hey remember that time a love goddess made you climb on top of me and grind me into a quivering mess—”) and anyway, what is he thinking, there’s no time for this shit. Sam and Amelia, him and Cas. There’s a war on.

They don’t have time to worry about kissing.

So in typical Dean fashion, he acts like nothing happened. Tries to avoid being alone with the angel because he has the sense that Cas wants to ask him, or talk, or something. But then it passes and Cas seems to get the message.

So they both pretend.

And this way, Dean can also pretend he’s over it. Sure, there had been some sexual tension there before, but then it got all resolved, right, they got their rocks off, everything can be normal. He doesn’t want more, he doesn’t want more than more (doesn’t want to just sit next to Cas or have a conversation about nothing or introduce him to plum pie or listen to Cas talk about Heaven in that voice that is so unlike Jimmy’s, so very Cas, or even object to weird human customs, and he doesn’t want the comfort of Cas’s nearness because that’s totally irrelevant.)

So everything is fine, and he opens up a beer. Goes back to Kevin.

“I’ll just look at it for a few more hours,” he says tiredly. “I’ll ask Castiel about it after that, maybe.”

“It’s Enki’s seal,” Cas says.

Sam groans. “More seals?”

Dean makes the great assumption that there is some godly trickery at work here.

“The Mesopotamians had cylindrical seals that hung around their necks,” Cas say. “When they needed to seal something they’d roll it along the clay.” He turns to Sam. “In your dream of Enlil and Zeus, did you see—”

“Enlil wearing a necklace?” Sam scrunches up his face. “It was a dream I had two weeks ago. I don’t know. I didn’t notice.” Then, more uncertainly, “I guess he might have?” Pause. “No. I don’t know.”

Dean scrolls through Google images. “So they were repeating patterns?”

“They were rolled,” Cas say again.

Dean takes that as a yes.

Most of them seem to be banquet scenes. Far cheerier than the death and dying Kevin claims to see on the Mes.

“So.” He frowns at it. “So we’re basically hitting a firewall.”

“Basically.”

Great. This is really wonderful. Really, really wonderful.

Dean types ‘Removing Enlil’s seal from the Mes’ into Google, Bing and Yahoo.

He gets linked to what he’s pretty sure is a Jehovah’s Witness website.

Maybe, he thinks, there’s an article about this in Watchtower.

It turns out that there is not, although there is a great feature on what to do if one feels lustful urges towards another man.

Unfortunately, Dean knows for certain that chatting with God is going to do him exactly no good.

Over the next month, they settle into a sort-of daytime schedule. Research, eat. Houses Richardson and Tran are given a fragmented, if comprehensive, Demonology 101. They stare at Bobby’s old books because maybe the fifth or sixth reading will reveal something vital. They try to do target practice with Kevin, but they’re told by Garth that the symbols and spells and stuff wouldn’t stop a bullet from going through the window and hitting the neighbors, which would raise awkward questions, so they shouldn’t do that.

The days are slow. Random in the lighter ways. They’re not moving, they’re not running. Just circling around one house, sometimes bouncing off each other. Trying to get things done. It’s the most relaxed Sam has felt in a while.

At night, though, there’s a strict routine.

Dean sleeps on the sofa. Sam, Kevin and Don get the first bedroom. Mrs. Tran and Amelia and Garth get the second. (This arrangement was, unsurprisingly, thought up by Garth— the funny part, in Sam’s opinion, was that it hadn’t even occurred to Garth to sleep in the room with two women because they were two women, but because he thought that Amelia sharing a room with Sam or Don or both would make their Epic Love Triangle even more awkward and if it was all the same Garth would like to avoid a fight. Also, sharing a room with two grown women including his mother might make Kevin ‘uncomfortable’; Kevin told Garth that this whole prophet gig was making him uncomfortable, and if anyone was looking for him he’d be playing Nintendo to “improve his reflexes.”) Benny has the cot on the porch because "It’s warded, and I can’t sleep with the smell of you guys, there is a shower here.”

Castiel, of course, doesn't sleep. He wanders about the house, keeping watch. Scribbling away in a growing pile of notebooks— symbols, words, memories— that Sam thinks is one day going to be a blessing to hunters everywhere, and researches with a little more heart than the rest of them.

Although when Sam gets up at night, he’s more likely to find the angel sitting near Dean. Once with a hand on the oldest Winchester’s shoulder.

"Nightmares," he says, when he catches Sam looking.

His other, less official job, is providing the insomniacs with— albeit non-chatty—company. They determine that it's no fun to play spoons or slapjack with him, because his reflexes are too good (although Dean is also no longer allowed to play slapjack with Kevin after Kevin claimed that Dean had nearly broken his hand; Dean said that it was only slightly bruised.) Poker and backgammon, though, are quite literally fair game.

During the day, Garth throws around for hunts; someone goes to deal with it.

They never travel far.

Sam narrows life down to a few goals. (And sometimes he thinks about how weird it is that he’s actually following the advice of those doctors who never knew what was wrong with him.)

They are, in no particular order:

1. Crack Enlil’s seal
2. Do best to minimize collateral damage in war, if possible.
3. Keep Kevin and Linda alive.
4. Keep Amelia alive.
5. Keep Don alive (optional)
6. Remember not to trust Benny too much
7. Stop loving Amelia.

He isn’t sure which one is the hardest. He’ll feel like he’s making progress, and then someone will have a close call while freaking grocery shopping, or they’ll hear about unnatural natural disasters, or he’ll be up until two in the morning drinking with Benny and Cas, or Amelia will finish his sentence or smile or laugh or make a joke or get angry about God and angels.

And then it’s back to square one.

Sam wonders if he ever left square one.

A woman lies in the grass. She sways along with it; she belongs to it. She’s tall, and thin, with skin and hair the soft brown color of the reeds.

She’s got a cell phone up to her ear.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she says. “I just need some— some space right now, okay, Nanna?” Pause. “No. Not happening.” She half spits at the phone, and then “No I’m not getting up to something secret!”

There is another voice on the other end, that’s abruptly cut off when she throws her phone away. It sails up in a lazy arc, twinkling in the sun, before landing without a sound in the grass.

She groans. Closes her eyes.

“Well, that didn’t sound pleasant,” says the man who has just appeared out of nowhere.

The woman opens her eyes. Glances over.

“Apollo,” she says tightly. Then she slowly relaxes. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he says, nodding as though she’d said something he agreed with wholeheartedly.

A brief period of quiet.

“What do you want?” she asks finally.

He shrugs. “Same as you, I guess. Quiet. Space. Peace.”

“Yeah.”

More quiet.

“Was that an argument I just overheard?” He tilts his head in an expression of utmost concern. She frowns.

“Nanna is just being paranoid. Ever since Inanna and Enki split off, he’s been— well, even before that, actually. Thinks everyone is out to get him.”

Apollo laughs. “To be fair, Ningal, I think everyone might be out to get him. Or at least his beard.”

She starts to laugh as well, and then stops. “Do not mock my husband.”

His eyes widen. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Shut up. I said I was here for the peace and quiet.”

“Okay.”

He moves a little closer.

“I was sorry,” Ningal says, “to hear about your sister. I never expected—”

The god looks down. “It doesn’t matter,” he says flatly. “I didn’t either. But she made her decision.”

“You two were close?”

“Are you asking me if I’m a traitor?” he moves even closer, leans forward to whisper in her ear. “Because I break all sorts of rules. Just not the important ones.”

She shudders a little. “Don’t. Please.”

That innocent look is back on his face. “Don’t what?”

She waves a hand at him. “Play your seduction games.”

“I play no game.”

Ningal snorts, and then stands up. “There are more constructive outlets for grief.”

He stands as well. He’s taller than her.

She swallows; takes a couple steps back. “Please go away.”

“Ningal—”

She cringes. “Please. You seem decent enough.”

“I—”

But she’s already turning, running across the grass. Swaying as she moves as though she were nothing more than an abnormally tall blade.

Apollo sits down and stares at the sky.

And something must get lodged in Sam’s throat, because he wakes up long enough to cough. To remember where he is, see the light playing off the windowsill, the bed. He sighs, drops his head back onto the pillow.

Ningal is standing, arms crossed, glaring at an older man. His beard looks like a crescent, and he’s scowling.

“And when were you planning on telling me about this?” she demands.

“I’ve been weighing the possibility since—”

“Since Inanna told us her intentions?”

He frowns. “You were a queen once,” he tells her. “Do you not want to be a queen again?”

“I—” her mouth falls half open. “You were a king, Nanna, but only while Enlil was—”

“In prison for what he did! Rightly deposed!”

She snortss.

“Wife,” Nanna says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Let us not rehash these old woes. You were a queen, and I was a king. Then Enlil took it back. If we turn against them—”

“Yes,” she says sarcastically, “because Inanna is sure to let you rule.”

His voice is quiet. “It is not a question of letting,” he says. “Inanna is rash. And less powerful than Enlil and Zeus. She will not be able to refuse our help. We will be strong, and then, when the time is right—”

“We shall betray her.”

“Is it really betrayal if you betray the betrayer?”

She turns around. Smiles at him. There are a thousand deaths in her face.

‘’I have patronage of the reeds and the cows.”

“Something too slight for one as great as you.”

Her voice is breathy, higher. “If we win—”

“When we win—”

“—I will get more?”

He kisses her. “Whatever you want,” he says.

Her smile is beautiful now, and innocent. She wraps her arms around the back of his neck, pulls so that her back is against the wall behind them. He makes a contented noise as she jumps, skirt sliding up to her waist as she wraps her legs around him. His hands come up to her shoulders as he holds her more firmly against the cement, fumbles with his pants. And as she sinks down onto him, their lips meet again.

“Whatever I want?” she asks, tipping her head back.

“Whatever,” he says. Voice low. Hips moving at a more frantic pace. “I swear it.”

“Let us know about any further developments,” Dean says.

Sam glares. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His brother taps his head, makes a swoopy gesture with his fingers. “You know. Your godly Peeping Tom routine.”

Sam hesitates outside the door to his room. “Why are you all bitchfaced all of a sudden?”

All he gets in response is a long stare. And he knows that he’s not going to get a real answer, and one day he swears to god he’s going to find someone, somewhere, that’s qualified to give Dean Winchester therapy because this is annoying.

“I just get the feeling that maybe you’re— you know.” Dean hooks his thumbs in his belt loops. Rocks back and forth a little. “Enjoying it.”

Gross. “It was less X rated than half the stuff you’ve downloaded onto my laptop, Dean— it was practically PG13.”

He looks offended for a second— “That was one time—” and then stops. “Not the sexy bits,” Dean says. “Just, doesn’t this freak you out a little? Last time you started having these things Yellow-Eyes tried to open up Hell, and now it seems like you’re— I’m not an idiot, you’re sleeping a lot.”

Okay. Maybe he is. What of it? It’s not like he exactly gets restful nights, what with the lack of resting that the gods are doing. And okay, maybe he’s really interested in how all this plays out because it’s goddamn fascinating. So sue him. It’s not every day you get an insider’s look at a freaking godly war. And he’ll probably learn something useful. They already know who is on whose side better than the actual godly leaders do— not that this is very useful, because, as Benny had pointed out, they couldn’t tell Inanna that Nanna was planning on betraying her because odds were they’d realize how dangerous Sam was and kill him— ‘and then Dean will go do something stupid.’ But he just leaves it at, “I’m tired, okay?”

“Right.”

“Anyway, it’s not like we have anything better to do.”

He gets a swat. “You’re just trying to get out of researching.”

Sam snorts. Kicks his door open. During the day, Kevin and Don aren’t snoring, as well. “Maybe Enlil will be having a deep conversation about how to read the Mes,” he says. It’s probably the wrong thing to say, because Dean is frowning again, but Dean can take his morals and stick them. He’s friends with a vampire, for god’s sake; this isn’t the same black and white world. He should have realized that when they teamed up with the King of Hell against Heaven.

Yeah, that’s a great thing to add to his resume.

Even with all the stress, it’s strangely easy to fall asleep. Because a tough-looking ginger is approaching a silver-haired man in a rolling chair.

The ginger dips his head a little. “Father.”

“Thor.” He kicks the chair so that he turns to face the other. “What news?”

“Uh.” A bobbing Adam’s apple. “Meili has reported that Artemis and Nanna are conspiring with Inanna; Enlil has yet to learn of this.”

Odin sighs, makes a note on a legal pad. “Tell Meili that Artemis is yesterday’s news; Frigg made me aware. Nanna, though… they’re dropping out like—” he pauses, apparently trying to think of an appropriate comparison. “They can’t seem to keep their folk together.”

Thor sits on top of the desk. It looks too weak to support his weight, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Leans over and looks at what Odin had written. “I do not think this is a good time to attack.”

Odin sighs again, louder this time. “Yes. It would be unwise, especially since— well, I assume that Meili noticed Loki’s wealth of information and helpfulness?”

“He’s planning something,” Thor says immediately.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Odin stands and stretches. Walks a few steps away and turns to face his son. “The only times Loki has not been planning some evil deed is when he was asleep— and it wouldn’t surprise me if he created numerous schemes in his dreams.”

“That time with Gabriel—”

“Please.” Odin, the Allfather, leader of the Norse gods, holds up his hand. “Do not remind me of such things.”

“As it pleases.” Thor frowns. “What does Frigg think?”

The third sigh causes a strong breeze across all of Northern California. “She has not forgiven Loki for the death of Baldur; she thinks nothing is beneath him.”

“To be fair—”

“I know. I’m not saying to trust him— trust no one, Thor, not in times like these. But we need him on our side. He could easily split our alliance— I am not delusional— and we will miss our chance to strike at Zeus and Enlil while they are weakened.”

Thor groans. “You would have me go and— what, bribe him? Give him some more of your magical reproducing golden rings?”

“Please. He’d only take them and sell them in exchange for, I know not what. An army of gremlins.”

“Okay.” Thor pulls Mjolnir down out of absolutely nowhere, tosses it from hand to hand for a minute. “What would you have me do?”

Odin is silent for a few minutes.

“Talk to anyone you think might be weakened by him. Anhur, Dedun, Apep— offer them, I don’t know. Praise? I think they go for praise. Tell Apep how dark and chaos-ey he’s looking.”

A frown divides the thunder god’s chin into perfect thirds. “I do believe this century has gone to your head.”

“Be that as it may.” Odin sits back down in his chair. Pushes off from the desk. “I saw Lucifer, Thor. I saw what he did to Ganesh. To Mercury. Loki is a problem we can deal with once the angels are no more; surely he will want them out of the way too.”

“I don’t know.” Thor hesitates. Half lifts his hammer. “Last time—”

“Please.” Odin holds up a hand. “Please, say no more. I know what is at stake.”

“The humans—”

A snap of the fingers. “Yes! The humans. I see you retrieved your hammer successfully.”

“About that—”

“Good. Make nice with them, too, I suppose, see if we can get them out of the picture.”

“I— I do not think thatthat angel is any threat.”

Odin stands. And the flustered man from a second ago is gone, replaced by hard fury. “What have I been telling you? All angels are threats, All of them. You did not see it. You—” he stops. Calms. “If nothing else, he has taken over the day named for you. I know you like humans, Thor— we’re keeping them safe.”

Thor does not look convinced. “But—”

“And oak trees. I hear angels hate oak trees.” Odin sits back down. “Save your precious oak trees, right? God, I need sleep.” He passes a hand in front of his eyes. “Tell Meili to try and get some relevant information, and tell Freyja that I must borrow her cloak—”

“—She’s not going to like that—”

“And arrange a meeting with Isis and Loki—”

“—I’m not your secretary—”

“And take due precautions so that Loki can’t bring his spies in.” Odin is knocking his chair steadily backwards. “Actually, best not to have you at the meeting at all, you’re too volatile. Find someone else. Send Meili. Maybe he’ll be better at diplomacy than he is at spying. He’s got the face for it.”

“—Father—”

One more kick, and then both Allfather and office chair disappear into a ray of gold.

“Good,” Thor says. “Good. Glad that’s…” he looks down at his hammer. “This century has addled my brains if I’m talking to my weapon.” He closes his eyes for several minutes. “At least my weapon will not betray me.” Eyes open. “That wasn’t a euphemism, Mjolnir. I promise.” He hesitates a minute, before sliding a gold ring off his finger. Flicks it with his thumb, and it turns into a cell phone. He holds it up to his ear. “Frigg?”

There’s a muffled response.

Sam is awoken by a crash in the hall, and he’s not one bit disappointed to see how the rest of that conversation would have gone. Not at all.

It’s nice to be able to take an actual shower. Stand under the hot water and just… clean off. Something he’d gotten used to during his year off, because then, showering hadn’t been something to get done just in case someone invaded their apartment and tried to kill them or they got a crucial lead or— yeah.

Point is, Sam has missed leisurely showers.

Not that this is the best time. But in the month they’ve been there, there have only been routine hunts— it’s almost, calm. The calm before the storm.

Storm in this case being “a bunch of pagan deities tearing apart the world as they try to rule it.”

Yeah.

That calm is broken as he steps out, at the sound of raised voices down below. It’s not that this is unusual— the last time it had been Mrs. Tran and Kevin, arguing about whether or not Wikipedia was an accurate online source. The time before that it was Don and Benny.

Apparently, Benny is a Saints fan.

The irony was lost on everybody but Sam, it seemed.

Still, this one seems— yes, there’s definitely Dean’s voice. Only Dean’s voice, in fact, which means that the other isn’t yelling back, which means that it’s probably—

“Godammit, Cas!”

Yeah.

Sam comes down the stairs slowly. Looks to where four legs are sitting on the couch, carefully obscured by copies of the New York Times. (The headline is about Dreamliner airplanes with the tendency to catch fire; maybe there’s a case there.)

“What’s the threat level?” he asks quietly, over the sound of something being slammed down onto the table. He hopes it's Dean's head.

The papers lower in sync, revealing the tops of Kevin and Benny’s faces.

“Pretty high,” Kevin says.

“About—” Benny is cut off by another slam.

“We are not,” Dean yells. “It’s completely— we have no way of knowing whether that would work; you just want to walk in blind?”

“Dean.” And Cas doesn’t sound quite as calm as he normally manages; Sam is pretty sure that that warrants a rating above ‘pretty high’. Nine-one on the Richter scale, maybe. At least enough to wipe out 'Frisco. “Inanna entrusted the Mes to us because she thought I could protect it. Thus it only makes the most sense if I—”

“If you what? Leave with them?”

“Exactly how much are we getting done here, Dean? We want to read the tablets, the tablets are sealed, I’m proposing a way—”

“You’re proposing suicide.”

Ah, yes. Sam sits down next to Kevin and leans over. Wonders if a haunted Dreamliner would be a good distraction; and because he can see both Dean and Cas’s faces from this angle.

Not that that tells him much. Dean is wearing his angry face and Castiel his blank one.

Listening on other peoples’ conversations is apparently his new thing. It’s a slippery slope. Next thing he knows he’ll probably be an international spy.

“We cannot hide here forever, not with those tablets. I can take them away, perhaps lead the pagans into a trap—”

“And how do you trap a pagan? Goddammit. We can’t hide forever but that doesn’t mean that it’d better if you leave! It’d be a waste of resources, we only really have one shot, and they’d all gang up on you and you know that heaven is cutting you off more and more—”

“—at which point I won’t be able to protect the Mes, or you, at all. You want to leave everyone in this house in danger, Dean? Kevin, Linda, Don, Amelia, Benny, Sam?”

“I don’t care!” Dean screams. “Hell with them, Cas. You can’t.”

Sam flinches, although it’s almost nice to hear, in a way. Benny and Kevin both look at him, eyebrows nearly at their hairlines.

“He doesn’t mean it,” he whispers, just in case there were any misconceptions.

“You don’t mean that,” Castiel says.

“Don’t I?” He moves a little closer. Fists clenched. “You really want to test— I was prepared to risk all three of us dying in Purgatory—”

“And you still couldn’t force—”

Dean knocks a pot off the counter with one sweep of his arm, and the sound it makes when it hits the ground is probably not as loud as he’d wanted it to be. And this feels wrong, somehow— Dean and Sam argue all the time, Dean and Benny have had their more polite disagreements, but Dean and Cas have never been irrational; it’s always been— don’t work with Crowley, I’m fighting a war I don’t have time for your bitching. He wonders if this is what Dean had felt like listening to Sam and John fight.

It’s a little surprising that he considers Cas that close of family, but maybe it shouldn't be.

“—force you to do anything and you damn well know it,” Dean snaps. “In the end, I’ve always let you go, even when I thought your ideas were fucking stupid— but this?” The anger seems to go out for a moment, and he leans against the fridge, taking several deep breaths. (Sam wonders if some of his psych ward advice has rubbed off.) “We can’t set a trap for them, and you know it— I mean, maybe we could track down Death’s ring again, see if we still have those other ones in the Impala somewhere, open Lucifer’s cage, and trick them all into it, and then when they broke out we’d lose all the allies humanity ever had. You’re just looking for excuses—”

“To what? To leave?” Castiel takes a few steps closer to him. They’re not quite nose to nose, but they’re close. “I want to take an opportunity to save this worthless, waterlogged rock. Do not project your own guilt—”

“Right, this is all about my problems, I’m not the one gearing up for a suicide mission—”

Kevin raises his newspaper a little higher, stares at the article about the increase in hurricanes that he’s been ‘reading’ for the last ten minutes. Completely devoid of shame, Sam pushes it out of the way a little with his hand. He’s surprised the neighbors aren’t all out there with popcorn, that the noise level hasn't broken Garth's Harry Potter spell—

“Where is everyone else?” he says quietly.

“Garth and Amelia are supply runnin’,” Benny says. “I’d assume that Linda is trying to stay out of the way of the—”

“You are letting your emotions cloud your judgment,” Castiel says rigidly, stepping back a little. Sam can see the whiteness of his knuckles from here.

“No fucking shit, Spock—” Dean straightens, although doesn’t make any effort to move any closer.

“—and are behaving irrationally.”

“Your face is behaving irrationally!”

Silence. Benny leans across Kevin so that Sam can admire his perfectly raised eyebrow.

“That doesn’t make sense, Dean.”

More silence. Benny turns back towards the kitchen, and Kevin lowers the paper as Dean shoves Castiel back against the wall. Kisses him hard.

And Sam sort of maybe saw this coming. Ish. Not really.

Cas reaches back for him, digs his fingers into Dean’s elbow. There’s anger, but also a familiarity— and Sam realizes that this probably isn’t the first time they’ve done this, and he isn’t sure what it means that Dean never told him. And when Dean pulls back, they just look at each other for a moment. Back into one of their epic staring contests.

Sam looks away.

Somehow, he feels like it’s his own heart that’s breaking.

Dean sucks in his breath. “Cas—” then stops. Jerks himself lout of the angel’s grip, and half runs the six steps from the kitchen to the front door.

It slams shut behind him.

Castiel stays where he is. His eyes are closed now.

“’Bout time,” Kevin mutters, hiding his face behind the Times again.

“Well, my next resort was going to be to lock them naked in a room together and make them fuck it out,” Benny drawls, even more quietly, “but maybe they’ll figure that bit on their own.”

Dean sleeping with anyone is a mental image that Sam has never wanted to and yet been accidentally subjected to on many occasions. And he thinks that maybe everyone in this damn house just needs to get laid, but it’s never that easy. Because what Dean and Castiel were arguing about, it wasn’t a lover’s quarrel or about how much UST they had, because they still had a war and another world in jeopardy and what if Castiel could end it? Save this literally godforsaken planet?

Or worthless, waterlogged rock.

Sam stands. Strikes a casual pose as he walks into the kitchen. Castiel doesn’t acknowledge his presence.

“What was that about?” he asks, as if he and the entire Midwest hadn’t heard.

“Strategic differences,” Castiel says. And by his own design, he can’t teleport-fly-beam-whatever out of or into this house, but clearly regrets it now. Even if he hasn’t moved.

Sam stares for a couple seconds. Figures he should tell Cas that his brother is just— “Don’t underestimate—” no, that doesn’t work. “Erm, Dean—”

And then he stops, because he figures that Castiel already knows.

Ten minutes later, Amelia drags Garth and Dean’s unconscious bodies across the doorstep.

Okay, so maybe he could have planned his angry exit better.

But he’s furious. He’s furious, angry, hurting, and so it makes perfect sense that he’d walk straight into the middle of the Clash of the Titans. At first he'd thought that the building bursting into flame was just a reflection of his mood.

They’re shooting around him— a woman holding a bazooka and a sword, a man surrounded by light, weapons clashing that shake the world. Dean dives into a parking lot in an attempt to avoid the boar that’s charging down the street.

It pauses, though, to give him an annoyed glance that’s eerily familiar.

“Artemis?” Dean gasps, scrambling to his feet. He isn’t sure whose side she’s on, he’s still not sure if she’s going to kill him. The ways of the god are fickle, it seems.

It snorts, and then the younger woman is standing in front of him. “The hell are you doing here, Winchester?”

“I’m, uh.” He looks around. He’d been planning on going for a walk, maybe helping Garth and Amelia with the shopping— Garth and Amelia— “have you seen—”

“Your friends are in Safeway,” she says, before turning away. The bow in her hand is changing back into a tusk. “I’d scram if I were you.”

How the fuck did they not hear this from inside? Do the sigils block this out too and what the hell just happened.

And then there is a horse and holy fuck that’s the biggest horse Dean has ever— and then it’s on top of him and he’s running back and forth trying to avoid the legs, he’s pretty sure horses don’t have that many legs— and then diving off to one side, running running running towards the poorly named Safeway. Where civilians are scattering, leaving their cars, their groceries, ducking for cover, and where— where— he throws himself to one side on instinct and fire shoots over his shoulder and he should hide but it’s Amelia in there and he can’t let her die, can’t do that to Sam, has to save people, it’s his job. So then he’s running into the store, where cans are rolling across the floor and people are cowering and— “Amelia?! AMELIA! GARTH!”

Someone grabs his shoulder, and he spins, going for the demon knife, but it’s Garth, it’s just Garth.

“Holy hell, man,” the younger Hunter says, gesturing outside. And Dean takes a moment to let the world fall back into place.

“Sounds accurate.”

At least they’re only a couple blocks away from home. That’s something. Would be something. Timing. Why didn’t Sam see this in one of his god-o-visions?

“You think they found us?” Amelia yells, wincing at an explosion. “Or just a coincid—”

They all drop to the floor as the windows shatter.

“I don’t think anything is a coincidence,” Dean mutters. Looks around, but the store is empty now. And he can’t do anything but hope the others got away safe, because then the light is blocked, and he turns to Garth to say ‘is that thing coming towards us part hippo?’ and his mouth is halfway open, “Hey, Garth,”

Sam stares. From them to Amelia. Questions tangling up in his mouth, so that what comes out is “what happened did you get them home?”

“The hippo-lion, possibly part croc. Ammit?” She’s trying to sound calm, but her voice is shaking. “She got a bite out of Dean, I think, and Garth—” her breathing is so unsteady, and she’s slowly dropping to her knees. Reaches out to feel for a pulse in Garth’s neck, and then Don is there, running down the stairs, but he doesn’t say anything as Sam wraps one awkward arm around his wife’s shoulder. Just goes to her other side.

“What happened to Garth?” Linda asks, pitch of her voice rising.

“I— knocked him out. With a can of Progresso’s, I— he went at Ammit— Ammit, right?” she looks at Castiel for confirmation, but he doesn’t respond, so she continues. “And— and Ammit was going to kill him and I tried to hold him back but he pulled away, the hippo thing, it got distracted— something attacked it— a car, maybe, or a bull— a something— so it wasn’t going to kill Dean but if Garth, and so I knocked him out and put— put them both on a dolly and went out the back door.”

Of course she did. Maybe later this will be one of the things that Sam laughs about, but right now, where the only sounds are the faint clashing and roaring from a block away, because they can hear it now, it's getting closer. It’s— okay. Breathe.

“We should take the Mes and run,” he says.

Castiel kneels next to Dean. “Forget the damn Mes,” he growls. “Inanna—”

“What do you—” Sam pulls away from Amelia, joins Castiel next to his brother. “There’s not a mark on him, it’s—” he’s breathing, his heart is beating, he and Castiel both check. Castiel. He turns to him. “Can you—”

He’s about to ask if he can heal him but of course that was the first thing he’d tried, while Sam was still getting the story from Amelia, still trying to learn what had happened.

Mrs. Tran comes thundering back into the room, holding the backpack with the tablets inside.

She stops after realizing that they aren’t evacuating, looks at Dean and Garth, and describes the situation very accurately in four letters.

Then, to Cas: “Can’t you wake them up?”

Again, the angel does not dignify that with a response, but reaches into Dean’s pants— no, his pocket— and pulls out the cell phone.

Taps through to the contact list and presses something.

And Sam is strangely comforted, even now, because Castiel knows what he’s doing, Castiel is powerful, and he’ll— he’s trying.

He won’t let Dean die.

“Inanna,” Cas says. His voice is lower again. Hoarse, like he’s just been screaming.

She speaks loud enough that Sam can hear. Even though it’s tinny. “I know, I know—”

“If you do not come down here right now I’m going to throw your tablets off the porch, where gods are fighting in the street.”

Sam is pretty sure that that’s a really bad idea, but he stays quiet.

Realizes he doesn’t much care.

This recklessness, this anythingtosaveDean, it’s a disease that it seems Castiel has caught now too. It’s going to be a problem. Already has been a problem. They all need to stop dying for each other.

But even as he thinks it he knows it won’t happen because Dean is his brother and the mostly-constant in his life and he always comes back to him and he’s a geek and Sam can’t let him die.

There’s a pause. “You wouldn’t like what would happen.”

Castiel’s hand is on Dean’s chest, triple-checking the heartbeat. “You really want to try me?”

Pause.

“I’m sort of busy, Castiel. What with that whole—” there’s the clang of steel coming through the lines. “—battle you were just talking about. Art, behind you!” And there’s the unmistakable sound of an explosion. Then some static.

Benny curses. Heads towards the door as though he’s actually going to go out— he’s been standing in the corner this entire time, Sam realizes, not joining their huddle but not leaving either— when the noise clears and Inanna’s voice come through again.

“You have five seconds,” Castiel says flatly, unimpressed.

“I don’t even know where you are.”

“Two-three-two Sparrow, I give you Permission.”

Pause.

Pause.

Sam tries to count to ten. Tries to take calming breaths. Tries not to lose it, because he owes his big brother more than that.

“I’m opening the door,” Castiel says, although he hasn’t left Dean’s side.

“You’re a fucking liar.” This time, the voice comes from behind them.

Cas stands. He has his smiting face on.

“Fix him.”

She taps her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Don’t play your whole hand upfront.”

The angel says nothing, but his eyes are glowing.

“Huh.” And the goddess seems— almost impressed. “Guess nobody saw that coming. Except for everybody.” She kneels next to Dean, and Sam realizes how tired exhausted looks. Her clothes, hair, whatever, are still perfect— but there’s a tiredness in her movements. “What happened to him?”

“Ammit,” Amelia says.

Another heavy silence, and Sam clenches every muscle, expecting—

“If you couldn’t heal him, what makes you think I could?” Inanna reaches forward and presses her hand against Dean’s chest; Cas twitches, but doesn’t otherwise react. And Sam’s falling, falling, because twenty minutes ago Dean was standing right there. It wasn’t like they’d been going off for a big fight, it wasn’t fair, for Dean to go out just randomly, so pointless, he’s not going to die. Mark of Cain, Dean had joked. They couldn’t die.

He takes a deep breath. Counts to ten. Studies the ugly pattern on the carpet.

“You know things we do not.”

“Look.” She stands. Turns to face him. “Ammit tears at souls; she destroys the ka— the soul— of people who she’s told are unworthy." (Dean isn't unworthy.) "Dean’s is— damaged. She didn’t take away any pieces, but it’s— torn— it’s practically a cancer, now. I could take it out—”

“No.” Sam and Castiel both say this at the same time, the same tone, not an option, not an option, because he only remembers bits and pieces of his soulless time but Dean— Dean would never, Dean would rather die, he’s sure of it, and Castiel glances at Sam for a second and Sam can see it in Cas’s face too, how much worse it would be— not, no, no. (And later, Sam will tell himself that they really were working in Dean’s best interests, that they weren’t just more scared of a Dean that didn’t care about them.)

“My soul was damaged,” Sam says. “In the pit, mine was— they put it back in and I woke up.” It wasn’t like— it wasn’t like there were memories that would break him, right, Dean wouldn’t need a Wall— just another brick in the wall— Sam can’t breathe, so he’s kneeling again, gasps for air, one two three four five six seven eight nine ten, he will keep his calm, he will keep his calm. Keep Calm and Carry On my wayward son, there’ll be peace— Dean—

She looks at him. “Then he might wake up. Winchesters are notorious for defying odds. But if it were me—” half a shrug. “I mean, it probably hurts him. Do what you need to do. I have a battle to coordinate.” She takes a step, then hesitates. Turns back. “I am sorry,” she says. “Please don’t throw the Mes off the porch.”

And then she’s gone. Sam could swear that he feels the house shudder as it seals behind her.

Amelia kneels next to Garth, rolls his head around to look at the wound, and then Cas is picking up Dean— like Dean weighs nothing, he’s an angel, so why can’t he save him— and lies him down on the sofa, and then he goes back to Garth and practically prods the hunter in the back of the neck. And Garth’s eyes snap open, blood vanishing from his head, and he’s getting to his feet and babbling something and then Amelia is pulling Sam to his feet and he’s staring at Dean, and Castiel is next to him again, puts a hand on the immobile forehead.

“He’s dreaming.”

He’s running through colors. So many colors, indistinct backgrounds— but they’re red, orange, black, white, the colors of hellfire and pain, and there’s something behind him. It’s made of dark, too, made of all the colors, all the bad colors, and he doesn’t know what to do. So he runs even faster. Following the trail, a few breadcrumbs scattered across the blurry green and brown floor. They’re in perfect clarity— and it’s only when he steps on one that he realizes how much they hurt. There’s blood coming from his foot now, more blood than should be possible (there isn’t that much blood in his body, is there?) and it’s rushing towards them, the ones following him, they’ll know where he is now.

So he crouches behind a tree and closes his eyes. But it doesn’t work, because the colors are still there. And it’s a big tree— not dead, like it was a second ago, but alive, with many branches. It’s like the one that used to be outside his bedroom window— it is the tree from outside the window, back when he was four. He starts climbing. Higher and higher, but he can hear Alastair singing to him now, and he hesitates. And then his tree is falling, falling, and he’s in a tangle of branches.

But he lands on something soft.

Dean?

They’re in a playground now. And he doesn’t remember there being a playground next to his old house, but it looks a lot like the one in that town with the witch. They must have built it after he moved. And there’s Cas, carefully lowering him onto the bench. He doesn’t speak— his mouth doesn’t move, anyway, but it’s okay because his thoughts are out loud. And so are Dean’s.

Dean are you okay?

And he can’t tell him, so he says, yes, fine, Cas. But since it’s his thoughts, the words are the color of fire, and the angel frowns.

I tried to pull you away from them, he says. Come, I’ll take you farther. So he touches Dean’s forehead and then they’re somewhere else, somewhere blue and green and purple and brown with a yellow sky above them. Dean breathes a little easier. Thanks, Cas.

The angel kneels next to him, places his hands on either side of Dean’s face. Are you alright? He asks. How much do you remember?

Dean frowns. Well, they were chasing me, and everything was orange—

No, no. Before you started dreaming.

I’m dreaming?

Yes

So you’re not real then.

No, I’m real. I’m walking in your dream, Dean. I have before, remember?

Suddenly they’re on a dock, and there’s a fishing pole in Dean’s hand. He stares at it, feels the ghost of a note in his pocket.

Right. So what happened to me?

Cas’s mouth moves a little, but it doesn’t match the words that Dean can hear.

Ammit has— caused damage to your soul. You’re unconscious.

Dean touches his chest. His hand passes through it.

My soul?

It’ll be okay, his angel says, and since all their thoughts are aloud Castiel now knows that Dean just thought of him as ‘his’ angel and he looks somewhat amused. It’ll be okay, because we’re going to fix you. I just need to see… and he turns, staring out over the endless water.

Are you okay? Dean asks. Garth, and Amelia. Because he’s starting to remember now— he steps off the dock and onto the tiled floor of Safeway. The window breaks over and over. I remember that Garth and Amelia were here. Are they—

Amelia brought you both back. Garth will be fine. Just like you. Castiel reaches out to touch his arm, but this time Dean is solid. Then there are monsters again, lurking. And Cas says, don’t think about them, don’t look at them. I cannot fight them off if you let them in.

You don’t need to fight my battles, Cas, Dean says, but he pulls on one trench coat sleeve until Cas follows him out the front door. They’re back in the playground, but all the children playing on it disappear as they approach. Because night has fallen suddenly, and their parents told them to go home. And Dean looks at Cas— and because it’s a dream and his thoughts are painted on his face, Cas knows what he means, and kisses him. But there’s some sadness too, because he also knows that this is a dream and that’s why it’s okay, because when Dean wakes up it’s not okay because— there are reasons, he’s pretty sure there are reasons, like getting hurt and killed and emotional shit and stuff, but it’s hard to worry about that because Dean’s reaction time is a lot faster in this dream world than it is when he’s awake and he’s busy pushing Cas down onto the bench, which isn’t as uncomfortable as it was earlier and if this is a dream he might as well make it a dream so he pushes down and hopes that it feels real.

Dean.

When they roll off the bench and onto the soft ground, Castiel looks at him. Touches his face. This time, his hand passes through.

I have to go back, he says.

Yeah. Go and check on Sam, right? Make sure he’s okay?

But Dean doesn’t want to be left alone in his dreamworld— and Cas knows this. He knows everything, now. Dean can’t stop the thoughts and he doesn’t want to.

I’ll try and keep the nightmares away.

He walk away slowly, shimmering into nothing, like the gods. And Dean smiles a little as he stares up at the sky.

It’s the color of morning.

Sam should sleep.

He should try and figure out what the gods are up to now that they’ve flattened this one Midwestern town, figure out if they know or what their whatever.

Sam should eat.

He’s hungry, he knows that much. He should eat the food that Amelia keeps putting in front of him, but he can’t, not right now, because it almost hurts.

Sam should sit next to his brother.

He should refuse to leave his side and be there in case Dean wakes up soon, so that Sam will be there, so that he’ll be comforted, so that everything will be okay.

But he doesn’t.

He isn’t sure if there’s anything he’s still able to do. It’s not the grim determination he had at first, when Dean had gone to Hell. It’s not even the listlessness he had when Dean had gone to Purgatory. Because Dean is here, right here, and he’s alive but not conscious, and how is he supposed to deal with that? He’s dreaming— Cas says he’s dreaming— and it’s Castiel that hasn’t left him. It’s Castiel who sets up the mattress on the living room floor and sits guard. Hand on his shoulder, even though Sam’s pretty sure that Castiel had sent them messages from far away before, that physical contact is not necessary. Castiel who can swim through Dean’s dreams.

“Mostly nightmares,” he says, when Sam asks. “I— I try to fight them off.”

I try to keep him safe is the unspoken message, but Sam knows that even Cas can’t keep Dean safe forever, even in his head. He can fight the imaginary demons for awhile, maybe— but in the end…

In the end, Dean’s going to be trapped in mental hellfire.

And Sam doesn’t know how to deal with that.

Can’t go closer, can’t go far away. He stands in the living room doorway, watching.

The scene hasn’t changed. Cas watching over his brother, like he’d said he would in Oklahoma. Once Sam is half convinced that he sees wings, curled around them both, but then he blinks.

“Hey.” Benny stops next to him. Also stares at the image. “Angel doing his dreamwalk thing again?”

“I can’t tell.” Cas doesn’t respond to much regardless. Sam can only hope that he’s scrolling through his mental library, because they barely tried the books. There’s hardly anything known of souls, much less what to do when they get freaking torn. “Hey, is that Dean’s phone?”

“Yeah.” The vampire is tapping away at the numbers. Sam isn’t sure how he knows Dean’s lock code, but then he’s hitting the camera.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, slightly alarmed.

Click.

Cas must be in Dean’s dream, because he doesn’t respond. Or maybe he can’t be bothered to care.

“For Dean, the next time he thinks that the angel is looking for a chance to up and leave him. And the next time he fixes to go do something stupid, because this is what the rest of us are left with.”

Yeah.

To be fair, leaving the house when angry isn’t entirely a stupid decision, but maybe he should have listened for— the sounds of battle first.

Sam should be out with Garth, Amelia, Don and Mrs. Tran looking for survivors, trying to help people. Saving people.

Sam should be reading with Kevin.

But he can’t really find it in him to care.

Don’s seen carnage before; Sam should care how he’s handling it. Amelia, doctoring people instead of animals. A person, an animal; stitches are stitches, help is help, and Sam’s just freaking useless.

He’ll get over it, it’s only been a day. Soon he’ll have the energy to march out to the nearest crossroads, or something. Even though he knows that he won’t and he can’t and everyone in this house will kill him if he tries. But he’ll hate himself if he doesn’t.

Castiel straights up slightly. Touches Dean’s face for a moment before settling in a different position. He looks up at Sam and Benny.

“How is he?” Sam asks.

“I left him on a beach,” the angel says. “He was happy.”

He can’t resist. “How long until—”

“The nightmares catch up?”

Nod.

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’ll— I’ll check later, I suppose.”

And because he has to say it: “You don’t have to do that, Cas.”

The look he gets is one of a timeless being who’s freaking exhausted. There aren’t age lines on his face, and yet it’s so evident— a little like Inanna, perhaps. “No,” Castiel says. “No, it’s the least I can do. I couldn’t—”

Couldn’t save him, couldn’t stop him from leaving the house. Didn’t hold on tight enough, delay him by a few extra minutes. Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda, and Sam doesn’t understand everything that’s going on between them but. Christ.

Castiel lifts Dean’s head slightly, presses a cup of water to his lips.

Sam closes his eyes.

He’s exhausted, but there’s enough sleeping being done in this house.

“Sam.” Benny joins him on the porch, holds out a beer.

Sam takes it. “Yeah?”

“Look.” Benny sits down on the porch steps, rubs one hand across his face. He seems to be bracing himself, and Sam knows what he’s about to hear. Knows, and he doesn’t want to hear this. Doesn’t want to even think— “Look. Sam. I know— look.” A deep breath. “You know Dean’s like a brother to me,” he says. “I’ve— we’ve— been through a lot together. Not as much as you an’ him, but I—” he stops again. “I know him well enough to know that— I don’ think he’d want to live like this, Sam.”

“No.” Sam shakes his head once. They’d all been thinking it, he knows they’ve all been thinking it. “It’s only been four days.”

“And it’s gettin’ worse. Castiel is gone longer’n longer, fighting Dean’s pers’nal demons, and—”

They both take long drinks.

The sky is clear.

It’s too clear. It should be raining, it should be dark. Everything should be miserable because Dean might not wake up.

And Sam voices what he’s been thinking, over and over. “It’s just Hell in his own head.” Pause. “But—” Anyway. “Cas wouldn’t let us get near him.”

Benny smiles a little bit. Glances over his shoulder, where an angel is still watching over their brother. “They won’t give up on each other,” Benny says. “Christ. Took us a coupl’a months to find him, in Purg’tory, and he never stopped. I told him, I told him that the angel’s prob’ly dead, prob’ly gotten out, can take care’a himself, should leave here withou’ him because we had our chance.”

That’s Dean.

Selling his soul even when nobody is buying.

And this shouldn’t be on the list of things troubling him, but hell. “When— right before Dean left.” Swallow. “He and Cas, were, um.”

“I think the modern term is ‘sucking face.’”

Somewhat accurate. And Dean was awake then, full of emotion and running and talking and he has to wake up. “Yeah. Did you— did you know?” (And it’s not that he’s grossed out— weirded out, and even though he’d wondered, insinuated, pushed, he’d never expected Dean to work it out himself, and since when has sleeping with things that aren’t human ever, ever ended well? Because Cas has done a lot of good, but he’s also done a lot of bad, and Dean had had enough trouble last time even acknowledging the bad and then spentmonths drinking himself to sleep. And Sam doesn’t hold grudges, exactly, he’d told Cas he was forgiven and he is, but that doesn’t mean he wants him sleeping with his brother. Doesn't mean he isn't afraid of having Dean broken again.)

(Then again, it’s probably too late for that.)

Benny’s laugh is one that comes before crying. He doesn’t cry, though. “I saw them in Utah,” he says. “And then I figured something went down when Inanna made us all horndogs. But I don’t know if it’d been a constant thing since then or not. Haven’t seen ‘em, anyway.”

Sam closes his eyes. “I can’t,” he says, and he doesn’t need to give Benny any more context. “He’d never give up on me or Cas or you, we can’t give up on him.”

“I just—” pause. “Now that we know Heaven’s real, I’d like to make sure, if— if it’s inevitable, that he gets there. What happens when your soul—”

It’s a strange thing, death, when you know that the consciousness of the person is still out there somewhere. In heaven, in Hell, in Purgatory— fuck, Dean has been to every afterlife possible, and hated all of them. So where’s the comfort there? Where does that leave them?

“A few more days.” Sam’s voice cracks, and he has to stop a moment to collect himself. “Let’s give him a few more days. Cas— Cas will think of something. We’ll find something.”

Benny nods. Then throws his empty bottle off the porch.

It shatters on the sidewalk.

Sam wonders what it looks like. A bottle flying out of nowhere. But nobody saw. They’re hidden, alone, secret. A small sanctuary while the world around them burns.

“Loki and Ereshkigal have joined forces,” he says. “They’re forming, like, a Team Evil, or something.”

“Damn.” Pause. “Think we should warn Inanna?”

Are they on her side now? They don’t owe her anything but a lot of trouble. “I don’t think she’ll take kindly to me seeing what all the gods are up to in my sleep. Don’t think any of ‘em will.”

“Yeah,” Benny says, “they’d probably just kill you.”

It’s the next evening that things change.

Sam comes into the living room to find Cas removing Dean’s shirt, and he tries not to be sick at the lifeless flop of arms.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Tries to work up some indignation, but he’s too busy at the sight of Dean lolling around like a rag doll.

“Sam, could you please get me a Sharpie?”

The request sounds odd, coming from the mouth of an angel.

Sam gets him a sharpie.

“What’s this for?” he demands, even as he offers it.

Castiel is bent over Dean’s chest, and starts to draw. They’re symbols that Sam doesn’t recognize, but they’re so careful, so precise. Dabbing over each line, to make it clear, wide, black, perfect. Maybe Enochian.

“Dean’s soul is torn,” he says. “Torn, but there are no parts missing.”

Okay.

“Okay.”

“So I’m going to attempt to mend it.”

Oh.

That seems logical. They haven’t thought of this before, and Sam is, in some disconnected way, surprised about this. After all, it would be logical, wouldn’t it? Except, “How do you give a soul stitches?”

Pause. There’s just the quiet sound of sharpie against skin.

“I’m going to bind it together with Grace,” Castiel says, as though this were obvious.

And Sam’s heart soars— knewitkknewit Cas won’t let him die— but he still has to ask, because he knows that Dean will be furious if Cas hurts himself waking him up. He knows, he doesn’t much care because Dean, but he figures he owes it to his brother. One thing on a long list.

“How?”

He gets a quiet sigh. “This has never been tried before,” he says. “But— this thing I am drawing, it will call the Grace to him. It’s instructions, if you will, for what it’s to do when it enters. Instructions being to mend his soul.”

“And you got this from—” (Because he wants to believe it, God does he want to believe it.)

“I’ve been going over the proper words in my mind for the last day.”

And that’s probably not a good sign, because it means that this is so very very careful, and precise, and there are many opportunities for error. Sam grimaces.

“What’s that going to do to you?”

Castiel shrugs. “You can give blood,” he says. “It’s no different.”

And Sam doesn’t know if he’s lying or not, but it’s good enough for him. Castiel’s face is blank as he draws. There’s nothing but concentration there as he carefully works around Dean’s tattoos.

There are people in the room with them— Benny and Amelia and Mrs. Tran, he thinks, from the shoes and the way they’re breathing,

“Do you need me to do anything?”

There’s a brief silence. Sam wonders why the world isn’t celebrating, and maybe he should go get Benny or Garth or someone, but whatever. Castiel hesitates a moment before carefully unbuttoning his shirt. Everything is so calm, here, so quiet, so careful, like one stray breath will mess everything up. There should at least be music.

“I need you to cut a line from here—” he gestures to one spot, up high in the center of his chest, “—to here.”

And God this is so precise, and Sam’s hands are shaking as he takes the angel sword offered to him. It’s a line between his ribs, right where that hollow space is when you miss someone, when you love someone, when it really hurts, and Sam wonders if that’s the reason that it’s this, this particular line. But that’s okay. Sam has cut thin lines before, he can do it. He can do this. He can do this.

If only his hand would stop shaking.

And then someone else’s hands are on his. “Let me,” Amelia says quietly. She gently tugs the sword out of his grip, and then turns to the angel. “How deep?”

“Deep,” Castiel says. “You’ll be able to see the grace.”

Zachariah’s glowing eyes flash in Sam’s mind, and— “Won’t that kill you?”

A shrug. “Probably not. For— for an angel to die, the sword usually has to pierce their grace completely. Go all the way through,” he says, when Sam still looks confused.

“Oh.”

God, he’s not even doing the cutting anymore and— he lifts a hand. God. Breathe. He can breathe.

Amelia’s hands are perfectly steady as she touches the tip of the blade to Castiel’s borrowed chest. “Here?”

“Higher.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She nods, swallows. “Tell me when to stop.”

Castiel doesn’t react as she carefully presses the blade forward. Until there’s a soft, muted light around the edges. And then she pulls down.

The line of light— of Grace— leaks out. Like it did with— with all the other angels that Sam has seen die. But instead of spreading out, every which way, it’s being pulled down, down, to where the symbols on Dean’s chest are starting to faintly glow.

Sam forgets to breathe for a minute.

“Stop.”

Amelia pulls the knife out, and Cas waits a few more moments before pressing his hand over the wound. But it’s like when Sam used to put his hand on top of the flashlight, or in his mouth, laughing at the glow. It keeps coming. His pain is only visible in his tensed muscles, tight jaw.

And it’s the image of Dean waking up to find his angel dead that Sam starts panicking. “Casti— Cas what do you— what should we—”

Amelia turns to look at him then, and he stops. Scoots back a little to give them space. And then Amelia, Christ, Amelia, is swatting Cas’s hand out of the way. Presses the wound together and extends a hand. “Don,” she says.

Don comes forward, and Sam doesn’t know when he came in, but he’s holding Amelia’s emergency med kit.

“Human stitches won’t hold,” Castiel says. There’s no emotion in his voice, but Sam can see the flicker of worry in his eyes.

“I soaked the thread in holy oil,” Amelia says, sticking the end of the needle in her mouth as she threads it with one hand. “And then waxed it. It should hold.”

And Sam can’t help but being impressed, and maybe Cas is a little impressed too.

“How did you know to do that?” Sam asks.

Amelia’s face is now almost level with Cas’s chest, as she careful slips the needle under skin. “Entire new range of medical lore,” she says. “There’s some interesting stuff in those books. Including the properties of holy oil.” Her voice is slow, measured. Like Castiel is one of her dogs and cats that she is so good at soothing— or maybe it’s Sam that she’s trying to calm. Either way, her voice is as steady as the flash of silver going in and out of Castiel’s skin. "Figured, be prepared."

The symbols on Dean’s chest are practically white now, awash in light.

Dean moves.

Everybody stops but Amelia. All eyes staring at him as he shifts slightly.

“—Mmy? —As?”

Castiel’s hand twitches, like he has to remind himself to stay still. The light isn’t coming out anymore, but Sam isn’t looking.

“Dean,” he says, touching his brother for the first time in days. “Dean, can you hear me?”

Dean moves a little more, but then his head lulls to one side. But maybe it’s healing, maybe it’s getting better, and he didn’t expect him to just get up and walk off— except maybe he did, a little but Dean can’t always be as awesome as his little brother.

“Just a couple more,” Amelia says.

“Thank you.”

She just nods when she pulls back. Dabs at it with what Sam hopes is tap water, and not from Benny’s special Aquafina barrels that they’d roll home from Costco. And Castiel is peering down at his chest like he’s not quite sure why he isn’t bleeding out yet.

Amelia flattens an adhesive bandage across the wound, then sits back. “There,” she says.

“Thank you,” Castiel says again.

He moves over carefully. Touches Dean’s hand.

“—As?”

“Dean,” Cas says, but it’s barely over a whisper. But Dean just does that squirming thing again. Still doesn’t wake up.

“Is he dreaming?” Sam asks.

Cas’s hand traces over Dean’s forehead. “I don’t have the— I’ll have to wait a little, before I’m able to check.” Pause. “Hopefully he’ll wake on his own before then.”

Dean rolls over onto his side, with what sounds suspiciously like a snort.

Artemis is sitting across from a man. They’re in a coffee shop— Starbucks, according to the logo on their Styrofoam cups.

The man has golden hair and a smile like dawn. But he isn’t smiling now.

They’re arguing.

He hides his face in his hand. “You— you stole Enlil’s mace. You've been--”

She sits.

“No,” he’s saying. “It killed me, when I was told. You cannot do this. You can come back to us, please come back."

“I can. I don’t think I have a choice anymore.” She shakes her head. “Their plan— Zeus and Enlil— I cannot stand behind that. And everything is already falling apart.”

“This is our family.” His voice shakes. “It’s breaking— that’s all the more reason you should return.”

“I cannot,” she says. Reaches out, covers his hand with her own. “Come with me.” It’s almost a whisper. “Please. We can stand together like we should, we can help protect the world.”

The man snorts. “Since when are you so keen on humanity?”

“I walk among them. More than the rest. But I— Inanna showed me the Mes. What they plan. What they say and do behind closed doors and no I’m not talking about the fucking… There isn’t space in their New World, not for people, not for us—”

“We’re his children. He’s our father.”

He’s crying now. His tears turn to birds as they hit the floor.

“Come with me,” she begs again. “I’ve forgiven you so much, Apollo. I forgave you for Daphne, for the death of Orion. I stood with you against Hermes, in the Trojan war— in everything have I followed you. Please. Trust me this time.”

He takes a deep breath. “You’re my flesh,” he says horsely. “My twin. My other half.” Swallow. “You know I cannot.”

There are tears in her voice, one last, one final— “Please.”

Apollo shakes his head, eyes hardening into rock. “Zeus was wrong. Inanna did seduce you.” He clings to her hand. “I’ll forget. I’ll forget we had this conversation— I'll tell Zeus you begged for forgiveness, he will take you back.”

Shaking, she pulls away. “You know I cannot.”

He looks down. There’s nothing for a moment but the sad song of the birds.

“Go. Go,” he says finally. “I’ll have to tell them. I’ll— I’ll give you one hour.”

She nods once in thanks. Stands. Leans over the table and presses her lips against his forehead, hair swinging forward to cover their faces. When she pulls back, a moth sits in his hair.

“Sister,” Apollo says. “Do not make them kill you.”

She stands for a moment.

He opens his eyes.

“Go.”

She turns and runs. Grabs a silver bicycle that’s leaning against the door, and kicks off. Pedals a few feet before jerking the handlebars back and rolling into the air.

The front wheel glows silver in the night sky.

High above the ground, perched atop the moon, Artemis closes her eyes and screams.

And below, in the Starbucks, Apollo reaches up and takes the moth from his hair.

He stares at it for a moment. It’s so small in his hand— wings fluttering, antenna curling, preparing to fly.

He crushes it in his fist, and his scream echoes his twin’s.

Sam wakes up with tears on his face. But everything is quiet now. Nothing like the voices that had been echoing in his head.

He looks to the window, watching for a few minutes as the moon slowly rises into the sky. Can’t help feeling sorry for both of them.

Cas is sitting in the living room, but he doesn’t react as Sam goes into the kitchen. Scribbles on a piece of paper.

Apollo and Artemis failed to reach agreement re: Inanna.
Apollo is sad.
Don’t wake me up.

When he goes back to bed, he’s secretly hoping that he’ll dream.

The ground is brown and grey, but Dean knows where he’s going, because there’s a trail. Black lines, curling slightly, are scorched into the earth.

Wings, he realizes after a few minutes. Angel’s wings.

And the thought terrifies him, and he’s running faster, but the wings, they’re so huge, and he doesn’t know where they end. But he knows he has to get there. Knows he has to see if Cas is okay and the wings are getting wider so he must be near their center, they have to get wider before they get narrower again, he remembers Zachariah’s, and so he runs faster and faster and they’re getting darker and darker and there, there, up ahead is the body. Lying still between the two great wings, and Dean can’t see the face, but he’s covered in a tan trench coat—

He wakes up screaming.

Although later he’ll tell Sam that it was more of a manly yell.

It takes a moment for the view to come in focus— the bottom legs of the couch, and everything tastes like cotton and his head has been stuffed with something. And he feels like he’s just run for miles, even though from the stiffness he’s probably been lying like this for a while—

“Sammy?” he croaks, straining to sit. “Cas?”

Then there are hands next to him, on his arm, his shoulder. “Dean.” That’s Sam. That’s Sam. “Dean, are you okay?”

His neck feels like he’s breaking as he turns it. And then there’s Cas, a couple feet away. His hand is on Dean’s shoulder, but when Dean looks at him, he pulls back. Glances at Dean once before disappearing. Goes before Dean can ask him to stay. And he isn’t quite sure why, but he’s still dizzy, and his dreams are coming back to him with far more clarity than dreams generally do.

“Ugh.”

“What do you want?” Sam’s hands are fluttering around. “Water? Food? What—”

“Sleep,” Dean says, trying to keep his eyes open. He’s freaking exhausted, which seems like not a good thing, because of how much time seems to have passed. He lies back down anyway.

“No—” Sam is still doing his worried routine. “Sit up, just for a second—”

“I did,” he says. “I want to go back to sleep.”

He does.

The next time he wakes up, it’s just Cas with him. The windows are dark.

“Is there anything you need?” Cas asks slowly.

“People keep asking me that.” He presses his thumbs against his eyes. “Ugh.”

Cas doesn’t say anything after that, and then he disappears. And Dean knows that he’s only flitting about the house, that he can’t leave, that he’s probably just upstairs or even in the damn kitchen, but going after him would feel like more effort that he has the ability to give. Hell, he doesn’t even know if he can stand.

He’s also not quite sure why he’s shirtless and has things sharpied all over his chest.

But he’s awake now, and he doesn’t seem like he’s about to go unconscious again, and he’d really like to ask Cas what the hell is going on, but if Cas can’t stick around then—

Fuck it.

“Cas?” he says quietly. “Cas, can you hear me?”

No response.

“I’m pretty sure you can, since we’re in the same house, and I could just yell, but I don’t want to wake everyone up so—”

And there’s the flutter of wings. Dean looks over. “Hey.”

Cas dips his chin.

“So.” Pause. “I thought that Ammit tore up my soul.” Then again— “If you were actually in my dreams? Was that—” because yeah he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to know every single thing that happened in his dreams, days of sensation and images and colors. They’re supposed to blur after you wake up.

“I was there.”

Oh. So, well then. (Being on top of Cas, the sounds, the freaking sounds that Cas makes, and just walking through fantastic colors listening to stories, because he’s never heard Cas talk that much before, Cas on top of him—)

“Ah.”

More silence.

“So how’d you wake me up?”

Cas explains briefly, and Dean isn’t sure if he should be annoyed at the martyrdom again. But Cas is appearing and disappearing like normal and so— and so maybe that’s okay?

“So I got a graceful soul now?” He rubs his chest, as though he could actually feel it.

He gets a smile. “It shouldn’t make any difference.”

“So it’s not like, um.” Dean hesitates. “Sam’s demon blood? Because if a few drops of that could—” give him freaky visions and make him a demon blood junkie. Cas knows.

“It’s not like Sam’s demon blood. It’s not in your body, it’s in your soul.”

He’s not entirely comforted by that, but it’s Cas and he’ll take it. So he relaxes some against the couch.

“You should eat,” Cas says. He’s nothing more than a shadow in the dark. “You’ve been living off liquids for days.”

Yeah. Dean doesn’t want to know who fed him. Doesn’t want to think about being that pathetic ever again. Fuck.

“’M not hungry,” he says. And then he knows, without a doubt, that Cas is about to leave again. Just go upstairs, to the kitchen, whatever, but— He puts on a smirk. “So do I smell or something?”

Actually, he probably does. He hasn’t had a shower since before everything.

Cas tilts his head a full forty five degrees to the side. “Not any more than you should.” Pause. “You should probably take a bath, when you can.”

“You didn’t give me a sponge bath?” Dean turns his smirk up even higher. “I’m hurt.”

“Why are you asking me this?”

Because you don’t want to be around me, he thinks, but he doesn’t know how to say that so he just shrugs.

“Dean.”

He can’t talk about this. He can’t ask for what he wants, and anyway, it never ends well. He wants Cas to move closer. Wants to just sit next to him— and that’s not cuddling, it’s just proximity, and he doesn’t know how to ask so he just waves a hand. “Just seem to rather be other places is all. I mean, I just thought—” Yeah no he can’t do this. He’s not going to be that pathetic, so he just sort of waves a hand. “Forget it. I’m going back to sleep.”

He can’t breathe in this house.

He’d been simmering before he’d gotten his freaking soul torn up, and now— maybe the graceage is giving him more energy. Or maybe everyone is treating him like an invalid and just making the problem that much more annoying. He doesn’t even know what. Just that he’s going to go insane.

There isn’t even any beer left.

Which wouldn’t be a problem if the town hadn’t been destroyed, leaving an alcohol-soaked foundation. Christ, everything’s gone, but this house, because the magic on it was powerful enough that it somehow didn’t exist. They should have covered the whole town, should have protect everyone, should have known that it’d be Dresden here, shoulda shoulda shoulda.

The only thing he can do is go and sit on the porch, without anything to bubble up his insides. He’d been planning to sit on Benny’s cot, but it’s already taken by one Amelia Richardson, who is also holding what must have been the last beer.

He sighs.

Then he nods at her, and she nods back, while he goes and sit as far away from her as possible while still remaining in the safety of their protective freaking force field— maybe just stand out there with a giant target on his chest saying COME AND GET ME, so that he’ll have something to shoot— but that’d be disrespectful to Cas and Sammy, what with them having just fixed his soul and all.

Well, Cas having just fixed his soul. And then actively avoiding him. The fuck.

Anyway, he’s pretty sure Sam would beat the crap out of him if he went out alone, and while he’s angling for a fight, he’s not that desperate yet. But it’s only a matter of time.

He hunkers down a little, doing his version of Sam’s brooding and pensive shoulders.

“Hey, Dean?” Amelia asks.

He grunts to show that he’s heard.

“If you—” and then she stops. And this sounds serious. Do I look like Dr. Phil to you?

A little bit.

Christ, he misses Bobby.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry.” She goes quiet. Good. She can take her problems and her Moments to someone else. Someone like Sam or Don, who are both in love with her and probably stressing her the hell out and it’s not like Mrs. Tran— aw, hell. Dean grew a uterus around the time he gave Cas his trench coat back, so he turns around. Slides down the porch so that they’re within talking distance.

“What’s up?”

She sloshes down some beer, and Dean definitely isn’t jealous.

“If you had to choose between Sam and Cas—”

Silence.

“What?” he manages, hands twitching around a phantom bottle. His own voice coming back to him—Hell with them, Cas. You don’t mean it. Don’t I?

She sighs, and passes him the beer. He considers being worried about germs, but he’s literally looking at the remains of the world, so he takes a drink anyway.

Yep, there are the bubbly insides.

“I think I’d die,” he tells her. Because angels protect tablets and he protects Sam. But the thought makes him feel sick. “Why?”

“But if you could only see one of them, for the rest of your life—”

“Would the other be happy?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean takes another drink before giving it back. This is sick. Sick. Like those would-you-rathers Lindsey Mora had liked playing in the eighth grade— Would you rather be blind or deaf? and Dean had never admitted how much both those possibilities terrified him. How both would get him killed.

“Is this about your love triangle?”

She snorts. “Makes me feel shallow. But yeah.”

Dean isn’t sure what he wants to say. What he can say. “It’s different, though,” he manages. “What you said about Sam and Cas. That’s— different. I mean, I’m not screwing Sam. Or Cas.” In reality, anyway. The porch’s ugly green paint comes off easily under his fingernails, and he picks at it until he gets the bottle back. There isn’t much left, so he does the gentlemanly thing and takes only a small bit. “I’m not in— It’s a different kind of— attachment.” Yeah, wordsmith, he is not.

“I love Don,” Amelia says quietly. She’s not looking at Dean, or even the destruction around them. But somewhere far off, where he doesn’t think he can see. “Don is family. He’s— I’d die for him.”

“But you’re in—love with Sam.”

He gets half a laugh. “Ever have your heart walking around outside your body?” Pause. “God, that sounded stupid, but—”

Yeah. Dean knows the feel. This time, he drains the rest of the bottle. Can’t have your cake and eat it too. “I know.”

There’s a loud thud from inside the house, and he’s half on his feet with his hand on his knife when Garth pops up in the window, swearing about a hole in the rug.

How Garth made it this long is slightly beyond him. But he’s a good guy. If there’s one thing Dean’s learned from fucking living with him for over a month, it’s that.

They need to get out of here.

Jesus Christ.

Dean’s almost happy he got knocked out so fast, because he isn’t sure he could have dealt with seeing everything here fall to pieces. The smoldering remains of houses, some that are gone all but the foundation. And the bodies, Jesus Christ, some of them are freaking kids and he doesn’t know what the news is listing it as, doesn’t know what the explanation is, because everywhere are there people fallen, everywhere there are— civilians, freaking civilians, and they didn’t even— god— Dean sinks to his knees in front of a burned out car.

It’s okay. It’s okay. He’s seen worse than this. Carthage. That town with the Jefferson Starships. Hell. Hell was definitely worse.

“You can go back inside,” Sam says. “You don’t have to—”

But of course he has to. Has to remind himself that no matter what she’s done for them, Inanna is not their ally, that there are no good sides in this fight. That while they clash and fight and fuck and scheme— the only thing left of this man is a Pink Floyd Laser Show t-shirt.

Dean rubs his forehead.

He’s not going to vomit.

He’s not going to vomit.

He’s certainly not going to cry. Not in this decimated town with the sky painted blue and the roads and buildings painted black. Not here where all lives that were better, people that were— probably weren’t innocent, probably cheated and lied and did shitty things like the rest of them but it’s a melted face, distorted with pain that stares up at him.

“Were there any survivors?” he asks, dreading the answer. His voice is dangerously close to cracking. ”Any?”

Nobody says anything.

Castiel is standing in the ruins, perfectly still. Like a monument, like one of those white crosses on the roadside. And Dean had asked Dad about them when he was little, thought it meant something about keeping away demons, but it was just a normal, stupid human death. Death they can’t stop because they can’t try. He should take a photograph: Angel watches over Fallen. But it’s a little too late for an angel’s presence to do any good, isn’t it.

Surround him, roving around, are shadowy women. Reaching down, holding glowing souls. The Valkyries, Cas had said earlier. Cradling the souls in their hands and carrying them to Valhalla. Or whatever. Reapers that everyone could see, death that Dean could talk to although they wouldn't talk back. Just continue walking, collecting lives with slender, ghostly fingers.

Dean closes his eyes.

It’s all too bright.

Then he opens them again. “How come there aren’t any— anyone?” he asks Sam. “Shouldn’t there be newsies and search and rescue and people blaming the government?”

Sam shrugs. “There were,” he says. “At first. But it’s been declared unsafe.” And his voice is far too— calm, and he’s had more time to process, and Dean’s bracing for the you can’t save everyone but it doesn’t come.

He isn’t sure if he’s grateful or not.

After all, the last few weeks, he’s saved— well, there were a couple ghosts and demons and shit.

But it doesn’t feel like he’s saved anyone.

Just another apocalypse.

He was right, that day Bobby died the first time.

The world really does want to end.

Dean looks up again, at Cas surrounded by the ruins.

He wonders if it already has.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure.”

He spins around, to see an impossibly cheekboned figure sitting in an impossibly preserved chair eating an impossible sandwich.

Cas, Sam and Benny are at Dean’s side in a moment. And he can’t help but be grateful.

Even though he knows that they can’t win a fight against Death. But then, Death has never been too interested in trying.

An unsettling thought occurs to him. “Are we dead?”

Death glances at the Valkyries. “Them? Nah. They’re not mine, but as long as someone’s doing the job, I’m okay with it. Someday, I’ll come for them and their masters.”

Dean’s lips twitch, and he and Sam exchange a smirk. Death rolls his eyes, and takes another bite of sandwich.

“So…” Sam frowns. “What do you want from us?”

“The pleasure of your company, of course. Hello, angel.” He dips his head at Cas. “Learned a valuable lesson, have we?”

Cas doesn’t respond— just continues staring the Horseman down— Dean grins a little. He has to.

“And who else— ah. Vampire. Should I teach you a valuable lesson about life and death? That seems to be all I’m good for these days.”

Benny takes half a step back, before reconsidering and moving up again. “Nah. I know I’m not gettin’ out of Purg’tory next time I croak.”

“Quite right.” Death finishes his sandwich and licks the mustard off his fingers, before learning forward onto his elbows. Making a platform with his hands on which to rest his head, as he continues staring at them with unblinking eyes. “Now,” he says. “Despite your incessant stupidity, I have come to a decision.”

Sam grits his teeth. And yeah, Death did do them a solid, but— actually, now that Dean thinks about it, Death is the only one that’s come through for them every time. That’s kind of ridiculous. And sadly ironic.

“Oh?” Sam says.

“That tablet that young Kevin is playing with. It is not the one you want.” Death reaches into his bag, and pulls out— a six-inch sub. Okay then. Dean’s starting to get hungry. It’s been far too long since he’s had fast food. “I believe you know to which I am referring, Castiel.”

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and everybody is dead. Cas frowns. “I do not.”

“Oh, it’s in there. Waaaay deep in your wiring. The angel tablet. It would be in your best interests to find it.” He takes an impossibly large bite, chews, wipes his face with an impossible napkin. “Yours, and mine.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Why yours?”

But Death is standing up now, walking back towards where his car has just appeared. “I’ll be here long after these gods,” he says. “I’ve been here longer than anyone. But what I do not want is to have to spend the next millennium cleaning up their mess. With the Mes, they write a new plan, and that one is quite a headache. I’d like to avoid it. Goodday.”

He departs, with a reasonable amount of style, and leaves the four staring at each other in disbelief.

“What the hell,” Benny says, “was that about?”

Dean turns to Cas. “An angel tablet?”

Cas looks at them, and then up at the sky, as though the horseman is up there skywriting a more detailed explanation. “We.. Angels, we protect these tablets. It’s in our very nature. Wiring, like Death said. I suppose— that somewhere in our— unconscious— is knowledge of all the ones in existence. I knew not of the angel one until… perhaps I should go to heaven, and—”

“They probably won’t be happy if they know you know,” Sam points out, glancing at Dean as though he’s some sort of IED. Actually, Dean has seem Sam diffuse IEDs, one time with his hand literally tied behind his back. This is something more dramatic. (It’s not like Dean is going to go apeshit over Castiel leaving again. He learned his lesson last time, thanks.) “Maybe we should, um… try and find this tablet, see what’s on it?”

“Wait.” Benny raises a hand. “Someone want to tell me… why we’re going to go after somethin’ because Death told us about it?”

“How the hell are we going to find it, anyway? All the ones we have sort of fell into our laps.” Sam grimaces. “We don’t have anywhere near the resources that Crowley and Dick had.”

“I believe—” Cas considers for a moment. “I think that if the knowledge is buried somewhere in my head, perhaps the location is too. How else are we to protect them?”

“Right,” Dean says. And then twitches, as one of the Valkyries passes close by him. She doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t exist for her. “Right, but what are we going to have to do to you to get to Heaven’s Top Secrets? That sounds like serious shit, Cas.”

“I don’t know.”

“Right.”

The angel still isn’t looking at him.

Dean stares for another moment at the carcasses around them. “Let’s go,” he says shortly, and turns and stalks back towards the house.

At least now there’s sort of a mission.

He steps over the body of a toddler.

He doesn’t bring it up until dinner.

Dinner, in their case, tends to be people grabbing cans of food from the impressive stockpile in the basement and sitting around upstairs, eating it straight from the can, continuing on with whatever they’d been doing before hunger struck. Nothing like the apple pie dinners he’d imagined, that he’d tried to provide for Lisa and Ben. But everyone is in the living room, at any rate— Kevin at his table, still staring at composition books. His mother sharpening knives, Garth tracking other hunters on the internet, Don, Amelia and Benny playing Mao. (Which, on a completely unrelated note, is a game that Dean is pretty sure was invented by Gabriel. Drop them in and make them figure out the rules, the asshole.) Cas isn’t there, but Dean knows he’s within earshot— so this seems like as good a time as any.

“I was thinking,” he says, and then he stops because he doesn’t quite know how to put this.

“Careful,” Sam says. “We don’t want you getting up to anything so strenuous so soon.”

“Do you just have a reserve of witty rejoinders?” Sam looks faintly impressed, so Dean doesn’t tell him that he learned the word from Bela before he continues. “I was thinking that we should take off.”

“Point of Order,” Don says, and everyone puts their cards face down. “What?”

He doesn’t hear it after the talking everyone has just started doing, but Dean knows that Cas has showed up behind him. Well, good. Glad he got himself downstairs for this. Share an opinion and all.

“I agree.”

Well. He didn’t expect Sam to get with it so quickly, but then again— he glances at Amelia, remembers what she’d said earlier. Maybe it’s not that surprising after all. Because it’s not easy for anyone, loving people that are always around. Not that Dean would know. Whenever Dean had left someone, or someone had left Dean, they’d stayed gone. None of this living-in-the-house-with-their-ex thing. They should have been out of here weeks ago, for Sam’s sake if nothing else.

“Okay.” Dean nods a few times. “We can take the Mes, maybe look for a way to break the seal—” and here they go, breaking seals instead of saving them, and he’ll never not find that funny— “and it’ll get some of the stress off you guys’ asses.”

Garth frowns. “We could come wi—”

“No.” That was probably too harsh, but whatever. It’s not like he’s going to wax poetry about how much he wants to protect them. “Benny and Cas are invited," since I know 100% they can take care of themselves, "but not the rest of you. Kevin has to keep cracking on those golden plates, and Garth, you have to stalk the rest of the hunting community.”

“Yeah?” Amelia frowns. “And what do you want us to do, while you guys go get your asses smote?” she’s scowling at Dean, and he hasn’t known Amelia long enough to catalog all of her faces, but he’s pretty sure that this one is number I am not a damsel and you’re full of shit.

“Well,” Benny says slowly, “it’s been a few weeks, right? I bet you’re off the New Bosses’ radar— they got bigger fish. And you’re all inked.”

“I think the Mes are more the great white here,” Sam says. “If we have those—”

Christ, are they really going off this fish analogy? Because Dean’s all for witty banter, but this has to be kind of extreme. Although it’s not as bad as that time he’d watched his dad try and another hunter speak in quickly escalating code around a group of bystanders and wound up saying things like “The Monster Truck rally will take place at the convention center, if someone gets enough water bottles.”

At the time, of course, Dean had thought it was the height of badassery. He’d spent the next two weeks trying to think of clever additions he could have made.

“Right, but if the Mes are Great White,” Don says, “Then— they’ve still got bigger things to worry about. Inanna wanted us to protect them, but they’re still fighting a war before they get to do anything with them, so isn’t the Mes like— worrying about a great white while fighting that Lovecraft monster with the name like a sneeze?”

Benny looks positively offended. “Could you, perhaps, be referring to Cthulu?”

“Can we stop with the sea creatures, please?” Sam asks, and, bless him. “What do you think, Cas?”

And Dean had sort of assumed Cas would come with them, because he’s gotten so used to him in the last few weeks. But he’d chosen to stay at the nursing home, wanted to leave earlier, and he’s probably gone even crazier than Dean has. It can’t be easy to be an angel trapped in a house, and he clearly doesn’t want to be around Dean, which Dean probably deserves because of the whole yelling-and-the-kissing thing even though he’d thought in his dream that they’d been okay— and don’t leave, he thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t know how to say it.

The angel’s eyes meet his, and Dean wonders, if he thinks it loud enough, if he’ll be heard.

“I suppose,” he says, “that it would do no good to suggest— again—”

“No,” Dean says. “No. Leave if— you want. But no. Not there.”

“Right.” He gets Headtilt #7. “Then I shall come with you.”

“Right.” Swallow, inhale, and exhale. “Good. So we should take off tomorrow morning, then?”

It appears to be settled.

Well, good.

That was easy.

Amelia finds him in the kitchen.

“Dean’s taken all the food,” Sam says, for a lack of a better conversation starter. “Although he’s probably already eaten it. I think he might have left you some beans.”

“He does that.” She smiles. “I know a lot of people who would kill for his metabolism. Don’t worry.”

Sam turns to her anyway. “But if something happens you won’t have much—”

“Sam.” She moves like she wants to come closer, then thinks better of it and pulls out a chair. Holds it like a barrier between them. “Sam, we’ll be alright.”

There’s no way to express the panic— come back on ceiling burning burning Azazel is dead Azazel is dead breathe Sam breathe— so he settles for rubbing his hands over his face, several times. Maybe he can rub all the worry off of it, hide everything behind plastic smiles. Dean is so good at that.

“You have our numbers,” he says. “Don’t hesitate to call if— God, I couldn’t live with myself—”

“Hey.” She raises a hand. “We’ve got Mrs. Tran. I think we can handle ourselves.”

“Right.”

He wants to tell her he loves her, but she knows that. He wants to tell her that he’ll miss her— miss just seeing her, every day, her fitting so well into his life— but she knows that too. He wants to tell her that he’s so relieved that she’ll be far away because it won’t be like his ribs are being carved out every time he sees her with Don, but she probably knows that the best of all.

“Well,” he says, swinging his arms. “I guess— this is goodbye, then. I— really hope I see you again.”

She smiles again. But it’s the sad kind. “I think that’s what you say on the first date, Sam.”

And then the chair is disregarded. And then he moves and then she moves and then he’s kissing her. And it’s not passionate or wall-slammey or anything leading up to sex; it’s just him and her in the kitchen and they’re going to have to stop this soon before someone comes in. No tongues, no anything. It’s just lips on lips and he’s here and she’s here and they’re both alive.

Sam pulls back first. “Don’t die,” he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Don’t you dare— I don’t care what happens. Keep yourself safe.”

She’s a better liar than Cas was, the last time he went off to what might be his doom. “Of course,” she says. And he’ll accept that.

“We should go to sleep.”

“Yeah.”

They stand there for a few more minutes. And there’s so much of her face that Sam wants to relearn. Her worried face and her brave face and her brave-but-terrified face. The face she made when she cut Castiel’s chest open and when she sewed it back up, and— “I love you,” he blurts. The words are out before he can keep them back.

She swallows. “I love you too.” It’s barely a whisper. “You come back too, okay, Sam? Don’t— you don’t die either.”

Empty promises, they both know it, but he nods again. “Deal.”

This time, she leaves first.

The man’s suit is every color and no color. Everything is in swirls and muted tones, as though seen through a great fog. It’s the color of dead eyes, Sam realizes, and it’s the first conscious thought he’s had in one of these dreams.

He walks slowly down an empty gravel road. It’s sunny, but everything seems to darken as he approaches. Maybe it’s his impressive shadow, maybe it’s the darkness that clings to his feet…

Another figure drops into step with him, appearing from nowhere. This one is shorter, with a generic face and generic hair that is instantly forgotten.

“Lord Hades,” he says.

Hades glances at the newcomer out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t know you,” he says.

“You wouldn’t. You’ve only just awoken, yes?”

Hades doesn’t dignify that with a response. The other man offers him a hand. “It’s how people greet each other now,” he says. “I am named Loki.”

“Never heard of you.”

Loki looks slightly offended. “I’m rather well known in the Nordic tradition,” he says. “I suppose that was… far away from you.”

“I take no notice.”

Around them, fields extend for miles in every direction.

“Things have changed a bit,” Loki says. “Do you even recognize the tongue you speak?”

Hades stops. “What do you want, Loki-of-the-Norse?”

Loki takes a step closer to him. “I want to talk to you,” he says. “I’m assuming that despite your recent arrival, you’ve already seen your brother.”

Hades just looks at him, out of eyes that are grayer than the sky.

“And you’ll know that there is a war going on.”

“You are not on our side.”

“It doesn’t have to be ours. It doesn’t have to be sides. Look at this, Lord Hades.” He gestures towards the fields around them. “This is the world that has grown under the One. People run rampant. They bulldoze entire mountains. They travel to the moon. They seek, above all else, to cheat death.”

“I take no issue at progress,” Hades says. “It is not my affair.”

“Because you drew the short stick.”

“I have accepted my lot. Perhaps you should do the same.”

Loki reaches out, touches him briefly on the arm to keep him from walking away. “I just ask you to consider,” he says, “joining the alliance. We have people from both sides of this ridiculous dick fight. We merely want peace to carry on.”

Hades’s laugh is that of a dying man. “And who is on your side, Loki?”

He gets an eyebrow. “I can show you,” he says. “There is no reason for you to continue to be stuck underground. There is no reason for you to be third in command under your little brother. There is no reason for the slights that are offered. Ereshkigal and the demon Crowley both have some claim over the afterlife as well, but I assume that with diplomacy we can sort that out. You do not have to be stuck there if you so choose.”

Hades continues staring.

His eyes are dead.

And then Sam is being whacked in the side of the head. “Get up, assface.”

He grunts. “Who’re you calling assface.”

“You.” Dean shakes the keys. “Get in the car.”

Right. Right. They’re leaving. Time in the rest house is over. He stands slowly, pops out his limbs. “I’ll be down in a minute,” he says.

“Cool.” Dean disappears from the doorway.

“We’ll miss you guys,” Kevin mutters, cracking one eye. But apparently he won’t miss them enough to get out from under his blanket.

Sam swallows. Looks around the room— dirty white walls, the Metallica poster, the mattresses that have been home for the last few weeks. But he’s a Winchester, and he doesn’t get a permanent. Doesn’t get a forever. He takes a deep breath and then turns towards the door.

Makes sure nobody is looking before he slips a bottle of sleeping pills into his pocket.

Dean is practically humming as they all pile into the Impala. As the house vanishes when they pull away.

To celebrate his happiness, he sticks Rock of Ages into the tape player, and makes a point of ignoring Sam, Cas and Benny’s faces. That is, until Sam turns to Cas and asks if Cas can break it with his mind, and Cas raises one hand, and Dean turns it off real fast before accusing Sam of not playing fair.

It’s so normal that it hurts.

He gets Castiel’s approval and then overrides Dean’s objections to the Babel tape.

When, about three days later, Garth sends them on a hunt, they’re a little annoyed.

When the hunt leads them to a giant LARP-fest, Dean is far happier. Not that he’ll tell Sam that. Or Benny, who is looking far too amused by the orc teeth. And definitely not Cas, who is clearly trying to figure out the rules of the game and criticizing the unruliness of Charlie’s troops.

The point is, everything is awesome. And he’s perfectly happy to change into armor while Sam goes to investigate the internet and Benny goes sightseeing and Cas goes scouting around because “I know how to manage people playing soldiers, Dean. I remember Solomon.” Perfectly happy to chat with Charlie, because he might never have wanted a little sister, but he’s pretty okay with having friends. It’s a new thing he’s been trying out.

“Well,” Charlie says, staring at the spot where the angel had been a moment ago. “Teleporting. That’s handy.” But she’s sort of smiling when she demands an explanation for the last eighteen months. Dean tells her, and the smile slides off her face fast enough to make his stomach knot up. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t leave anything out, except for the bits about Cas— he tells her about Sam and Amelia, about Benny, about Sam’s dreams and the Mes. It’s surprisingly nice to have someone listen.

“Man.” Charlie makes a face. “Gods and alliances? That’d be any gamer’s wet dream. If it wasn’t— real.”

“Yeah.” Dean picks at his chain mail. “Welcome to my life.” He looks around the tent in the hopes of a distraction. “Nice digs,” he offers.

“Queen here, bitch. It’s great, because some of my soldiers are a lot like my old bosses— not the monster ones, obviously. Although I guess if there are spooky deaths going on then maybe—” Pause. “So. Inanna. She hot?”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Charlie mutters. “Just trying to lighten the mood.” She shoves toy soldiers around the map a little bit, but there isn’t any real plan to it. That or she really, really sucks at strategy. Dean picks up a little model elf, and in one motion knocks over a few of her people. Charlie wrestles the elven Benedict Arnold away from him before starting to talk again. “So, just that I have this straight— Sam left his girlfriend, you’re best bros with a vampire, and you need an angel tablet like the tablet that was in the briefcase I helped you steal.”

Dean retrieves Benedict with another handful of kidnapped elves. “That about sums it up.”

“Huh.” She’s nodding again, slowly. Then her hand flashes out and before Dean knows what’s hit him, all the orcs are in a line. He surrenders his brainwashed mercenaries, because he’s so not going up against that. They both begin to put the armies back in their proper places. “And Death is a person?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Horseman. First met him a few years ago. Shortish guy, black hair and Colin Morgan cheekbones.” He isn’t sure if this group of humans is supposed to be close to the river or not, so he just leaves them near the outhouses. “He’s not actually that bad, compared to his friends.”

Charlie runs one palm down her face, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Right.”

No new messages. Dean puts his traitorous phone away. “I haven’t heard back from any of the others,” he says. “Maybe we should go inves—” Benny chooses this moment to make a dramatic entrance.

“Your vampires,” he drawls, “are hi-larious.”

Charlie stares at him for several moments. Her lip looks like it’s about to split in half under the pressure from her tooth. “You’re Benny?”

“He doesn’t eat people,” Dean says helpfully, just as Benny tells her he’s really a bag full of cuddles.

“How come?”

And since the vampire doesn’t sound like he’s going to answer that for himself, Dean fills in. Full disclosure and all that— it’s a little awkward that he didn’t add that bit earlier, anyway. “Because he loved a person.”

Pause. “So he’s Spike.” But she’s looking slightly more amused now.

“I am nothing like a fictional vampire,” Benny says.

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Spike had more sex appeal.”

They both look at him, and he frowns. “What? Oh, come on. The big coat and the— it’s just a statement of fact.” He’s saved from having to defend himself any more by the sound of wings— Charlie looks at Cas, and he is so not comfortable with the growing amusement-and-or-understanding.

“What?”

She raises one eyebrow. “The coat—”

“The thing is a fairy,” Castiel interrupts, and, good timing. “Bound by the man we saw coming in. I took the liberty of destroying the book.” He brushes some ashes off his coat. “On a related note, we’ve been promised favors from the fairy community.”

“That sounds so heterosexual,” Benny says quietly.

“Good, good.” Charlie looks away, and she’s back to being an exhausted woman leading a fake army that is suffering from real monsters. A handful of orcs find themselves in the river. “I’ll keep an eye out for your tablet. Gimee a week,” she says. “If I don’t call you in a week, assume something has happened, and come rescue me.”

They turn towards the door of the tent, and Dean is not at all disappointed that they don’t get to run around in medieval garb for longer. Sure, it would have meant taking longer to solve the case, but maybe he could have at least quoted Braveheart while slaying whatever needed to be slain. Destroying a book. Whatever.

“You, uh,” Charlie wiggles her fingers. “Have fun.”

Dean flips her the bird, and she shoots back a live long and prosper.

“Nice catching up,” he says.

She nods. “Yeah. Come with better news next time, we can go get drinks.”

Now it’s Dean that lifts the eyebrow, and she frowns. “What? Some of us still need wingmen.”

Lights, bright lights, flashing, arrows flying, twisting, turning, and everything is bright. It’s nearly burning Sam’s brain, and he half wakes up. He wants to wake up, but he can’t, and the fact that he’s thinking this is terrifying him. He wants to wake up he wants to get out because all the flashing lights, and the face is becoming visible, a glowing face surrounded by glowing golden hair, twisted with rage and sadness, and then he raises a bow which is knocked out of the way by another hand, a browner hand, twisting, and there are more arrows, and he can barely see because it is so bright.

“Retreat,” Apollo says, voice echoing through the light. “Retreat.”

In answer, he is thrown backwards, and for a split second Artemis comes into focus, and then she’s gone, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and Sam starts screaming and he’s still screaming when he wakes up. Spots of light burned onto the back of his brain.

Dean pulls the car over. “What the hell?”

“Artemis and Apollo,” Sam mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “I think they’re fighting.”

He yawns once, and adjusts his head against the window. He’s freaking exhausted, but it’s his own damn fault, really, for taking the Benadryl. But the way he sees it, the more they know, the better off they’re going to be. And so it’s not hard to fall asleep again, to see a battered looking sun god standing before Zeus.

“Just so I have this straight,” Zeus says slowly, “you allowed her to escape.”

“I did not allow her,” Apollo says. “She fought, and then she fled.”

“You’re sure you were not the one fleeing, my son?”

Apollo looks like he’s about to stamp his foot. Looks like a petulant child. They’re standing next to a KOA, overcast skies showing none of the blinding light that it had earlier. “I did not flee,” he says firmly. “I did not— I admit that I wished to take her alive.”

Zeus holds his gaze. “Apollo,” he says carefully. “You have always been wise. Your decision making, however—”

“She’s your daughter.”

“And you think I do not realize this?” Zeus flicks his hand, and a curious looking passerby moves on, oblivious to what he had ever thought odd. “I understand. But there are—” he stops, starts again. “There are allowances that we cannot make, if we are to win. We cannot try to take all of them alive. I know you love her dearly. I do also. But I do not— she has chosen her lot, and it is against us. So many of us are gone, Apollo. We must stay strong. Those of us who are left, so that the rest of our family can wake into a safer world. We must—” he shakes his head once. “I will discuss with Enlil our best course of action.”

“Yeah,” Apollo says. “Yeah, I bet you will.”

Lightning flashes. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing. Have a nice chat.” Apollo turns away and walks briskly through the KOA. He doesn’t stop to undress, to check the depth, barely looks before he steps out into the swimming pool, sinking to the bottom far faster than anyone should and settling there. Oblivious to the people running around above him, he crosses his legs, leans against the side. His hair twists into a watery halo as he stares at something that Sam cannot see.

But when the lifeguards come running, trying to understand what is happening, he is gone.

A week later, Charlie has found nothing. Cas goes to scope some things out re: Angel tablet, Benny starts asking questions in the demon circles (the ones that don't know him yet) and Sam and Dean’s grandfather comes out of the closet.

Dean appreciates not having to share a room for reasons other than Sammy Is Pissed At Me.

It’s a pretty badass bat cave, all things considered. Henry’s visit could have ended worse.

He looks up at the sound of the door opening. Benefit of all the security is that the angel can’t fly through walls. “Hello, Dean.”

He puts down his bottle. “Cas, hey. Find anything?”

Cas shakes his head. “No,” he adds, as though his meaning wasn’t clear. “Wherever it is in our heads, it’s buried deep.”

“Is that even possible?” Dean asks. “To know something and not know you know it?”

He gets look number what do you think, Dean?

An uncomfortable silence follows.

“I should go,” Cas says after a moment, turning towards the door. “I shall continue—”

“Why?” Dean frowns. “You— I’m sorry.” The words rush out, far too fast, and he wishes that he wasn’t sitting in an uncomfortable chair in front of a shiny table because no matter how awesome, this is not— the place he was imagining, this isn’t something he can’t handle.

At least he gets an about-face and a head-tilt. “For what?”

Christ, Dean hates talking about this stuff. But he also hates angsting. He has enough unsolvable angst.

“For. You know.” He shifts in his seat. “Before I got my soul eaten.”

Cas doesn’t tell him that his soul didn’t, in actual fact, get eaten. He just studies the table as well. Traces it with his fingertips, and maybe there are secrets buried in there, maybe there are secrets from the men who were here fifty-five years ago, before everything. Maybe they buried their memories in the wood, only waiting to be picked out—

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Cas says, very quietly. “It is forgotten.”

Yeah. And he’s not going to ever, ever admit how bad that hurts. He wants to forget about it, too, right. He doesn’t need all this stray feelings crap. “Cool,” he says, and he tries not to sound bitter. Tries not to— “Good, that’s good, that’s probably for the best.” But they’d been okay, in the dream. They’d been okay in the—

Cas sighs, very quietly. “I’ve been away, a lot,” he says. “Because I do not trust myself to stay here. I do not trust myself not to—” he glances up at Dean. “I don’t trust myself,” he says. “You could—”

Dean’s mouth has gone dry. “I could what.”

But Castiel just shakes his head. “I should go.”

“Cas.”

The angel’s head snaps around. And Dean has gotten good at reading his faces, but he’s never seen this one before. “You’re scared,” Cas says. “You’re scared because you fear attachment and inevitable pain and complications. Do you not think that it’s worse, for me? I—” he looks away again. Studies the ceiling, and Dean almost misses the times when Cas would do that uncomfortable staring thing, when he would explain all truths as though they were cemented in fact, as though they could not be changed, as though he knew, without a doubt, what was right. When did he get so good at avoiding? “I can’t— the things I want from you, Dean. The things I want to do to you.” He shakes his head once. "It's distracting. It's not how-- it's not how I am."

And Dean tries. He really, really tries.

He uses every trick he knows to keep those words and mental images from going from his ears straight to his dick, but if he has to cross his legs, in an attempt to hide the Very Untimely Boner, he tried, okay.

“Cas—” Dean bites his lip. (Cas on top of him, him on top of Cas, pressed together, breathing, toes curling and limbs moving on their own.) “Cas.”

They’re quiet for several moments.

And the images are building. And Dean wants. And this hasn’t happened to him since he was a teenager, this zero to ten leap, and he wants, goddammit, he wants. Slowly, slowly, his skin is catching fire. Pulling towards Cas, but there are four feet between them and they’re going to stay, they’re going to stay far apart because he’s not going to just jump Cas’s bones.

“I should go,” Cas says again, sounding very much like a broken record.

Dean swallows. “Stay. Please?”

He gets face number you’re really stupid sometimes. “Dean Winchester,” Cas says slowly. “If I have proven anything over the years, isn’t it that I always come back to you?”

Once, when Dean was twelve, he’d saved an older classmate from a haunted lunchbox. The boy had been grateful, and then run off to make out with his girlfriend.

That hadn’t been the first time that he’d realized that his job was to stay in the background, to save a world he couldn’t fully participate in, to not be able to do things like spend six months wooing his dream girl. He wouldn’t be anywhere for six months. His future was in fast hook-ups, and he’d decided that that had been enough. He has an itch, he scratches. He doesn’t long, he doesn’t have secret carvings, because he doesn’t have any reason not to go for it.

Until now.

Until he can barely move because if he even breathes he thinks that he’ll be pulled over, that everything will fall apart. And part of him doesn’t give a shit— Cas had been fine with it in the dream, before that, Cas kissed him first, and it’s all his fault that Dean’s dying over here, dammit.

All he manages is another “Cas.”

“Dean—” and then a curse. It’s in Enochian, and Dean doesn’t know what it means. It could mean fucking butterflies for all he cares.

Because that’s it. That slightly broken voice, the angel’s hand lifting a little, and that’s it. It’s Dean that stands up, but the other who pulls him in, locks his hands around Dean’s hips as though he’s really going to go anywhere. As though he's going to do anything but climb onto Cas’s lap, wrapping his feet around the chair’s back legs, and their mouths are meeting, and, and, finally.

Cas opens up under him, pulls Dean’s tongue into his mouth with the lightest of teeth. But then his own is there, and they’re curling up against each other, and it’s fast and deep and fucking filthy and nobody gives a crap. Dean reaches up, slips his hand under the trench coat. Twists his fingers in the dress shirt below it, and then other hands are crawling up his own back, digging into his neck, pulling slightly at his hair as Cas moves, shoves him over to change the angle.

And he can’t help the way everything curls, the way his back bends and he grinds down hard onto Cas’s leg. Because he needs, he needs, he needs. He wants, but it’s Cas who is just taking, Cas who is moving him around a little more, and, and, fuck.

“Can we—” he gasps, pulling away for a moment. Cas seems undeterred, dragging his teeth slowly down the side of Dean’s neck before latching onto his collarbone. “Can we go— somewhere—”

“We’d have to walk,” the angel murmurs, breath harsh against the saliva on Dean’s skin. “There are wards—”

But it doesn’t matter, because he can’t do all this sitting up, and so Dean pulls, and then Cas is cradling his head, cushioning him as they fall to the floor. And despite the physical improbability, he lands on top, and he’s not complaining, not at all, because he’s grinding down even harder now and then he stops to look at Cas, Castiel, angel of the lord, fucking wrecked beneath him.

He still looks angelic like this, spread out on the floor. Lips swollen, chest rising and falling, trench coat half off his shoulders and shirt half unbuttoned although Dean doesn’t actually remember doing that. He barely has time to fix the image in his mind before Cas has a hand on his collar and is yanking him down, and then their lips are meeting again and making out should not, has no right to be this hot, he should not be this hard, this desperate. He hasn’t reacted so much to freaking rutting since he was a teenager, but that doesn’t matter, nothing particularly matters. Because he’s yanking at the zipper on dress pants, shoving them down only a couple inches before he gets tired. Reaches in, wraps his hand around Cas’s cock, and the sound they both make is illegal in at least twenty countries. Cas curls up, grabbing at stone floor, hands sliding across it. Sped along with sweat and desperation. And Dean hasn’t jerked another guy off in years, but he knows how.

Knows how to watch the angel’s responses, when he pulls, rubs, twists, or just presses his fingers gently along the side like he’s playing a fucking recorder. Watches blue eyes screw up, close, and “Look at me?” Dean whispers, because he wants to see, see Cas’s pupils, the want, and “Dean,” and Christ, Dean worries he’s about to get off on that sound alone.

And then Cas’s hands are on his pants, and he’s screwed, he’s so, so, screwed. Everything is fast and rough and bruising but god, Cas has nice hands, long delicate strong fingers and they’re— god, around his dick.

“Should have done this ages ago,” Dean rambles. “Should have… the second you marched into that barn, should have shoved you over right then…”

The next thing he knows, he’s on his back. Hand still around Cas’s dick, and vice versa, motions hardly slowing. But then the angel’s mouth is back on the spot on his collar he’d abandoned earlier, occasionally taking a detour up his neck, below his ear.

“If I had bent you over in Bobby’s kitchen,” Cas whispers, “the first time I entered your dream, if I had employed thousands of years of watching humanity—” this is punctuated by a particularly artful curl of the fingers, and Dean arches up, towards him, hand leaving Cas’s cock and going to his shoulders because he can’t anymore, needs, needs release, can’t think, can’t function, because the mental images now being provided are so vivid— “if I had held you down on the floor and knelt between your thighs, turned you into putty that I could remold just as I remade your body, would you—”

Dean has no answer, because he doesn’t hear the question, because that’s it, that’s all, that’s over, and he’s coming all over Cas’s half-buttoned shirt, mouth falling open, cry swallowed up by Cas’s mouth. And then, somewhere through the white and the fog, he remembers, and he reaches back, but his hand is swatted away and Cas just grinds down once more against him and then he’s coming too, letting his entire weight fall on top of Dean has he gasps for breath he doesn’t need.

Freyja leans back on the bench, ankles crossed delicately. Each pocket of her cargo pants bulges, but her feathered coat appears empty. Necklace gleaming, she is red and black and deadly.

And sleeping.

But perhaps not, because as someone approaches, she opens her eyes and gets to her feet.

“Meili,” she says brightly. “Hello.”

The golden-haired man stops, eyes flashing over to her. Every line in his face is perfect, as are the planes that make up his body. He is beautiful, and even more so when he smiles. “Freyja!”

She falls into step next to him. “Where are you going?”

“To investigate the weapons supply,” he says. “Odin requested—”

Suddenly, he is slammed against the wall, Freyja’s hand covering his throat. In her other appears a long, thin blade. Like the one Inanna gave them. It gleams in the light. “Where is Loki?” she demands.

Meili’s eyes go wide, muscles clenching. “I don’t know what— what are you—”

“You think me stupid?” She takes a step back, but the point of the sword remains against his flesh.

“I never—” he screams as something grips him, as some unseen force crawls into his skin. “I don’t know, I don’t know, Freyja, please.”

The next second she has slashed forward, and there’s golden light. It fill the room for a moment, blowing Freyja’s hair back, and she looks as though she came from fire. Then it stops, and Meili’s body drops to the ground.

The entire exchange is over in seconds.

A vein pulses in her forehead.

And then she kneels. Picks him up and slings the prone, bloodless body over her shoulder as she walks.

“That was a little harsh,” says a quiet voice next to her. She barely glances over.

“You’re not really here.”

“Obviously not,” Loki says, flicking the wall. His hand goes through. “Just fancied a chat.”

“No.”

“But you haven’t—”

“No. I know your plan, Loki Silvertongue. And I swear—”

“My plan?” he blinks, eyebrows rising in apparent surprise. The whitewashed walls around them don’t change, the hallway getting longer and longer. “Oh do enlighten me.”

She stops, shifts Meili’s weight to the other shoulder. “We are not fools. No matter what Hades and Ereshkigal say, you are the true leader behind— Team Evil. You’re the one pulling all the stings, and you’re going to kill them off, one by one, as you get closer to success. I know how you work, you see.”

“Team Evil?” He looks slightly flattered. “So what’s your team then? Team Big Penis?”

She rolls her eyes. “I am not Meili,” she says. “You cannot take me.”

“I’d never think to try. Meili was weak. Meili was tired of spending centuries as the pretty one, the useless one, and he came over far too easily.” But there’s a darkness gathering around him, and her, and then in one smooth motion she raises a hand and shoves it through his ghostly image. He looks down, frowning. “That’s not—” but then he lights up from the inside. Mouth opens in surprise, and then he vanishes.

Freyja stares at the empty space in front of her for a moment, before slowly lowering Meili to the ground. She touches his face, just for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Then she picks him up once again and moves a little faster.

Three goddesses sit cross-legged in a triangle. They look like they could be preparing for a spell— dimly lit conference room with rather strange paintings on the wall, a few maps scattered here and there— if it wasn’t for the wide variety of beer is spread out around them.

“The game is stupid,” Ningal says, wiggling her fingers. Six of them. “The liquor is— quite nice. But the game is stupid.”

“I think it’s supposed to be,” Inanna says. She’s holding four fingers out in front of her. “I think the point is just to get everyone else inebriated.”

“I think it’s alright,” Artemis says. “Never have I ever engaged—”

Inanna groans loudly, slamming Captain Morgan on the floor a couple times for emphasis. “I don’t believe you. I always figured that virgin thing was a hoax— like Mary and Elizabeth.” Pause. “Well, always as in the last three months or so.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Artemis waves a hand. “Never have I ever… copulated.”

Ningal and Inanna both take generous drinks.

“Never have I ever—” Ningal pauses. “Never have I ever… turned anyone into an animal.”

Artemis takes a drink.

“Three left,” Inanna says miserably. “Never have I ever smote a…”

A phone rings. Artemis fumbles around in her pocket for a moment before managing to pull it out. “H’lo?”

”Artemis?”

“Hey, Claire.”

Pause.

”Are you drunk?”

The goddess shakes her head twice. “Not anymore,” she says, voice much clearer. “What’s going on?”

“Does Hades ever wear a biggles hat?”

At the name, all the others snap to attention. Inanna’s iPhone comes out, words appearing on it although she isn’t typing.

“What?!”

“We’re with the Galla, and we’ve just seen—”

Everyone scatters, chaos breaks, and “Sammy! Geddup!”

“No!” he snaps, keeping his eyes shut. “It’s getting interesting.”

By the time he slips back into the dream, though, the crisis or whatever it is is over. Or at least on pause. Ningal has left, and Inanna and Artemis are sitting on the roof of a sky-scraper. They’re balanced on a rather precarious-looking ledge, but they look quite comfortable. Artemis’s bike is parked in the air next to them, moon wheel glowing a little bit.

“But never?”

“How many times must I say it for you to believe me?” Artemis laughs a little, as she shakes her head. “No. No, I’ve never.”

“But why?”

The younger goddess is quiet for a moment. She adjusts a little in the air, as though the night around her is a rather comfy recliner. “To marry would mean that I gave up everything,” she says. “And to have intercourse outside of marriage was— well, expected, but I wanted to rise above. I didn’t want to have to defer to anyone except Zeus, and I wanted— their respect. Hera was shamed by Zeus’s affairs. Nobody helped Demeter when Persephone was taken. I did not want to give up my freedom, or their respect— because the only other goddess that had that same kind of power was Athena. And she didn’t marry either.”

“You ever want to change your mind?”

Artemis hesitates. She raises her hand, and a caterpillar starts to crawl down from her elbow. Steadily growing and changing, and by the time it jumps lightly from her index finger, it has wings. “Twice,” she says finally. “Twice.” Her eyes dart up to the night sky once, then back down at the lights of humanity. “The first time was— Orion. He— I was wandering around, just trying to clear my head, and I came upon him hunting in the woods. We argued.” She smiles. “The first time we spoke, we fought. I no longer remember what about— but we had a shoot-off to settle it. That’s when he realized what I was, for he claims that no mortal woman could beat him as I had. I, of course, knew several, and called him— some none too nice names.”

Inanna grins. “Misogynist?”

“Something like that. We started hunting together. Monsters, mostly. We were excellent. There was this one time, with a Chimera—” she stops. “I don’t remember specifically when I fell in love with him. I never told him, of course. I’d never be that weak. But I think— I think everyone knew.” A swallow. “I just hope he did.

“My brother, though, he freaked. Tricked me into killing him— a challenge. Bet you can’t hit the dark spot in the water, and I didn’t know what—” her laugh this time is a little broken. “His life was already so short, it would have been over in a minute. But instead it ended earlier, because of me. I put him in the sky. God, took me centuries to forgive Apollo for that.”

The other is still staring. Head slightly tilted. “You forgave him?”

“He’s my brother. And he was— truly sorry. He— did not understand that all men are not like him, only interested in the flesh. He did try, the second time. Then he stood with me.”

“What was the second time?” Inanna asks, more hesitant this time.

“Callisto. Her name was Callisto.”

Eyebrows shoot up. “Well. That puts the whole young-virgin-girl fixation in a whole new light.”

“Shut up.” Artemis shoves her, and Inanna rolls off the roof, laughing a little through space before making herself a chair of darkness. They face each other now, like a twisted therapist’s office. Or two friends having coffee at a non-existent table. “I’d never— Greek men slept together all the time, but the women, not so much. I—” shrug. “Then, she slept with my father. I— didn’t take it well.”

“You don’t say.”

Artemis shakes her head. “She claimed rape, but I— acted rashly. I don’t know if that’s what it was. Because I couldn’t— I didn’t think it could have been, because I’d have died before I let that happen to me— and so I don’t know…”

“I was raped, once,” Inanna says casually. “Just so you know.” But there’s an undercurrent of anger to her voice. "It's not something you can control."

“I know,” Artemis says. “I saw it on your Wikipedia. And I’m not— I realized, later, that what I’d done was— I regretted it… even if she let him, that doesn’t mean— he could be manipulative, but all I could think was that she betrayed me.” She stops to try and collect her thoughts, her ramblings. “With my father, see, I don’t even think he did it to hurt me. I think he’s just— that oblivious. The things he’s done to girls—” she seems to realize that she’s babbling, and stops. “Families, man.”

Inanna grimaces. “I don’t think we can be around this long and not have fucked up families,” she says. “I mean, Enki had like six incestuous relationships with his daughter and then his granddaughter and then his— you get the idea.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah. And he’s still one of the most level-headed and greatest people I know.”

They’re quiet.

“Please—” Artemis turns, looks down at the city below. “Spare Apollo. Please.”

“I cannot make that promise.”

“I know. But.”

“You miss him.”

“Of course.”

“What about your mortal friends?”

Artemis smiles a little. “Lily and Claire?”

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. Inanna twists light between her fingers for a moment. “Why do you associate so much with mortals?”

“They teach me,” Artemis says. “There is much to learn from them about this new world. We’re children here, only been awake a few months. And there is so much I can tell them. How else am I going to keep my stories alive, if there is no one who knows them?”

“Point,” Inanna says.

“And I want to keep them safe as well. They’re my friends, my companions, and I care for them deeply.” She shrugs. “But they are not my brother, and I— we have forgiven each other so much. I just hope that once this is over, we can forgive this. That we can win, and I can show him our world. Make him understand why I did it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The moth flies back and lands on Artemis’s shoulder. Its wings tremble.

“There was a crazy moose!” Dean whacks Sam across the head. “There was a crazy moose! Who liked to drink a’lotta juice! Who liked to drink—”

Sam squints at him. “The fuck, man.”

“There was a crazy mo-oose!”

He isn’t sure what’s more worrisome. That Dean has adopted the King of Hell’s nickname, or that he knows this song.

“Ben went to camp,” Dean says. “I’m not totally uncultured.”

In Sam’s attempt to show him who the uncultured one is, the bottle of pills goes flying.

Don’tseeitdon’tseeit.

“Looks like you lost your aspirin, Granny,” Dean says.

“Ugh.”

Sam rolls over, pulls a pillow back over his face. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

Shrug. “I’m awake and alive. Now get your ass downstairs.”

“Do we have yogurt?”

“We’re out of yogurt.”

Which is unfair, because Dean doesn’t seem to understand how to eat the stuff— he sort of dunks his spoon it in it and then licks it off which is the slowest, stupidest way of eating yogurt that he’s ever seen. He'd lost the entire supply of yogurt to his brother's inability to eat.

“Downstairs,” Dean orders again, before departing.

Sam doesn’t go.

Artemis hangs upside down, legs hooked over a pipe. She somehow manages to look composed and graceful even as she does, hands spread below her head. Fingers splayed.

She rocks gently back and forth as she waits for something. The room is full of computers, flashing lights and whirring machines from all eras. An ancient printing press churns out pages in German, seemingly of its own accord. A fax machine bleeps, quills pass over paper, letters appear on stone tablets.

Sam walks around the room. It’s a strange feeling, not having hands. It’s a strange feeling moving in the dreams, because he’s never been able to do that before. He isn’t sure if he should be concerned. But he doesn’t bother, because the things in here are incredible. He stops next to a 1920s-style radio, thinks about how it’s older even than the one in the Men of Letters building.

That’s what the gods are, he realizes. History. All that knowledge. All those years.

Artemis’s breath causes a few scrolls to rustle, and Sam turns back to her. She’s clearly looking for something— eyes darting from heap to heap, machine to machine. They glow softly in the faint light.

And then she moves. Swings herself forwards and straightens her legs, landing on all fours, hands cupped around a spot in midair.

“Gotcha,” she breaths, but Sam can’t see what she’s holding. He isn’t sure if he should move closer to look, if she’ll be able to sense him, but then the door is opening.

“Artemis?”

Her head snaps up, just as her legs tense and she moves half into a crouch. She doesn’t look human, in that moment— and Sam knows she’s not, knows that none of them are, but he can’t place what she reminds him of. Not feline, not— anything he’s ever seen. But she’s been hunting since she could breathe. “Ningal,” she says, but she doesn’t relax.

Ningal takes two steps into the room, and then stops. “What’d you get?”

“Radio wave,” Artemis says tersely, bringing her hands up to eye level. The cracks between her fingers are glowing just a little.

Sam is pretty sure radio waves don’t do that, but then, he’s never been a goddess holding one.

“Radio wave?”

“Caught it going out. Strange signals for the past couple weeks; thought I should keep an eye on it.” She smiles. “Don’t worry; I’m sure it’s nothing. I just want to double check before I send it on its way.”

Ningal frowns. “But what if it’s important?”

“Won’t be a moment. Excuse me.”

But the other goddess doesn’t move. Just sways over a little, standing just off straight, hands loose at her sides. The machines and devices have all gone quiet— quills move without scratching, printers deliver paper without making a sound.

“Inanna is lucky she has you,” Ningal says finally.

Artemis blinks. “What makes you say that?”

“Just…” a hand is waved, elegant fingers curling near Ningal’s face. “You two seem… close. Friends.”

“We work together,” Artemis says, as she takes a couple steps closer to the door.

“But you just— watch out for her. I’m sorry, don’t take that the wrong way, I just— I’ve seen you two together, and it’s like— I mean, I wouldn’t expect it, given that you’re— you, with all the virginity, and she’s her, with all the free love whatever, but I’m just… it’s great that you’re always watching her back. And she’s watching yours.”

“I’m glad you think so.” The radio wave is glowing brighter now, like it’s trying to break free. “But I really need to go.”

Ningal nods and steps out of the way.

And Sam sees it coming. Sam sees her hand drop to the knife at her belt. Sam sees Artemis step past her and walk towards the door. Sam sees Ningal draw it, faster than anything yet so slowly at the same time. And his mouth opens to call out a silent warning as Ningal flashes forward, drives it into the other goddess’s back.

Her hands come apart as she falls, the captive radio wave rejoicing as it spreads out. Vanishes into the air. Vanishes into the gold light that’s leaking from Artemis’s body. Flying out slowly at first and then fast, fast like an angel’s grace, all rushing out to somewhere and she’s only half turned to look at Ningal before she goes still.

No blood leaks onto the gray carpet.

Ningal stares for a few seconds, and then looks up. Looks at Claire, Claire, who has just appeared, is standing in shock at the bottom of the steps. And the human girl opens her mouth, eyes wide in horror, darting from the fallen goddess to the living and back again.

And Sam spins, thinking that he wants out, but he can’t pull away. Not when Inanna has appeared from a side door (that had not been there a moment ago) to investigate the commotion. And her face twists too. “Art. Art.” But Artemis is empty now, a shell, a broken, and Ningal dives forward and grabs Claire.

“You—” The next few words are in Sumerian, but Sam can guess the meaning. “How could you—”

And Claire is saying that it isn’t her, her face is half split open, but Inanna has smiting eyes, even as she curls defensively over Artemis’s body. And Sam tries to yell, tries to point at Ningal, but he’s nothing, and “Cas! Cas!” he has to wake up but he can’t, he keeps his eyes closed, keeps yelling for Castiel. “Claire, you have to get Claire—” and then Castiel is standing next to him in the dream but Sam isn’t fully in the dream because he’s standing but he’s also horizontal, he feels his bed under him even as he stands, and Castiel grabs Claire by the elbow and she disappears from Ningal’s grasp, and again Sam tries to yell but Inanna cannot see him. She’s barely noticed Claire’s departure because she’s closing her eyes, shaking.

“What happened?” she asks after a moment. How—

And Ningal is explaining how Claire ran in, that Ningal interrupted them, that it must have been Claire because look she’s clearly just fallen, and Sam is screaming and nobody hears.

The first moment everything is quiet. Dean is sitting at the table, next to Cas, and he’s rubbing sleep from his face and thinking impure thoughts about a soldier of God.

And then Castiel looks up and goes rigid.

Dean taps him. “Cas?”

But then he vanishes, and then the next moment the door is opening and he’s dragging down the front stairs a kicking and screaming Claire Novak.

What.

A cold wind blows in with them, bringing in a sense of reality that Dean had abandoned in the last twelve hours. Claire is wearing her jeans, but her shirt is twisted, small holes torn in the front. There’s a little bit of blood. But it’s her face that jars Dean, twisted in grief, gasping for air. There are no tears, but she’s scratching at her side, reaching for an empty sheath.

He’s in motion before he’s even processed the image, protecting instincts kicking in and he’s standing and reaching for her arm but she pulls away, nonsensical words spilling out of her mouth and what the fuck is going on.

“Claire.” Cas tries to seat her in a chair, but she’s clinging to his sleeve. Twisting and pulling even though she doesn’t let go.

“I didn’t know,” she says, “I didn’t— oh god, no, I have to go back.”

“Claire,” Cas says louder, crouching so that they’re at eye level. “Claire. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, holding onto his coat even tighter. “Dad—”

There’s a panic rising in Dean’s throat, and he’s looking around, looking for something he can grab use to defend them, but there isn’t and there’s nothing to fight, just the normal batcave. With its books and books on things that are of absolutely no help to them right now because Claire is gasping, retching across the polished marble.

Dean has no idea what to do, no— “Cas—”

“Artemis is dead,” Castiel says, before proceeding to summarize everything he saw.

And Dean isn’t sure if he should be concerned that Sam can now see these things while being half conscious, he isn’t sure what he should be doing, because he can’t anything right now. Normally, normally he’d be fine. If someone had just walked in and announced it, but instead there’s a desperate teenager, and Dean can’t do anything but stare at the impossible lamp hanging low over the table, the freaking impossible lamp, burning its shape into the back of his eyes when he closes them. When he closes them and tries to breathe because next to him Claire makes a sound like she’s dying and— and—

He opens his eyes. And Cas looks both lost and calm at the same time. As he hesitates a moment, and then pulls Claire into an awkward hug. And she keeps holding on. And he doesn’t tell her that he’s not her father, because she knows. She knows, but it doesn’t matter. Not right now, when she can hold onto him and pretend as her world falls apart.

“I didn’t do it,” she mutters. “God, I’d never— I didn’t do it, I’d never, she’s dead— I couldn’t—”

“It’s okay.” Castiel has gotten a lot better at the lying thing. But Dean can still hear it. His hand hovers over her back for a moment before he starts to rub it. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“Dad—” but her voice cracks here.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. “Can you breathe for me, Claire?”

She shakes her head.

Dean looks away. Tries to comprehend everything that’s happening, because even though he doesn’t like Artemis, he’s sort of started thinking of Inanna’s side as the least evil, and— and he wants to know what’s going on.

He’d been having a relatively normal breakfast, too.

Watching someone mourn a loved one will never, ever get easier. Someone they couldn’t save, someone they didn’t save, it doesn’t matter. His dad, who only allowed Sam Adams with him when he was mourning their mother. Sam, crying in his sleep after Jess burned. Tamara screaming for Isaac, all those people on all those hunts that they didn’t couldn’t woulda coulda shoulda saved and all their families trying to learn how to keep on going with their lives and he wonders if all the smiles will ever, ever cancel that out.

Looking at Claire Novak mourning someone they had wanted gone, Dean isn’t sure if the world is even worth it anymore.

Sam follows Ningal through what looks like a maze of abandoned buildings. Abandoned cement walls, decorated with cracks. Pipes and garbage— maybe not so abandoned, he realizes, looking around at the sleeping figures.

He wonders what the limits are, to this. If he could stop following Ningal and just explore— what city are they in? It looks vaguely like Detroit, or maybe St. Louis, or, fuck, it could be freaking Johannesburg for all he knows. But he knows that he has to keep following Ningal, because the finer points of Detroit-St. Louis-Johannesburg as discovered by a bodiless consciousness aren’t really at the top of their priorities list. But still. Maybe he'll test that, sometime.

Maybe Ningal is bodiless too. That or it’s totally normal in D-SL-J to see an armored (if you could even call it that, although he’s sure that the leather is stronger than it looks) woman with a strange assortment of weapons march through.

It occurs to Sam that he’s never really lucid-dreamed before, and he wonders if he can move faster just by thinking it— he can’t, although he can give himself a sandwich. Sort of. There’s definitely the taste of bologna where he thinks his mouth should be. If his eyes are where his view is.

This shit is weird.

But then Ningal is drawing something in chalk on one of the walls. A weird symbol— a line with an inverted arrow on one end, and another slightly ahead of that. It makes a sideways cross, with another upside-down triangle at the top.

A few moments of waiting, in which Sam realizes that no, he can’t pull away from her— he just changes the angle like he’s in some kind of video game. And then the symbols are lighting up, washing the entire building white. A few of the shadows are blown out of existence, revealing their faces— confused, frightened people who abandon their sleeping bags and newspapers as they scatter.

Where the two lines cross, the cement peels away, and Ningal steps through. Starting to feel like a balloon, Sam follows.

He sort of liked these dreams better when he wasn’t conscious, when he wasn’t able at the same time to worry about what was happening in reality, if Cas had gotten Claire back safely, if—

“Lord Enlil.” Ningal drops to one knee, all innocence and softness and respect.

Enlil comes dramatically out of the shadows, bringing the light with him. And the room looks like one of those private study rooms at a library— plastic table, chairs, outlets and Ethernet cords. He dips his head at the goddess. “Sit?”

They both sit.

Ningal takes a moment to start. Studying the blank walls around them.

“Artemis is dead,” she says finally. “I judged her to be too— close to Inanna. I would not have been able to get anywhere near with her there.”

Enlil nods slowly. “And does Inanna suspect?”

“No. She blames Artemis’s human companion.”

A smile darts around his mouth. “I see. And are you still unable to tell me your defenses?”

She swallows. Studies the ground for a moment. “I— I cannot ask right now. Our leader is in mourning, and nobody is sure who to trust at this point. An inevitable consequence. I’ll attempt to get a better report soon. It’s difficult to get away. I— I thought I might be able to learn, before, but that line of inquiry has dried up.”

“I understand.” Enlil stands. “I’ll— I’ll make Zeus aware.” Pause. “I’m sure he’ll— understand.”

“Don’t tell him I did it,” Ningal requests. “It— Apollo is unpredictable, and he and his sister a— were close.”

The older god just nods. “I think that would be wise,” he says. And then, “you’d best be going.”

She nods once.

And then she hops lightly out through the hole. It closes, and Sam feels a pull, and he’s still trying to work out how they happened when they’re back in Inanna’s hotel.

Dean figures he can read people pretty well. Fuck, he’s been around emotionally repressed people enough that he’s had to learn. How to get people to tell him their Deepest Darkest, how to get them to tell him things that sound crazy. He has to be good at telling when someone is lying to him.

But what he doesn’t have to be good at is caring.

He does care. He cares more than he’s willing to admit. But he also knows that there’s a time and a place. And he’s given up everything, always has, so it doesn’t seem totally illogical to him that other people should as well. It’s not as though he doesn’t want to take their crosses and carry them too. But he’s always prided himself on knowing. When something has to go. When they have to give something up.

He has the blessing-curse of being able to see the light at the end of the tunnel, but also seeing how fucking awful the path is.

So when Claire stops freaking out and digs out their old Colt bullets and begins melting and scraping them into arrowheads, he doesn’t call her bluff. He doesn’t tell her that she’s practically broken, because they can’t care if people are broken.

He just watches her. Tries to add eighteen-year-old-girl-making-arrowheads-in-his-batcave to his life heuristic.

“Is that going to work?”

She gives him a look that Dean is pretty sure she adopted from Inanna. “No. I’m just doing this for fun.”

“Yeesh. Sorry.” He raises his hands. “Carry on.”

She sighs. Brushes the flecks of metal off her pants, onto the growing pile on the floor. She’s surrounded herself with tools, like a barricade. Hammer, chisel, a few rocks, a stand-alone torch, and three beers in what was once a six-pack.

Clearly she has already learned the Way of the Hunters.

“Should you be drinking that?”

Claire takes a dramatic drink, probably just to be obnoxious. “Please. You had your first when you were, what, eight? Nine?”

He thinks of Fred, and his stomach clenches up. He must have eaten something sketchy. Ignoring this, he puts on his most obnoxious face and swings around. Straddles the chair, rests his chin on the back, and raises both eyebrows. Because he’s obviously twelve, and not in his thirty-seventies.

“Is Sam still asleep?”

“Yeah.” Dean looks up, through a layer of ceiling, where Sam is probably— “He’s doing that a lot lately.”

“Doing a peeping tom thing?” Claire is really good at pretending that she’s taking the whole being-spied-on-for-months thing well. She’s really good at pretending that she’s handling the entire thing well, since it’s barely been six hours. Dean is impressed.

“Hey. He didn’t ask for this.”

“No, but he sure is sleeping a lot.” She throws the last arrowhead into a Tupperware container. “Getting kinda weird.”

“Well,” Dean says, “the more we know. Speaking of which. Is there anything we should know?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well.” He gestures. “You. Were hanging out with them for months, right? Got anything you want to share?”

“Yeah. Fuck you.” She rubs her finger along the edge of one arrowhead, then winces. Wipes the blood off on her shirt, and now that Dean notices, what he’d thought was just a dirty white t-shirt might in actual fact be covered in bloodstains.

That’s not a comforting thought. He wonders whose it is, wonders if it's a thousand paper cuts, sliced open on purpose. Dean has been scrubbing out bloodstains since he was eight (blood on his dad’s clothes, sewing up his skin, fights at school, what’s that Winchester are you on your period, more blood on the jeans by the end of recess but it’s not his,) and he could offer to help, but he’s reasonably certain that she’d get offended at that. So, whatever.

“You sure? Because.” He hesitates. “You know Ningal killed Artemis, right?”

Her eyes flash to and away from his face, and fuck, she reminds him a little of Cas in that second. Which is not okay because they’re nothing the same. And he isn’t sure if he should be worried about Cas, because the angel has been gone for at least half an hour now, but he’ll be back soon, it can take a while to reinforce protection, and Dean should stop worrying. Dean should also try and get his mind under control because his thoughts are darting back and forth and it’s amazing that he can even see straight.

“I know Ningal killed Artemis,” Claire says, dragging out each word. “Since she obviously knows that I didn’t.” An arrow shaft snaps in her hand, and she looks down at it, surprised. “I don’t know what they’re going to— oh god, Lily, we have to find Lily—”

“We need to stop them, Claire.”

She stills. “What do you mean?”

“This war? There’s no good side. I don’t know what you think Inanna is going to do, but it’s not going to end well. She takes over, maybe it’ll be better than if the other side had, but what we really need is to… they all need to be gone, Claire.”

“Because humanity has been managing so well. Demons run the earth, angels try to end it—”

Well, when she puts it like that.

“There’s a chance we can close Hell,” Dean says. “Kevin’s been working on it. But there’s also…” he bites his lip. He isn’t sure how much he should tell her, even though he’s fairly certain that she was only there for Artemis, and now she’s well and truly thrown out, wont' go back, but he’s not an idiot, he knows how to play the game, knows that if Inanna got word of what they wanted—

“There’s a way to close Heaven.”

Well, there goes the element of surprise.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “We don’t have it, but we’re looking.” In a roundabout way.

The bullets roll through her hands like dice. Which way will they land, which way—

“Inanna knows that you’re probably going to look,” she says. “Ever since we found out about the tablet, we sort of figured you guys would be looking for it. We’re not stupid. We also know that you’re trying everything to break into the Mes.”

“We?”

“They.” She pauses. “You know why Inanna gave them to you, right? The Mes?”

Dean has been wondering that on and off ever since they showed up. “It wasn’t just so that we could protect them, was it.”

“That was part. Cas— Castiel is really powerful, and that makes them all nervous. You’re not— you’re not exactly a force to be reckoned with, but you’re a threat— we wanted you and your brother and Castiel all out of the picture somewhere.”

“And the best way to do that was to give us a puzzle—”

“And watch you dance.” Her lip twitches up at the corner. “You should pay more attention to TV: it’s basically your life.”

He’d sort of suspected this. Maybe. And fuck, maybe it’s a little flattering, to be considered that much of a threat, something to keep distracted. “That’s a pretty big risk, though. What if we’d broken through?”

“Then you’d know what Enlil and Zeus planned to do with the world, and anyone could tell you that.”

Silence.

Claire stares at him for a moment, before letting her hands drop to her sides. The bullets go rolling every which way, but she doesn’t stop to collect them. “You haven’t figured that bit out? They want to start over, Dean. Their little humanity thing got out of hand. They want to scrap it all, and create the world anew. Create beings that worship them, a machine that runs the way it’s supposed to, the way it was intended, before the One— Yahweh, Jehovah, whatever— messed it up.”

He's seen humanity at it's lowest. He's been the lowest. And maybe that doesn't sound that bad.

Because fuck, this world isn’t the best.

Except they can’t let them do that because save the people, save the families, save the children and the puppies. He almost laughs as he thinks back to the question all those people had asked him, that time he had played Death. What would it all mean?

Sorry, new boss wants to do a re-org. You’re all being let go. Thanks for the effort.

“And what does your Inanna want?”

“Minor adjustments.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“More minor than Zeus and Enlil.” A pause. “I don’t know the full details. They like this world, though. They like— they won’t kill you all, for starters.”

“Well, that’s promising.” Except Dean knows where that goes. A god starts with the best of intentions, kills the Ku Klux Klan, and the next thing you know he’s a hoard of Leviathan melting into a lake.

In the end, it won’t matter what Inanna planned.

“So you believe them?”

“Artemis wouldn’t have let—” Claire turns away from him, scoops up a few bullets with the edge of her hand. “Artemis would—” and then she stills. “I’ve got to tell Inanna,” she says. “I’ve got to tell her about Ningal, they're all in danger. I’ve got—”

“You’ve got to help us,” Dean says. He gets off of his chair and helps roll the last few bullets into her pile. Carefully avoids the torch that’s still hissing, hissing, on the exact spot where last night Cas had— and he’s not going to think about that with Claire there. “You’ve got to help us stop them. Because if Inanna wins, Ningal and Nanna are planning to pull a Brutus, and I’m sure that someone else has schemes too. Maybe there’s hope for Odin but not if they keep losing their allies to Loki and Ereshkigal, and we definitely don't want Loki and Ereshkigal in power.” And probably Crowley.

He’s losing track of who is on whose side, at this point. He needs the chart back.

It's terrifying, because they’re bitter over old wounds and new wounds, ideas and personalities that were never supposed to go together. Clashing and burning and taking the world down with it. And Dean doesn't know how to make it stop.

Christ, he needs sleep. He isn’t sure if his thoughts are even coherent anymore.

The door opens, and they both look up.

Dean isn’t sure if Cas means to make an entrance, or if it’s just in his angelic nature to appear on the balcony like— he’s not going to finish that thought, because, timing, but once he's inside it's only a short trip down the stairs to them.

“I don’t think they know where we are,” he says. “No traces of them. But I’ve added another line of defenses to the ground outside.”

“There’s metal sigils buried in the dirt,” Dean tells Claire, just so that there’s no confusion. She scowls, and, apparently just to make a point, fires one of her new arrows into the bookshelf. It sinks into the spine of an Aramaic-Russian dictionary, and Dean hopes that they won’t have to translate anything from Aramaic to Russian, or vice versa.

Claire just stares at Cas, and Dean can't even guess at what she’s feeling anymore.

“Can you read my mind?” she asks. “If I let you?

“Why?”

Pause.

“To see if there’s anything that can help you find your stupid tablet.”

They’re back in their deserted alleyway, but this time, they’re not making love.

“That was you,” Nanna said. “I know it was you.”

“Yes, okay?” Ningal rocks up on her tip-toes, to look him in the eye. “Yes. For us, because I had to. I saw a chance and I—”

“Took it.”

Nanna turns away from her for a moment. Appears to be counting the bricks. “Does anyone suspect? Because it’s going to blow this entire thing if—”

“Yes, that’s how stupid I am.” She snorts. “I know what I’m doing, Sin. I know who we need to win this war, and I know who we’re going to have to take out to win after that. Artemis wasn’t going to be vital to the battle, and Inanna is now suspicious enough of mortals that she’ll trust us more. It’ll be a good thing.”

He smiles a little bit. “I love you, you know.”

She kisses him on the forehead. “I have to go,” she says. “I must offer my condolences, aid in an investigation. Perhaps I can fill Artemis’s place— that would certainly be easier to work with.”

Nanna catches her hips, and presses a kiss to her mouth. “Stay safe,” he says.

She graces him with a smile, and Sam wonders if this is what other people saw when they saw him with Ruby. But that’s not really something he wants to think about, so he lets himself be pulled along with her to the outside of the Eight-Pointed Star. Through hallways and down to where Inanna is still kneeling over Artemis’s body.

She looks as if she hasn’t moved in a long time.

Curled over the prone form, hand touching her arm. A wall of black hair blocks her face from Sam and Ningal, but then Ningal says her name, very quietly.

And she unfurls, up into a tall, straight line. Hard. Firm. Eyes shuttered. Framed by the doorway, rather than dwarfed. Here I am, her posture says, do not cross me.

“Ningal.” Two syllables said very slowly.

“I—” Ningal looks down. “How—” and her grief sounds genuine, her tears sound genuine. “I’m sorry, I had—” she shakes her head. “I had to go. I don’t think I—”

“Claire could not have done this,” Inanna says. She takes Ningal’s arm and leads her away, away from the scene. Up towards the offices where everything is brightly lit and filled with weapons. “I cannot believe that.”

Ningal takes a deep breath. “That’s why I came,” she admits. “I had a concern.”

Sam hesitates, staring at their backs. And his stomach is twisting and he doesn’t want to hear what she’s going to say, because he can feel this entire set-up. Knows, in one horrifying instant, her plan.

And he stares at the knives at Inanna’s belt, knows that one of them could kill her, could kill them both. But he cannot touch it. He has no arms to touch it with.

He tries the telekinesis that he had learned when they were ghosts.

It doesn’t take.

“I fear—” Ningal wets her lips. “I can’t say this now, can we—” she nods towards one of the offices. Inanna nods once, face still held in a careful mask.

The doors shut, and then Ningal turns again. Words coming out in a rush. “I think it might have been Nanna.”

There’s a heavy silence.

“What?” Then, “What makes you say that?”

The younger goddess begins pacing, twisting long thin fingers together. “Lately he has been— he came over to this side at my request, but recently I’ve become suspicious of his actions. He— I fear that he plans to— to take over from you once we win, to twist the world around to his own vision. He has said— he has implied— and I’ve been so torn about this for days now because I can’t turn against my husband, we’ve been together forever, Inanna, I can’t, but I can’t just sit by and let— and when I told him Artemis was dead, when I told him it was Claire, he seemed so— relieved— and he— and— oh, Inanna.” Ningal folds in on herself, dropping to her feet. “There has been so much death,” she whispers. “I was hoping I was imagining— but— please, I’m scared, I’m—”

Inanna bites her lip. Kneels slowly to place her hand on Ningal’s shoulder. “I will tell nobody that you told me this,” she says. “I’ll investigate the matter closely.”

Ningal nods. Plants a kiss on Inanna’s hand. “I shall gather evidence,” she says, “if you feel you might need it.”

Sam wishes he could look away.

Sam hasn’t moved into his room. Not the way Dean has. There are no guns on the wall, no photographs. Just a backpack, a few clothes scattered around, like he hasn’t bothered to unpack.

He hasn’t bothered to unpack.

He’s just lying on his stomach, slight drool sticking to the pillow, shifting and muttering in what is not a peaceful sleep.

Dean snaps his fingers once over his brother’s ear.

No response.

He’s never had any trouble invading his brother’s privacy before, changing the ringtones on his cell phones, quietly telling his girlfriends that if they hurt him he’ll be having words, making sure that anyone who messed with Sam had a black eye from some mysterious source, checking Sam’s browser history. What John had never known was that Dean had seen his emails with Stanford, had known Sam’s plan long before Sam really had a plan. He’s never questioned it, because he rationalizes it as looking out for him, and anyway, Sam’s never outright hated him for it.

(Well, there was that one incident in Maine, but they don’t talk about that.)

Still, here it seems— wrong. Maybe because this is Sam’s Room, or maybe because lately, everything has reeked of secrets. The last few years. Can’t tell, won’t tell. And his brother is almost thirty, he’s an adult, and doesn’t need Dean peeking over his shoulder to make sure he hasn’t discovered porn too early.

But that doesn’t stop him from making a quick scan of all his drawers. Because Claire was right. Sam is sleeping a lot.

And there’s why.

He stands for a few minutes, holding the pill bottle.

It’s not just Benadryl.

And Sam is stupid. Sam is stupid stupid stupid, and everything makes sense now. And it’s not demon blood, which is a good, but Jesus Christ. Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot.

He’s making mental lists ways to describe just how stupid his brother is when he makes a grand entrance downstairs and runs into Cas.

“Dean?”

He raises the bottle by way of answering. And then launches into the aforementioned list.

Cas nods once, and then gives Dean look number I noticed your yogurt trick and that was not fair.

A quick glance shows that Claire is watching them, although when she sees Dean looking she carefully disguises it as hello I was really interested in these old books.

So it’s safe to give Cas look number What are you going to do about it?

A raised eyebrow, and a nod to the table.

Oh.

Oh.

Dean has to remind himself that his brother is an idiot and that he’s fucking furious about that and that his reactions are not to be trusted because did he mention that his brother was an idiot?

And then Cas goes upstairs to investigate just how far gone Sam is, leaving Dean alone with the youngest Novak. Again. The second the door closes, her eyes are back on Dean’s face, although there’s a forced note of the casual in her voice.

“So, are you sleeping with my dad’s body?”

Yeah.

Great.

“Cas doesn’t sleep,” Dean says, because as was established earlier, he’s about twelve. He plops down in one of the chairs and turns the book towards him. It barely passes as English, with all the extra letters and therefores and eres. He wishes he’d had the patience for this shit when he was eighteen, although he’s not sure how much Claire is absorbing. Not with how her life has changed today. The words are in that fancy script that people used to be such fans of and now can’t read. Although there is a rather promising drawing of Cthulu. Maybe he'll just look at the pictures.

They'd be helpful, if they were fighting Cthulu.

Claire tugs the book away from him. “You know what I mean.”

“Don’t we have other things to be worrying about?”

“It’s just a question, Dean.”

He sighs. “It’s a complicated question.”

“It’s really not.”

Dean shakes his head a few times, pulls the Cthulu book in front of his face. “Isn’t that a weird thing to be thinking about? I mean it’s—”

“Hasn’t been my dad for five years.” Tap-tap-tap-tap go her fingers on the table. “I’ve gotten over it. I forget sometimes. But it wasn’t my dad a long time before he left, too— it’s— it’s— he’s Castiel. I know that. Trust me, I know that.” She shakes her head one more time. Then raises an eyebrow. “So are you making with the angel-sex?”

There are no pits in hell that are deep enough to swallow him.

“No,” he snaps, because technically, that’s true. “God. Why—”

“I had Castiel in my head,” she reminds him. “I know how he felt about you then, and it’s obvious now—”

And Dean doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to— he’s good at denial.

“—even see yourselves—”

Hiding things under carpets, in hotel rooms that he’ll never visit again, that's how he'd managed. He can’t hear it here, can’t hear it out loud. So he stands up and marches into the kitchen, because he wants a burger.

And even though he sees the facade crack on Claire’s face, even though he knows when she leaves out the other door that she’s either going to cry or make a mess, and even though he just wants it all to stop, there’s nothing he can godddamn do.

His eyes land again on the bottle.

Sam is half awake for a moment. He hears loud noises below—either someone is yelling at someone, or something is getting thrown, or Dean and Cas are having really dramatic sex.

He barely has time to hope it’s not the last one before he’s back asleep. The dreams reach for him, and he reaches back, wrapping himself in them. Waiting. Just gathering information. It’s the easiest spying he’s ever done.

He’ll tell Dean about them later. So that they can get the most out of all their intel and stuff. Yeah. No problem.

So he lets himself fall under, and when his mind clears he’s in another hotel room. Inanna is pacing, hands twirling around a knife. Enki sits in one of the chairs. He carves a sigil into the wall with an x-acto knife.

“I don’t think Ningal’s news can be considered a surprise,” he says. “You were suspicious when they joined.”

“Yes, but, Nanna? Artemis would never go— never have gone unarmed when he was near, never turned away. She was stabbed in the back.” The hilt of the blade breaks off in her hands, and she flinches before repairing it with the touch of a finger.

Her footprints burn holes in the carpet.

“I agree.” Enki puts the final touch in his design, and it glows for a moment before fading away. “Okay, we’re blocked from our own spies.”

“Good.” She turns back towards the window. “I—” a deep breath. “If Ningal suspected— I don’t know. I did think it was Claire at first, because— it was obvious, especially when the angel came— you don’t think— we obviously have a rat. Or an assassin. Or something.”

“Every army has rats.”

“Well, yes. But not every rat kills—” she can’t seem to bring herself to say any more. She doesn’t cry, but she sounds broken all the same.

Sam has to work really hard to remind himself that they’re all murders and all need to die and blah blah. Because they care, and that’s what scares him. All the gods seem to care so much, about current feuds and past feuds and their families, and he isn’t sure quite what that makes them. Demons, after all, do not care. Most angels don’t care. That makes them inhuman and easy to fight.

Then again, he’s never had such an up close and personal view of demon goings-on before.

So there’s that.

“I told you before that I don’t trust anyone,” Inanna says, “and I still do not. Now less than ever.”

“You trusted Artemis.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“You did.” Enki shrugs. “There’s no harm in that— Artemis was never going to do us wrong.” He tilts his head. “I don’t believe it could have been her. That was ratting.”

“But she was in the room with all the— she was trying to stop radio waves.”

“I think…” the god hesitates, and begins to pick at the desk with his blade. There’s no design to it this time— he just peels away layer after layer of wood. “I think that she was suspecting, or that she knew something. We’ve known that there was a leaky pipe ever since the Malaysian—”

“You think it was Ningal?”

“I don’t know.”

Inanna shakes her head and turns. “I don’t trust any of them,” she says, “but one does not have to trust to lead them... I don’t know how we’re going to fight a war like this. I have to make sure that the price is always higher on our side, to keep them, but I don’t know what the others have offered. Not enough. And if they plan to take over after we win, then there will be no price worthwhile but to show them our power.”

“Which we cannot do.”

“No.”

An entire line of floor has burned away at this point. Some of it still smokes, but the goddess doesn’t seem to notice it. She just continues, back and forth, back and forth.

The fire alarm starts to wail, but she explodes it with the flick of her wrist.

“The end is coming soon, anyway,” she says. “Loki’s power is breaking. We can win some of them— Hecate, Meili, and Dedun are good bets. They switch so easily. All of them do.” She spits. “Is there word on the Mes?”

“There are no signs that the prophet has been able to break into them,” Enki says. “Though since Claire is probably with the Winchesters—”

“—We should probably move them.” She turns away. “Whatever. We’ll get them back after the war is done— it’s not as though they can do much harm with them right now. We’ll rewrite them when we have the luxury.”

“And when we have the entire power of Heaven behind us, so that we can break through the Winchesters’ wards,” Enki says wryly.

“Yes. That.” She turns. “Our wars have lasted centuries. It’s almost funny, how this one will only have been months.”

“Zeus and Enlil were never very patient.”

“No.” Pause. “The real fight will be after we’ve captured heaven. Keeping it.”

“Yes, that does seem to be a theme in revolutions.”

They’re both quiet.

The sun heads towards the horizon.

Apollo comes to Ningal in the field.

This time, he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flirt.

He has his bow out, arrow aimed at her throat, before she can move.

“You killed my sister,” he says. And there’s a desperation to his voice, but there’s also a fury. An ancient fury that’s rising, leaking out through his skin. Making him glow. The sun grows brighter, hotter, and even Sam can feel it, even though he shouldn’t have any sensation at all.

He’s wondering if he’s starting to take physical form in these dreams.

He wonders what that means for him.

Ningal doesn’t bother to try and deny it. “Who told you?”

“I know,” he says. “I know when she died, and her blood, it’s all over you.”

She spits at his feet. “I did you a favor,” she says. “I removed the burden from you and yours. I did it quickly. She never felt—”

With a shriek of rage, Apollo throws her backwards. Out of the field and what must be miles away, because now they are both on an overpass above a highway. Though cars roar past underneath them, they do not have to yell to be heard.

But Sam does not understand the language, not exactly. Pain he speaks— grief— loss— but this is one that Sam does not have words for. It’s the language in which Castiel whispered his grief for Balthazar and Uriel, in which Lucifer cried for Michael. It is the language of the iron bar that Dean took to the impala after their father died, the sound of the colt firing as Sam tried, again and again, to get Dean back from Hell.

He doesn’t know if Ningal tries preemptively to defend herself or if Apollo attacks— he only knows that beings driven on hate can only go so far. Apollo slashes at her, cuts her open, but Ningal does not fall. She just pushes him back, tries to catch his hands, tries to tell him that Zeus needs him. And then she tries to kill him, but she is no more successful than he was at killing her.

It’s not very long before she’s twisting out of his grip— perhaps the tables have turned, Sam doesn’t know, because the light is getting too bright to look at, the gods more shadows than anything else. And then Ningal throws herself through the chain link fence. She lands lightly on top of one of the pickup trucks, and then vanishes.

Apollo just lies on the cement. His injuries are closing, a knife held in his trembling hand. He looks at it for a moment, then tosses it away.

It vanishes as well, before it hits the ground.

And the god just lies there for several minutes. Eyes closed, twisting slightly with the sobs that, for some reason or another, he can’t let out.

Sam wants to look away, but he doesn’t.

He wants to sit down next to him and say that yeah, he’s lost a sibling, he knows how it feels.

He wants to yell that this is what they’re going to do to everyone else, in their stupid war, in their stupid plans, and why can’t they see that?

He wants a lot of things. But he just waits, hovering in his state of non-existence.

As time slips past, and Apollo finally stands. He looks at the sky for a moment, and then the images shift. The highway disappears, the cement overpass turns to red tile, and they’re in a white building: Sam doesn’t know what it is.

“Lord Zeus,” Apollo says. There is no honor in his tone, though. “Father.”

Zeus looks up. He’s sitting on one of the pews, surrounded by screens that appear to be hovering in midair. Enlil is next to him, and he’s the one that Apollo turns to next. “I wish to speak with my father.”

Enlil waves a hand. “Carry on.”

There’s a heavy silence. Apollo clears his throat.

“Don’t be disrespect—” Zeus begins, but then Apollo’s bow is out, again, this time pointed at Enlil’s neck. Carefully tracking the motion of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“It’s quite alright.” The Sumerian smiles, stands, vanishes. In that order. Leaving the two gods of the sky alone in the whitewashed room.

Zeus stands. “That was—”

“Did you know?” Apollo’s voice is far calmer than it had been. It doesn’t sound like he just left his heart out on a bridge. A simple question, with invisible eternities hidden beneath.

Sam should learn how to do that.

“Know—”

“About Artemis. Ningal killed her. Ningal stabbed her in—” he stops. Shakes his head, because Zeus, fuck. Zeus’s face is held carefully still. There’s emotion in his eyes, maybe, but they’re held back. Frozen.

“I have— been told,” he says, very slowly.

“And you trust— she was—”

“I loved Artemis,” Zeus snaps. All the outlets spark at once, and the room goes dark. “You dare not accuse me of not. But she made her choice, Apollo. If she had shown the same care for you— she would not have left us as she did.”

“Don’t you dare accuse—”

Sam cannot seem them now. Can only sense the shifts in the room. Can only hear the voices growing louder, and he pulls himself back. But the voices just seem to come with him, no escape, no escape. He wants to wake up.

“We need to start over, Father,” Apollo is saying. “Forget the Sumerians and their fucking votive statues, forget the Norse. Kill them. We have to— get back Athena, and Hecate, and Nike, and then we’ll kick all the others out. We can start all this shit over again. Wait for Hera and Aphrodite and Hermes and the others to rise— or we’ll raise them ourselves— and forget the humans, forget—”

“What you suggest is treason. A violation of our laws. We cannot stab Enlil in the back.”

“Right, like Ningal did to your daughter? Our laws have no place here, not anymore—”

Sam has no hands to cover his ears, but the voices are getting higher, an almost angel-like shrieking, and he tries to pull away.

And then he gets slapped in the face.

“What?”

Another slap. “Sam Winchester! Wake the fucking hell up or so help me—”

Yeah, that sounds like a summons.

It takes Sam a moment to realize where he is. But it’s not as though he’s spent a lot of time awake in here, and maybe that’s why Dean is bitching. Either way, it takes a bit to wipe the sleep from his eyes, for the blood rush of sitting up too quickly to go away, and for Dean’s rather angry face to come into focus.

“What?” he asks again. Stupidly.

There’s a rattling coming from all around him, and for some reason he has flashes of a shape-shifting baby leaving skin all over a motel room before he realizes that it’s his pill bottle.

Oh.

He should probably play dumb. Certainly, that seems the only thing he’s capable of doing, because having limbs to move isn’t quite working out for him. His ears are still ringing from sound inside his head. “What that.”

He gets another slap to the face, and then “Dean, that might not be the most effective way of gathering information.” So his brother has brought his angel. Great. Sam yawns, and that manages to clear a few things up. Get his brain working.

He’s pretty sure he’s usually smarter than this.

Hunter instinct kicks in, though, when Dean grabs his elbows and tries to haul him off his bed. Sam head-butts him, and manages to make everything stop spinning as he leans against the wall. Okay. He can work with this. He can definitely work with this. Yep.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks.

Dean is now standing a good five feet away, but Sam still doesn’t feel safe. Not with the glare and the pill bottle and the knowledge that Dean never even sleeps without a knife strapped somewhere.

“Everything’s totally fine, Dean,” Dean says in a falsetto. Sam realizes after a second that this is supposed to be his voice. “I have this weird dream shit under control.”

“I never said that!” he protests. Rubs his forehead. “I don’t know any more than you do where they come from.”

“Except that you’re now apparently taking—” Dean studies the label. “Potentially addictive sleep aids?” The bottle hits the wall with another pathetic rattle, and then rolls a little before lying still on the ground. “Do you like these dreams or something?”

“They’re useful., We wouldn’t have been able to save Claire without them, wouldn’t have been able to—”

“Are we really going to do this?” Dean demands. “Road to Hell, Sam.” And Sam isn’t quite sure what he’s about to yell, but it comes out unedited and ends with Dean’s fist in his face, and a scream of “If you really want to stop this war, why don’t you wake up?”

And then he storms from the room, and Sam tries to understand what’s just happened.

“He’s an idiot,” Dean says, kicking at one of the tables. It doesn’t move, which pisses him off even more, because he’s angry and dammit, that should be reflected in his environment. And he can’t explain, not to Sam, why this is so wrong. Sam wasn’t in the djinn dream, Sam has never looked at Zachariah and tried to realize what world he was supposed to live in. His fear that Sam will leave him— only this time, not for a girl but for a fucking dream.

To be an omniscient God, watching—

He swings, trying to hit one of the bookshelves (Sam should be loving this, should be eating all this shit up, Dean should be making fun of him for refusing to come out from behind a list of vamp sightings in Forks) but then his hand is caught, and he’s turned on the momentum.

“Ow.”

Cas looks unsympathetic. “Do not destroy the resources,” he says tightly. And he’s just— it’s because Dean is so high strung emotionally right now, it’s because every fantasy world he’s ever been offered is ringing in his ears, and he’s not rational and he’s never been rational. Because what he sees when he looks at Cas is another thing that he’ll never be able to really have because he doesn’t get the world, he just saves it. Another bit of happiness that will likely be torn away by tablets or Crowley or fucking angels or just run-of-the-mill death like everything he’s ever—

He doesn’t tell Cas that his job, his entire life, has been to take care of Sam, and that he’s failed in every possible way. That he hadn’t been able to save him at Cold Oak and then turned around and probably took away his chance at heaven. Couldn’t save him from Hell, couldn’t get Lucifer out of his head. That they’ll never be able to—

He dragged Sam out of his happy lives, twice, because hell, he and Sam aren’t that different. The more they try and save something—

When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!

“Dean!” Cas grabs his face with one hand. “Dean, listen to me.”

Can’t, Can’t—

"I told you that you can’t save everyone,” the angel says. “But you don’t have to. This isn’t like any other time— you two are not alone. You understand me?” Always alone, at— at the end of the day they’re always going to be the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night— “Dean! Do you capiche?” And that gets half a smile but it doesn’t stop the panic. “Sam will always return. And you have more help than ever now.”

“Gonna fail.” Dean closes his eyes, because there’s panic, panic rising, again, and again, and “Kevin and Claire are kids, and I don’t know where Benny is—” Christ, he just left Benny out to—

“Benny is fine,” Cas says. “He’s talking with Charlie. They’re trying to pin down the tablet.”

Oh.

Okay.

“How do you know?”

“He prayed to me twenty minutes ago.”

Oh.

Dean takes a deep breath, because he’s not a kid and he’s not having a crisis.

“We’ll get through this,” Cas says, and there’s enough conviction in his voice that it lends comfort, because he can remember all too well Castiel’s attempts at lies. He saw through it so easily earlier.

“How?” he asks. “How can you know that?”

And Castiel presses his lips against Dean’s ear. Stubble brushes his cheek. “Because I have faith in you,” he says.

And there’s no response to that. But then it doesn’t matter, because Cas is kissing him. And Dean can still count the number of times they’ve done this on one hand, but that’s not why this is so— it’s because this is the first one that hasn’t been fueled by need or anger or a goddess fucking with them. It’s just Cas’s lips on his, barely moving, it barely counts, and maybe that’s why Dean pushes himself up the bookshelf so he can deepen it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, “That I dragged you into this.”

“Dean.” Cas pulls away, but Dean can still feel his breath on his lips. “Do you really think you could drag me anywhere?”

No. But Dean can pull on Cas’s lower lip with his teeth, which he does, and he can hold him tighter as if that’ll make him stay.

They’re out of sight now, kissing behind the bookshelf like freaking teenagers, and that’s okay because there’s nobody but Cas to see that he’s just hanging on.

Sam sees Charlie. At first, he thinks that maybe Inanna went back to being a redhead, but then he realizes that he has hands and a body and everything is fuzzy. Which means he’s probably dreaming. A real, actual dream. He can’t remember the last time he had one of those.

She’s pushing figurines around a board, and when Sam looks down, he sees that they’re named. But the names don’t seem to have any correlation to the figures— Nike seems to be a turtle in armor, and he’s pretty sure that Dedun doesn’t look like a pawn. And as she arranges them, according to side, he can see flashes of handshakes and whispered promises, bared bodies and sparkling gold that sealed the various deals.

He sees Odin having a meeting with Zeus and Enlil and Enki talking to Freyja, he sees Sif sneaking away in the dead of night and Athena taking one of her father’s books as she leaves.

On one side of the board are Inanna, Enki, Nammu, Ninhursag, Ningal, Isis, Athena, Ninurta, Dedun, Hecate, Apedmak, Nike, Meili, Nanna, Sif, Thor and Freyja.

The other is Zeus, Apollo, Poseidon, Utu, An, Hades, Ereshkigal, Loki, Apep, Ammit, Anhur, Horus, Odin, Frigga and Enlil.

And even though this is an ordinary dream (he checks all his body parts, it’s him, he’s standing there even though Charlie doesn’t seem to notice) the names are burning onto his mind. It almost hurts.

And then a figure steps in front of him. There are pruning shears tucked under one arm.

Joshua’s smile is distorted. I thought you might like a quick summary, he says.

Sam frowns. Peers around the angel at where Charlie is moving her figures again, putting the figurines in what seems to be a deliberate pattern, although there's no sense that Sam can discern.

Do you see it now, Sam?

Sam pulls a face. Why can’t you just tell me?

I can’t. It goes against every order we’ve ever gotten. I can no more tell you then you can— I can’t tell you. He shakes his head. I can’t tell you.

Joshua is looking at him expectantly, and Sam is sure that there’s a deeper meaning in the arrangement, but he can’t quite grasp it. But it’s familiar, and he reaches, reaches—

And when he’s prodded gently back into consciousness, he can still see the spots.

Sam has always, always sucked at connect-the-dots. He sucked at it in elementary school, when his dad (or Dean, usually Dean) brought him activity books. He sucked at it when a particularly sadistic Chem 101 teacher thought it would be a good way for them to learn about dot notation. So it comes as no surprise to him that Joshua’s message is very unhelpful.

“You’re sure this is how they were?” Dean stares at Sam’s hasty drawing. Holds it up to the light, because obviously he’s embedded a secret, explanatory watermark. “Because this looks pretty—”

“Random? I know.” He looks from Castiel to Claire, hoping that one of them has great insight. “But it’s not. I mean, that’s how it was. He made very sure that I remembered this.” Because apparently Sam remembers what Joshua wants him to remember, which is more disturbing the more he thinks about itl. Because apparently Josh up there has insight into what’s happening with the gods, but does nothing, popping in when he feels like it to deliver cryptic messages. Via Sam’s brain.

Sam is fucking sick of having his mind hijacked by angels. (Bobby’s neck breaking under his hand—) But whatever.

(Dean had been very unsympathetic. “What did you expect? I told you those dreams were sketchy.” And amazingly, Castiel had been even less so, considering that he had also had his mind screwed around with. Sam had been hoping for some indignation on his behalf, but no. “If Joshua has chosen to show you this, he might be on our side. He might want to help us.”)

But it all ends up being for shit, because an Angel of the freaking Lord, the elder Winchester and a hunter of Artemis have no more idea what the dots mean. Sam has stared at them for so long that they’ve turned into jumble, all potential patterns falling to rot. When he closes his eyes, he sees them. An explosion, a flower, a pile of horse dung.

It’s Benny that gets it.

After two weeks— not counting the witch hunt intermission— he’s gotten sick of being left outside, and they’ve found some form of blood magic that would give him special permission to enter Hogwarts. Castiel is working on the particulars now, and then Benny can hang out with the best of them.

That being said, it’s drizzling a little on the half-hill that hides the bunker. Sam figures that he didn’t have to keep the vampire company, but he isn’t so much a fan of magic these days. He might have been a little more weirded out by Kevin and Portia than he’d let on. The idea that any dog could be a person in disguise is disquieting— he’d generally considered them to be more trustworthy entities.

Plus, it gives him a chance to shove the latest draft of dots in someone else's face.

The vampire rotates the image a few times before he takes out a pen. Clicks the end in a rather authoritative manner— “Best invention of the modern world,” he’d said at some point— and then starts drawing lines.

Oh.

“Funny thing about being a vamp,” he says. “You learn to reckernize a Devil’s trap in all forms.”

Sam feels a bit like an idiot.

“Devil’s trap.” He shakes his head. “How the hell does that help? We already know how to draw a Devil’s Trap.”

“He said it was about the tablet?”

“Not in so many words.” But what else would be so secret that he couldn’t even speak it? Goes against every order. Death had said that protecting the tablets went so deep, so— Christ. Would it kill them to give him a straight answer? No “You must find this for yourself, young Padawan.” No “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Just a question and an answer. Straight. Simple.

He’s so tired.

He misses dreaming, but he’s not convinced he’s fully awake, either. If he closes his eyes, relaxes, he starts to get flashes— Odin and Enlil negotiating, Enlil and Zeus buggering each other’s brains out, Zeus sharpening a wicked looking sword, Athena studying maps, the Galla, carrying mysterious objects from hotel to hotel.

“Maybe the tablet is in a devil’s trap,” Benny says.

Sam snorts. “Lock your demon in with your tablet? How stupid is that?”

“This is the God who threw frogs at the Egyptians… it doesn’t have to make sense.”

Sam smiles again.

He thinks of when he was young. When he used to believe so strongly that there were powers of good as well as evil— because what else would explain the blessings? The candy bars, having his favorite win Survivor, having Dean. Dean and Dad coming home safe. He’d believed.

And then Dean was the one who got angels on his side, who the angels saved, and Sam was the boy with the demon blood who would lead the armies of Hell—

Oh.

“Benny,” he says slowly. “Have you ever been to Wyoming?”

“Can’t say I have. Vampirate, remember.”

“Because I think—” He’s interrupted by the opening of the door and Dean’s shout of all clear, but that might be for the best. So that he can tell them all at once that if there’s a devil’s trap, it’s got to be a really freaking big one.

Thanks, Josh.

Sam had assumed that Dean was kidding about the secret knock, but Garth does it anyway. And then the door is opened and the silence that had taken over the batcave recently is smashed to bits. Kevin bolts for a sofa, Mrs. Tran vanishes into the kitchen, Garth is staring around, jaw hanging wide, and Sam is frowning as Don and Amelia take the rear.

It takes five whole minutes to catch her alone in the Books-On-Things-That-Are-Dead-But-Aren’t-Really-Dead-Until-A-Hunter-Kills-Them-Again section.

“I thought you two were going home.”

“We did go home,” Amelia says. “Same old house, same old life”

That doesn’t sound so bad. But she’s looking at him funny, like there’s something obvious he’s missing.

“We put up wards, made some excuses, but—” she shrugs. “Come on, Sam. You know me.”

It’s not fair how much he still loves her. It’s not fair. He’s had his soul carved up by Lucifer, so how does one human woman make it hurt almost as much? Sam has to turn away so that she won’t see the pain in his face when he says, “you were supposed to stay safe.”

“Garth called us, asked us for help,” she says. “And don’t damsel me. It’s not a good look on you.”

Christ.

“Garth couldn’t get any Hunters in on this, could he.”

“Go to a secret society’s lair, hang out with the Winchesters and their vampire pal?” She raises an eyebrow.

Sam remembers the hunting community from when he was younger. They’d never been close-knit, exactly, not trusting, but there was a certain fellowship between broken people, who had seen things they could never discuss.

Sometimes it hurts to be reminded of their exile. Sometimes he wants to bitch and whine about how unfair it is, because yeah he screwed up but he went to Hell to fix it and they killed Dick Roman and are, quite possibly, the best hunters in the world.

But he doesn’t. He’s more mature than that. Obviously. That’s why he’s still letting a married woman stomp on his heart, and yes, there’s Don. And Garth.

Is it just him, or does Garth look—

“The hell, man?!”

—offended?

Sam tries to think of something that he could have done to to warrant this. This being his life, he can think of several hundred.

“You get this place, and don’t call me? These books, man!”

Ah. Right.

“Our hideout,” Sam says, shrugging. “And, you know us. Let other hunters in? C’mon. Dean has big plans to digitize a bunch of these books though.”

“That’d be awesome.” Garth is beaming again, back over at the shelves. “If we could get a big database going, more internet stuff, it’d be a great resource— have to put in some serious firewalls, though…” Sam tunes out his babbling, focuses instead back on Amelia, who is frowning at Claire.

“Isn’t she—”

“Not anymore.” Sam checks to make sure that the girl is out of earshot before trying to summarize. Over the sound of Mrs. Tran asking what various kitchen things were for and are they training to be gourmet chefs because that stuff is ridiculous.

Don’s eyes are wide.

“Your lives are fucking weird,” is all he says.

“You think the tablet’s where?”

“We just need to be able to get in,” Dean says. “I mean, I don’t want the state patrol coming after us.”

“You’re planning on searching an entire state?”

“No, but Kevin is pretty sure he can get us to the right spot.” And since the kid chased them all the way to a hospital and then refused to let go of the first tablet, Dean is willing to trust him on this one.

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, and Dean wonders if they’ve finally hit Charlie’s limit. Then, ”How long do you need?”

Wouldn’t it be nice if they knew. “A few hours?” he hazards, glancing at Sam and Kevin. Neither nerd has a good answer, though. “Maybe a day. Maybe two. We don’t know.”

He can hear keys typing away on the other end. “How about instead I get you papers showing that there’s something oil-y down there, and you’re looking for it? It’d let you cut down any trees you needed to, too.” Pause. “Do not cut down any trees unless you have to.”

“Don’t think we’re going to be spending much time chopping trees for fun, to be honest.” He resumes his pacing around the room, a tread that he thinks will eventually be worn into the batcave floor. Sam can tell his grandchildren about it. This is where your uncle walked while he was trying to save the world. Oh, and I helped a little, too.

“Probably not.”

There’s more clicking, then, “I’m emailing you the stuff you need. Tell me if there’s anything else, okay?”

Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam. “That was fast.”

“I’m pretty amazing.”

“That I’ll have to give you.”

“Call me when you save the world, alright?”

If they survive. Yeah. Dean nods, realizes that that’s ridiculous because he’s on the phone, get it together, Winchester, and then tells Charlie that he copies that.

Kevin centers them on an eerily familiar field.

“Why,” Dean mutters, “did they plant this thing near the entrance to Hell?”

“Last place you’d look?” Cas glances around. “Maybe we made a wrong turn.”

“No, this is the right spot.” Kevin starts marching off through the field. Then stops, looks around, takes a few steps to the left and keeps walking. And okay, yes, they have to trust him, even though the backseat driving had gotten totally obnoxious in the first hour, because “I know we’re going to Wyoming, Kevin, you don’t have to direct me there.” And then it was all, turn left and that alleyway there and I know it’s that way but there’s no road that way so we’re going to have to go in a more roundabout way.

And now they’re here. A place that Dean had never, ever planned on returning to, because he can still— (Sammy? Sam!)

And it doesn’t help that he is strongly reminded of the Princess Bride scene in which Inigo asks his father to guide his sword.

And then stumbles around like a drunken idiot.

Kevin is doing the same thing here, pacing back and forth, like he’s listening to the ground. Waiting for the pull. And Dean understands that it calls to him, blah blah blah, but it doesn’t make it any less stupid.

He and Cas watch from several meters away. Keeping up with him the entire time had turned out to be more walking than Dean felt like doing.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks quietly.

Cas looks at him. “What?”

“I mean…” it’s hard to describe. Hard to say without acknowledging everything, and Dean sucks at this stuff. “If we find the tablet, we’re going to close Heaven. Or try. Cut off everyone's powers who's still on earth.”

“Obviously.”

“So you… that’s your family, Cas. I know you guys have gone through some shit, but we’d be closing them off forever.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. Kevin goes as far as the railroad tracks before doubling back.

“I know it’s in this field,” he yells. “Ninety-eight percent.”

“Good,” Dean yells back, “but if this field goes more than four miles, we’re driving.”

“I fought a war so that this world would not be destroyed,” Cas says. “I suppose it’s only fitting that I’m forced to live on it for a human life.”

That doesn’t sting. That really, really doesn’t sting. Your responsibility is to your family, Dean had shouted, more times than he cared to remember. And no matter how close they got, they never really would be, will they?

Family don’t end with blood, son.

He shakes his head to clear it.

“Every angel and god on earth, though. They’ll go human. That just— you’re really okay with us doing that?”

He doesn’t meet the angel’s gaze, but he can feel eyes boring into the side of his head.

“They’ll survive. I did. I don’t like it,” Cas says. (No one likes it.) “But my personal feelings on the matter are irrelevant, Dean. You were the one who told me that people here, alive, and their families were what’s real, and I still believe that.”

They’re quiet for a few more moments. Start following Kevin at a distant pace, because he’s getting too far away for Dean’s comfort level.

It’s so muddy. Mud all over his shoes, the bottom of his pants. More and more collecting on Cas’s trench coat, until the bottom is dragging.

Isn’t that some symbolism right there, Dean thinks.

“It will be a relief, in a way.”

“What?”

Cas gestures towards the sky. “You know what I’ve done. All the angels I’d care to stay with— they’re dead. Either by Raphael’s hand or— or mine.” Squish. Squish. Squish. “Between that, and Naomi… no.” He shakes his head a few times. “And besides that.” His face is suddenly serious. “Staying with you is not my fallback, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s been doing more feelings in the last couple years than he’d care to admit, but now he can’t do anything more than smile and then try and cover it up with a smirk. “I’ll try and make it up to you.”

“You don’t need to.” But his quiet, very-serious-investigation voice doesn’t match up with the fact that something had just grabbed itself a handful of Dean’s ass.

“Guys!” Kevin yells, waving his arms. “Over here!”

Of course it’s just a few meters away from the Gate. A ridiculously random spot— it’s not marked by a tree, or anything particularly impressive. Just grass and more grass and Dean really, really hopes that Kevin is right and they aren’t going to have to dig holes (five feet wide, five feet deep) all over this place.

But he can’t get there, anyway, because the Hellgate is whispering to him. He can hear Alastair’s voice, crooning in his ear, hear screams, his, other peoples’, and he can feel blood on his hands as he tears them apart and his own skin is burning as it’s being peeled off and everything is getting louder and louder and it’s closed but he can see hellfire, it’s calling to him, telling him, this is where you belong, Dean, and he can’t hear and he can’t think. Because he’s down there, dancing cheek to cheek with Alastair, feet slippery in the blood of someone he’d just torn apart, and then he’s back on the rack and he’s accepting, he’s reaching for the knife because he can’t handle this anymore, and everything is getting louder louder.

“Dean!”

The voice isn’t Alastair’s. A warmer hand is digging into his shoulder, turning him around, and he realizes that he’d just been resting his forehead against the locked door. Castiel stares at him. Eyes bright, too bright for a place like this, for Hell (that bit hits him all at once, that was what he’d seen when Cas came, but Cas didn’t have eyes, not then. It had just been light, and it had hit him, and he had covered his eyes and begged it to go away.)

Hand pressing harder on his shoulder, where the hand print used to be, gripped you tight, and yes, it had been tight, because it’s hitting him in waves now, and he’d struggled at first, reached back towards Hell, towards home, because it had been well over half his life, and then they got higher and then he started to hold back, tried to cling to Castiel, become Castiel because this pure light was better than anything he was.

“Dean!” the angel, his angel shakes him a little, hands still not leaving his shoulder. “Dean. Are you with me?”

This is Cas.

They’re in a muddy field looking for a way to close Heaven.

Dean lets himself be pulled forward. They go a few meters away, and the voices quiet.

Kevin is looking at him, but he doesn’t look back. And the prophet doesn’t ask.

Instead he does his drunken walk for a couple more moments, and then points.

“Right here,” he says. “Specifically.”

“Great.” Dean looks around for a convenient backhoe. “No chance you two can, um, prophet-and-angel mojo it up, right?”

Kevin looks at Cas. “Don’t think so.”

They all stare at this random patch of grass for a moment.

“So what do we do?” Dean asks, although he’s pretty sure he knows. And, yes, the answer he was dreading comes from both the others, at the same time, in the same tone.

“We dig.”

“Dean.” Sam looks slightly amused. “I’ve dug up graves in the rain, too, you know.”

“Graves!” Dean waves a hand, splattering one of the walls with mud as he does so. “This wasn’t a freaking grave. It was like— deeper than that. Really, really deep.”

“Mhm.”

“Like, a hundred feet, and if we hadn’t had Cas—”

“Dean.”

“Yes?”

Sam raises a hand, like he’s about to pat his brother on the shoulder, but then reconsiders. “Go take a freaking shower, man.”

“Kevin better have left me some hot water.” He turns, to head downstairs. “Also, tell him he better have that damn tablet interpreted when I come out.”

There’s a brief silence. “The demon one is taking months, Dean.”

“Right, but this one is in one piece. He did the Leviathan one in a freaking afternoon.” Ancient words of God, how hard can it be? If anyone is having a difficult time right now, Dean thinks, closing the bathroom door, it’s him, because he isn’t quite sure where the zipper on his jeans is anymore. He isn’t sure what color his jeans are. Just mud, mud and more mud, dried and flaking off. Leaving trails of dust through the bunker that are setting off Sammy’s OCD. After a few minutes of fumbling, he gives up, and just gets in the shower fully clothed.

Wishes he had Cas’s ability to just clean himself. Lucky fucker doesn't have to bother with things like showering.

Not that it would be a bad thing, Cas taking a shower. Even though this is so not the time to imagine that, because mud is still going down the drain (and he wonders where that stuff goes— all the blood they’ve washed away, is anyone ever going to see that in a little puddle somewhere and wonder what the hell happened? Or does it somehow link to the sewage? And are they tapping the water off some other pipeline?) and they have shit to do and all that. So Castiel and his constant sex-hair and the way his face looks when he falls apart is not relevant. Not relevant at all. And Dean is trying to get his jeans off for practical, hygienic reasons, and doesn’t have any fantasies about not being alone. About Cas, maybe on his knees, maybe pinning Dean against the wall, one hand on his dick, one hand slipping down—

Oh, fuck.

He freezes, one foot still tangled up in his pants, boxers slightly tented, and wonders if he’s really the bottom in this relationship. It’s not like he and Cas have kissed more than, what, three or four times, and it’s not like they’ve ever— but if they did— and— and he should not be getting really, really hard to that thought, not be having vivid mental images because he’s never— and— Christ.

Dean Winchester, super hardcore masculine hunter, is having fantasies about taking it up the ass. And it’s not that this is the first time. It’s not that this is the first time that his own fingers have been—but it’s the first time it’s been within the realm of possibility. Of. Getting-- not fingers.

He isn’t sure what the protocol is, here. He’d accepted that he was also attracted to guys a long time ago— accepted, and then resolutely ignored, because that was sick of him, because of what he’d done, it was like he’d— and maybe, maybe once or twice, he’d gone home with one, but it had always been him on top. (Because Cassie, Lydia, Lisa, he could let them take control, but that was different, it was different than having a guy on top of you, letting a guy in like that.) And this is definitely a boner-killing crisis, and he’s only just managed to get his jacket off, and he’s not sure what to do with all these clothes, so he settles for throwing them in a pile on the bottom of the tub. Maybe later he’ll flood it and let them soak for a while. Maybe he’ll flood the entire bathroom. Maybe he’ll let the mud dry into a suit of armor.

Right. Breathing.

He needs to get over himself, stat, because they have a world to save. And he has clothes to clean. And he wants a burger. And fuck the police, because he’s also this close to praying to Cas right now so that he can angst at and then potentially make out with—

Yeah.

World to save.

He manages to get out of his shorts, and then just appreciates the water pressure. And he’s not going to jerk off, because there is nothing less sexy than being covered in mud after digging for a tablet (and he had really, really, really wished that they had had Bobby’s backhoe, like, really, and he’d wished they’d had Bobby, too, just to tell him not to be a whiny little bitch and get over himself,) and he doesn’t want his admittedly-filthy clothes covered in jizz when they figure out how to lock away all the angels.

His life is freaking weird.

It’s just as he thinks this that the hot water runs out.

Kevin works for three hours before he calls Sam over.

Kevin and Sam do nerdy things for half an hour before Cas joins the party.

Kevin and Sam and Cas confer in quiet voices for an hour before Amelia is summoned for a fourth opinion.

Dean, Don, Benny and Mrs. Tran play a version of Egyptian Ratscrew that involves shots of apple juice—because Garth and Kevin had declared that drinking while trying to interpret God’s word was a bad plan. Dean reminds them that they’ve done some perfectly admirable case work while drinking, and Sam tells him that that was Special Circumstances. Garth says something like “Good times,” and Sam looks at Dean like this is going to be triggering or some shit.

Because, Dean wasn’t sober for a full year in Purgatory, or anything, and they totally can’t even mention drinking problems around him.

And he’s been good lately. Coffee, and everything, and only one (okay, maybe two,) beers at a time.

Dean has to surrender his half-deck, though, when Sam asks him if a certain symbol looks familiar. And then the others throw in the towel, and Benny scores the shelves for Interpreting Tablets for Dummies.

It’s a long day, and Dean doesn’t want to have to read Old Excrementum ever again. He doesn’t go to bed, though, because despite what he snaps at everyone else, he’s willing to go through all this again and twice more before sleeping, if that’s what this is going to take.

In unrelated news, Purgatory looks almost the same in every language.

And despite twelve cups of coffee— he’s pretty sure that Don is just trying to get out of research when he offers to make it, although Don does make a good coffee, so Dean isn’t complaining— when Kevin thanks them all for their notes (“Cas, could you go over that hierarchy of Heaven thing again?”) and says that they should go to bed, Dean hears them through the fuzzy mind of one who has just been asleep.

Fuck.

“Seriously,” Kevin says. “Go to bed. I just need to get this in order.” Everyone stares at him, in various stages of exhausted skepticism. “Really. It’s not my first all-nighter.”

“I’m staying with you,” Linda says, tugging Lore of the Sumerians back towards her. And Kevin smiles a little, before looking at the others all you didn’t see that.

“I, too,” Cas says. He holds eye contact with Dean for a moment anyway.

Face number Get some sleep.

Dean makes face number have fun with the tablets, and is halfway to the bathroom before he can finish blinking, because damn if he’s going to get it second again. He doesn’t even need another shower, not after the rather thorough one he’d taken today— yesterday— god— it’s got to be going on five in the morning, although the lack of windows make it hard to confirm. He’s never been a wristwatch guy. But he can at least brush his teeth.

He’s just spit out some toothpaste when Cas appears behind him.

And since he can’t fly through walls in here, that means Dean was somehow too wrapped up in the shiny new Crest to notice him open the door, come in, and close the door. Again. He does a “Jesus Christ, Cas,” just for the sake of tradition.

“Kevin said that I should say goodnight to you,” Cas says. “I do hope he wasn’t implying anything untoward.”

Dean grins. “No chance.”

“If he were—” Cas seems to have become very interested on the toothpaste that Dean hastily wipes from the edge of his lip— “that would probably be scandalous.”

Dean pulls him forward, and if the counter is a little uncomfortable against his back, well, fuck it. Because this is another first, the first kiss they've shared that's just because, and it's scary how he could get used to this.

Might be able to get used to this. Because Cas is staying, and— and they can stay, and figure out what they are to each other, and get older and cranky and he can see lines grow in his friend’s face, they can bitch about kids these days, gank a few odd demons and ghosts, Cas can count his white hairs, and one day they’ll maybe be playing Chinese checkers in a nursing home where nobody cares if they hold hands or kiss each other, and they can talk about their lives because everyone will think they’re adorable, senile old men, because Cas is staying.

But Castiel’s eyes are too worried, when he pulls back.

“We’re going to be okay,” Dean says.

“You can’t know that.”

Dean’s supposed to be the pessimist. “I— I don’t know why, but I feel like— eight years, Cas, since Sammy left Stanford. Yellow-eyes, Hell, Lucifer, the Pit, Raphael, Purgatory, all four Horsemen, the Leviathan— and here we are.” He leans forward, rests his forehead on Cas’s shoulder. “I’m feeling kind of invincible right now. Like we’re going to get through this.” And then there’s closing Hell, and then— it’ll be back to just regular hunts. No looming apocalypses, no angels, just him and Cas and maybe some of the others. Saving people, hunting things. The family business. They can get to being old farts after that.

“You need sleep,” the angel says, but that doesn’t stop him from holding Dean closer. “I’m sure you’ll be more aware of your mortality in the morning.”

They’re everybody Dean has, and they’re all sitting in a circle around the marble table. Calm and shaking. Moment of truth.

He thought people only gathered like this for weddings and funerals. But the end of the world, well, maybe that can also bring people together. Write that one in to Dear Abby.

He has to swallow to keep from choking.

“Alright.” Kevin rubs his eyes, opens what— if the empty cans are any indication— is his fifth Red Bull. “So, so, it’s a blood spell. A bit like the Leviathan. We need seven bloods, and then we need to— to do some ritual at the source of Heaven’s power—”

“—which is in a closely guarded part of Heaven. Although if we time it right, they’ll be distracted, battling the pagans,” Cas says.

This sounds like fun.

“Whose blood?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, so this is where it gets weird.” (Mrs. Tran opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but stops as Kevin flips a page in his notebook.) “We need the blood of Purgatory, Hell, Heaven, Earth, the Defender of Earth, the Speaker to Earth, and Leader of Heaven. And we do a ritual with them at the source of Heaven's power.”

And that’s not opaque at all.

“Can it be any blood?” Benny asks. “Me for Purgatory, you for Earth?”

“Why seven?”

“Because seven is a magically powerful number,” Kevin tells Garth, and Dean has to resist a rolling of the eyes. “So I think… I mean, we got…” he flips to another page, where he’s drawn a chart. Dean has to admire his organization. “You’d count for Purgatory, Benny. And anyone human would count for Earth. Um, Cas for Heaven, I’m the Speaker to Earth, because I interpret these things, for what that’s worth—”

“Wait.” Linda is frowning now. “Seven is a magically powerful number. That’s from Harry Potter.”

Kevin picks up the composition book to hide his face. “Yeah.”

“You read Harry Potter. That’s what those books were you that you read ‘for English class.’”

Kevin looks rather ashamed. “I’m sorry, I—” and then he stops. “You recognized it. You read Harry Potter.”

Neither Tran looks at the other, and Dean feels the need to both clear his throat and thank his dad for not being quite that hover-y. “Guess your blood is a hot commodity,” he tells Cas, in an attempt to keep them on topic.

Castiel just looks at him from across the table. His face is— Dean remembers with a jolt that Cas knows what Kevin knows, maybe has put together more, has been up all night reading this stuff.

No, please no. Seven bloods, in Heaven, they can do that, they can do that. There can’t be anything hiding in here, there’s no bombshell waiting to drop.

He isn’t going to panic. He just tilts his head a little, raises eyebrows. What’s wrong?

He gets a headshake in response.

“So leader of Heaven— that’d be who, now?” Sam asks. “I really hope it’s not God, because—”

“Naomi,” Claire says. “Right?”

Cas nods.

“Well.” Dean scowls at his hands. “I’ve always wanted to give her a piece of my mind.”

“Dean—”

“We trap her in holy fire, and either talk or attack. We can do that, Cas.” He shouldn’t hope it’s the second one, he really shouldn’t, because he wants to kill her for what she did to Cas, what she did to the rest of the angels. What she’s probably still doing, now that he thinks about it, but if they can go through this reasonably and diplomatically that would probably be best for all.

“Defender?” Amelia asks. “So what’s that, then?”

Kevin points to his list again. “I think that’d be Sam.”

“Hey,” Dean says, feeling that he’s done a fair bit of defending himself.

“He is the one who jumped into the pit,” Kevin says. “Sorry. It, um, seemed to be the best fit.”

Fair enough. “I didn’t want to cut my arm open again, anyway,” Dean mutters. Defender of the Earth. Sammy could have done worse for himself.

“So we need to get the blood of a demon and the head bitch of Heaven,” Garth says, and it must be a testament to the stories he’s heard about the angels because Dean isn’t sure that he’s ever heard Garth refer to anyone as a bitch before.

To be honest, he hadn’t known that the guy knew any swear words.

“Sounds easy enough,” Don says. “You’ve taken on worse, right?”

“Than a demon? Yeah. Naomi? I don’t know.” Sam looks at Dean, then Cas. “Where does she, um.”

“Naomi is very powerful,” Cas says. “Obviously. But—”

“We can take her,” Benny says. “Seems to me that we should be more worried about the gettin’-into-Heaven, finding-the-heart-of-Atlantis bit. Make a plan for after we get the blood, in case we’re in a hurry. Maybe even a Plan B.”

“Right.” Sam nods. “Okay, Cas, where exactly do we—”

“The heavenly host,” Castiel says. “I’ll take it."

“Okay.” Dean doesn’t hesitate, because Don’s right. They’ve taken on some pretty big fish. Although if they’re going back to the fish metaphors, he’ll have to shoot someone. “We’ll go with you.”

The angel’s eyes snap over to his face. The sadness, the worry is gone, replaced with something akin to harsh determination. And he can’t help but wonder if this is what Cas looked like as a general, back when he was fighting the war… “You won’t.”

“What?”

“I said, I’ll take it.”

Sam leans forward a little bit. “We’re going to back you up, Cas.”

If this is another penance thing, another do-it-on-my-own—Dean can’t even worry about Cas still being a mind puppet and this really being a plan to betray them because—

“This will close heaven, Dean,” Cas says, even though it was Sam who asked. “Everything, everyone in there— stays.”

It takes a few seconds to understand. And then he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe he can’t think because— no— and he remembers a few hours of sleep ago when he was feeling like they could get through this— and if they lose Cas, they won’t have gotten through this, and they won’t have—

“No,” Dean manages. “You’re not— no.”

“You can’t get into heaven anyway,” Cas says, avoiding his eyes. “The last time— you were dead. You have no Grace.”

He wonders if the Bible is right on suicides, or if he could go shoot his brains out, and then Cas will find him (because he has before, it shouldn’t be hard, because if Cas has proven anything over the years, isn’t it that he always comes back?) and then they can take on Heaven—

But who is he kidding, because he’s not going to Heaven— he had last time, sure, but he’s done a fair bit of shit since then, and locking their golden boy in the pit had probably tainted his application forever, so okay, Hell then, and he can get out, even without an angel to raise him up. He’ll know what he’s doing, know his way around now, he’s a fighter. And who cares if they tear up his soul, because once he finds Cas, Cas can fix it— he’s done it before— and then—

And then Dean realizes.

And then he remembers what Amelia said, a few weeks ago, on the porch of their safe house. If you had to choose between Sam and Cas—

And his heart is breaking.

For a full few seconds, he wishes he could just die easy. And then he snaps out of it.

He considers flipping a table, insisting that they find another way, but he knows, too, that they won’t. The same way he knows without days of agonizing what he’s going to do. What he always would have done.

“Okay.” He moistens his lips, does not look at Sam. Doesn’t look at Cas, or Claire, or Kevin or Garth or anyone that he’s about to— “I’m still coming. I’ve got your Grace in my soul, remember? I can get in. I can get into Heaven.”

Because he wasn’t going to leave Purgatory without Cas, and Cas isn’t leaving Earth without him.

“Dean—” (Don’t look at Sam, don’t look at Sam, no matter what his voice sounds like.)

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “No, no. You won’t— that won’t—”

“It’ll work.” He swallows. “I can get in. It’ll work, I know it.”

“You— you might be able to get in, but— if you do— you won’t be able to die, Dean, you won’t get rest. You’ll be— trapped there, in a sort of life and sort of death, wandering from heaven to heaven. Other peoples’. You’ll be able to see them, but you’ll never get one of your own, and you’ll— no”

This is almost pitifully ironic. Narrative symmetry, Chuck had said once. “That sounds like my entire life.”

Cas’s voice is so very, very quiet now. “I know. That’s why I don’t want it to be—” he looks away. “I told you before, after Sam jumped into the pit. Paradise or freedom, you’ll choose—”

“You. I’ll choose you. I thought we were clear on that. Anyway.” Dean swallows. He can’t look at Sam, he can’t look at Sam, because if he does— “Anyway, you think you’re sneaking through heaven and closing gates and stuff on your own? Come on, man. Sam’s right, you need someone to watch your back.”

“Dean,” Sam says, voice rising. “Dean—”

“No.” Dean closes his eyes. “No. I’ll be wandering around Heaven— it’s not like I’ll never see you again. I’ll track you down when you die, Sammy, I swear, because you’re going to get there. You just can’t make that soon. And you’ll have your life and your whatever, your dog, you can do whatever and you’ll get over it. You always do, you’re the one that can do it. You always go out on your own and then find a girlfriend, right? And two of three didn’t try and raise Lucifer so that’s a good record and I’ll be gone for real and you’ll keep calm and carry on— and live—”

Sam stands. Dean can hear the chair scrape back. “Don’t you— that’s not fair—”

“Sam is right—”

“Don’t you start, Cas.”

“There’ll be some angry angels. You’ll spend most of eternity running. Wandering. You’re tired of that.”

Dean finally looks the angel in the eye. “Will you wander with me?” He doesn’t have to wait for an answer, because Cas’s face melts. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

Castiel shakes his head again. The wood of his chair starts to burn around his fist, and he stands as well. But his voice is barely audible now. “Why? Dean—”

And Dean looks at him, and thinks, you know why. But he can’t say that, can’t say anything. Sam is sitting down, very slowly, and Dean looks between them for a minute, and his heart is breaking, and he’s falling to pieces and so he kicks his chair back and storms into the kitchen.

You chose a girl over me?

You chose an angel over me?

Sam can’t look at Castiel. Can’t look at anyone around him right now because he feels like he’s dying, because this is Dean choosing to leave him, and Dean never does that.

Everyone stares at him, and Sam wants them to stop. Because the second Castiel leaves, vanishes out of the bunker with a flap of wings, Sam collapses.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Dean isn’t supposed to leave him. Dean raised him, Dean is practically his parent. You’re supposed to leave them, not the other way around, and that isn’t fair, and God—

Because fucking Cas took him away. Cas was the reason Dean was in Purgatory for so long, and for all Dean says about family— he knows he's not being fair, but he can't help it, not right now—

Sam can’t look at any of the others.

So it comes as a surprise when he’s pulled into a hug. Linda Tran, pulling him in so that he forms a crooked bridge between their two chairs, hand rubbing circles into his back. And even though she can’t be more than ten years older than him, it still feels like— a comfort. That there’s an adult, parent, mom, watching out for him again.

Dean.

“Amelia, will you start looking into summoning Naomi?” Linda asks quietly. “We’ll need to find a good place to surround with Holy Oil.”

“Yeah,” Amelia says. “Of course.” Sam can hear her push away from the table, feels her hand touch his shoulder for a moment before “Claire, Garth, come help?”

“Get some sleep, Kevin.” Sam feels the vibrations, more than he hears, and he should get up and stop behaving like a child.

But he can’t move.

Dean. Dean.

Dean is leaving him.

Sam tries, and fails, to keep the tears from coming.

It’s Benny, in the end, that pulls Dean away from the cooler.

“You’ve had enough,” he says.

“I—”

“Don’t make me stick your face in a bucket’a water.”

The next thing Dean knows, he’s being lifted off the kitchen floor and propped up against the counter. He swats the hands away. “I’m not drunk,” he says. “Just trying to get there.”

“Well, stop.” Benny takes the half-empty bottle from his hand and swallows it himself in one go. “C’mon, Dean.”

He shakes his head. He needs to be drunk right now. Fuck that, he’s a miserable drunk. He needs to be high right now. He wonders of Benny can get him some Molly. He’s never tried it before, but if it can make him happy, even if it’s fake— where’s one of those drugged turducken when he needs them—

“Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?”

Benny doesn’t ask who he’s talking about. “Give him some time.”

“I don’t have time.”

“We still gotta get a blood sample from a demon and a very powerful angel. Might be a couple weeks, at least.”

“Benny.”

“Maybe a couple days.”

Yeah, that sounds more like them. Dean’s fingers itch to be around a bottle again, and he grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to have these conversations. And he’s not going to change his mind, he knows that much about himself, but Jesus Christ he would give anything.

“He’s my family,” he whispers. “Sam and I— we’re all we have.”

Benny leans up against the counter next to him. Dean looks at him for a second, then stares at the outdated refrigerator. It must have been top of the line for its time: it’s got a separate door for the freezer and everything. Those Men of Letters, living in style. Although the feet on the bathtub still freak him out. He’s spent enough time around cursed antiques to worry about them strangling him.

Not that that matters anymore.

“There’s two kinds’a fam’ly, Dean,” Benny says after a moment. “There’s the kine you’re born to, the ones that give you your genes and your rugged good looks and genetic markers for autoimmune diseases. They’re the ones that you call when you get a hereditary disease, and, if you’re doing it right, they’re the ones that’ll be there and willin’ to forgive you when all hell breaks loose. Or bail you out of jail, tell you everything yer doin’ wrong. Even if you still resent the fuck out of each other.

"And then there’s the fam’ly you build. You don’t share genes with ‘em, you don’t share relatives, but that don’t matter. They’re the people that you pick up along the way. And you don’t necessarily choose ‘em at first, but you do eventually. They’re the people you want to have your back, they’re the people that you probably fucked shit up with in the first place. They’re the people that are gonna be there for you in the way that your blood kin can’t be. For normal people, that’s the wife and the kidlings and the college roommates. For you, that’s me, and Castiel, and your Bobby, and hell maybe at this point it includes the Richardson and Tran clan too. An’ Charlie.”

“I’ve met Charlie twice,” Dean says.

“Yeah, whatever.” Benny goes quiet for a second. “Point is, the blood kin ain’ the ones you stay with forever, you know?”

“What, so now Cas is my metaphorical wife?”

“Is it really that metaphorical?”

“Go fuck yourself, Benny.”

“Just saying that— I wasn’ lying, or exaggerating, when I told Sif and Freyja about how much you’d do for him.” Benny shakes his head. “And I’ll be honest with ya, brother— I don’t want to watch you mourn him for the rest of your natural life. You’ll hate us for keeping you from him, and also, you guys aren't wrong. He's going to need some help up there, someone has to watch his back. And then—”

“You don’t think I’ll end up hating him?”

He gets a smile. “If I told you what I really thought you feel, you’d punch me in the face.”

Dean tries to smile back. “Damn straight.”

“Really not.”

“You suck.”

“Comes with the job. Also, I think that was a real smile.”

Dean is too tired for this. “You aren’t mad?” he asks.

“I’m gonna miss you like fuck,” Benny says. “But nah. You gotta— you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Dean finally manages to make it over to the pantry. There’s scotch in there, aged at least fifty years, and it’s good enough as anything. He uncorks it. “You don’t want to sneak back up there in my arm? Might be your only chance not to get sent back down.”

Benny takes the bottle away from him. “The thought had occurred.” He then proceeds to hold the bottle out of Dean’s reach, which, fuck him. “But nah. I’m gonna get mine someday. I’ll look for Andrea down there. Maybe mend a fence or two.”

“Yeah.”

They’ll see each other tomorrow, of course, and the day after, but not like this. There’s no guarantee that— they’ll have time to talk, in private, and Dean figures this is his chance. He has to take a deep breath. “Can I ask you a favor?”

The look he gets is heartbreaking in its sincerity, and he has to turn back to the stove.

“Of course.”

“This is too much, but I— there’ll be no looking down on earth from heaven anymore, and I— can you watch over Sammy, for me? His family? I don’t want him raising his kids to hunt, but if, as much as you can—” because there will always, always be things after them for what they’ve done, but Benny will understand. “Make sure he doesn’t actually name his kid Bobby John.” He tries to pass it off as a joke.

“A monster playing guardian angel to a legacy of Winchesters.” There are no fangs in the smile. “Seems fitting.”

Dean looks away again. “My dad is probably rolling in—” well, if he had a grave, John would be rolling in it. As it is… maybe Dean will find him in heaven, and won’t there be some fun stories to tell.

“Yeah, so would my maker.”

The clock ticks. Dean can't help but feel like it's a countdown.

“I’m gonna miss you, brother,” Benny says quietly. “I know I already said it, but—”

Dean turns. Wraps one arm around the vampire, as they had when they first made it home.

“Keep your nose clean,” he says. “Take care, you hear me?”

Castiel is sitting by the sewage pond, but in the dark, it looks enough like a lake to fit the image. Dean would title this photo Angel Recharges Lunar Batteries. Even more so when their eyes meet.

Because Cas’s glow.

“I don’t like this,” he says. “I know I can’t talk you out of it, but know that I don’t like this.”

“I know.” Dean shakes his head. Admires the pattern of moonlight on the water— and wonders if you get to see things like that in Heaven. If they’re more or less spectacular. If they’re real. “But you’ve given up everything for us.”

He gets flat disbelief. “Is that what this is? Making yourself feel better? You don’t owe—”

Dean snorts. “You’re an idiot,” he says. “And anyway— settled life, without Heaven and Hell, I don’t know how to live without it.”

“You could learn.”

“Cas,” Dean says, very quietly. “Castiel.”

“Yes?”

Dean kisses him. He was going for mature and ‘I know what I’m doing’, but it doesn’t stay like that. There’s too little time, and Dean figures that he gets one stupid romance novel moment in his freaking horror-mystery-soap opera life.

And if that moment involves sodomy with an angel, well, sign him up for a flat in Gomorrah.

Maybe he’ll think about the irony later, when Castiel isn’t pushing him backwards into a tree, when the rough bark on oversensitive skin doesn’t feel so, so good.

Cas drags his lips downward, and Den’s head hits wood as he offers his throat— pleaseCasplease— and the angel obliges, seeming to dedicate an unnecessary amount of time to each spot. Tracing every line, mark with his tongue. And by the time he reaches collarbone, the Hunter’s hands are tangled in trench coat. Hips pushing up, desperate, but Cas holds them in place with one hand.

“I wanted—” Dean gasps, trying to find words. “So much— you’d— and I—”

“When I wanted you to run in Purgatory, and you wanted to shove me up against the nearest tree, Benny and Leviathan be damned?”

And then get into the hospital scrubs and turn Cas into a writhing mess, much as he’s currently doing to Dean, until he promised to stay, until he promised.

“Yeah,” he manages. “And then when you appeared in my bathroom, and when—” his list goes incoherent because Cas has gotten tired of his throat. There’s too much behind this, too many emotions and desperation and circumstance and maybe they should reason this out but goddammit, it’s hard to remember why that matters.

“Off,” Cas says, flicking the shirt. The or I’ll tear it off is implied, and Dean is half tempted to go for it (will he need many clothes in Heaven?) and also there is no sexy way to remove a t-shirt. But thirty years of budgeting kicks in, and it doesn’t turn out to matter, because by the time it comes over his head Cas is on his knees and yanking down his pants and—

“Cas. Cas, no.”

Blue eyes meet his.

“I can’t—” But Cas knows, because this has probably been on the list of Dean Winchester’s Sins. And Dean can’t explain, explain why he’d never want Cas to be reduced, somehow, to lower himself— because Dean doesn’t like, hate himself, or anything, because he was fifteen and had to take care of Sammy and sometimes shit just happens. But he’s never been able to give or receive blowjobs since, there’s always been too many connotations, and Cas should know that, and explaining would probably kill the mood— but he’s distracted by the open-mouthed kissed on the inside of his thigh, a tongue tracing slowly up his body.

Jesus Christ.

Cas is kissing and licking promises into his naval, his nipples, moving back up— and dammit he’d just gotten to the collarbone, it shouldn’t be that sensitive— before slipping a finger into Dean’s mouth. And that shouldn’t be so good either. Should have Dean grinding his hips forward, desperate for something to rub against. Tongue curling up and around it as the angel adds another finger, and another, whispering in his ear exactly what he’s going to do with them afterward.

“You’re so..." Cas trails off. His fingers don’t make a sound as they pull away, drop until they’re just shadows in the dark. Outlined with moonlight. “Dean.”

His head hits the tree again. “Yeah?”

But he doesn’t get an answer, just soft hands pulling his jeans the rest of the way off his ankles. Then tracing slowly up his leg, up all the veins, the muscles, before circling his entrance. It takes Dean a moment to realize that those desperate groans are coming from him— “Please, Cas, please, wanted— want— so much, you look so good like this, you know that?”— and he tunes it out, manages to bite his tongue, because it’s not exactly poetry. Dean doesn't do poetry.

And then there’s a finger up his ass and he doesn’t know what the English language is anymore.

It’s not that all his worries are gone. As he tries to grind down on it, despite the much stronger hand on his stomach keeping him in place, he still knows how quickly time is slipping away. The fear is still there, hanging in the shadows. In the places that the moon and Castiel can’t reach. But he’s here, now, hips twitching, desperately trying to get Cas in a little bit deeper, and “Just do it, I can take it.”

Cas hums a little, sliding in a second finger. Which is not what Dean meant, and he knows it. He’s studying the place where they disappear with that same intensity that he looks at everything else about Dean, scissoring his fingers, and, and— Dean can’t look at this, because if he does, he might be in danger of coming all over the angel’s face.

“You’re taking this very well,” he says lowly. And Dean tries to think of a sarcastic remark, but then Cas is standing, fingers still working away, breathing into his ear. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done this.” He stretches a little farther, moves a little deeper, and Dean can’t, he’s falling apart, trying to push himself back against them, and— “How many times, Dean?”

“Wha—?”

He gets teeth in his earlobe. “How many times have you fingered yourself? How many times have you spread yourself open, imagined that I was the one doing it?”

“I— God— plead the... the...”

And then he’s empty and cold and Cas is tracing the hand that was just inside Dean down his chest. “How many times?” he asks again.

“I don’t— many. Please, Cas.”

The angel tilts his head for a moment, considering, then—

“I am going to fly to the nearest convenience store, and I’m going to grab a bottle of lube. And while I’m gone, you’re going to continue preparing yourself.”

Dean can’t do anything but groan. And it’s so very unfair that Cas still has his clothes on, which actually is probably good because if any surprised store manager saw Castiel naked Dean might have to kill them, and he sucks on his own fingers for a moment.

A show that Cas seems to like, if his widening eyes and quiet sound are anything to go by. But then, true to his word, he’s gone, and Dean’s protest that he’s man enough to take it sans lube go unheard. And it’s not like he wants to be sore tomorrow anyway, not with what they’re going to do, and he doesn’t want to think about that. So he focuses on feeling around inside himself, looking for his prostate. Pushing deeper and deeper and—

Oh.

There.

He has to bite his tongue to keep the rather embarrassing noises from coming out. His legs are weakening, and he slides halfway down the tree.

Cas is back with a rustle, bottle in hand, and—

“Did you pay for that?”

“No. They were closed. I think that we’ll make up for it by ensuring the owner’s future.”

Are we going to save the world, Dean Winchester?

Yeah.

But right now, Dean really needs to fuck Cas. And he’s not alone in that, it seems, because there’s a trench coat and a dress shirt hitting the ground, the sound of a zipper, and a quiet “Look at you, Dean.”

Dean’s only answer is to slide another few inches down. Bark probably carving his back open, but he can’t be bothered to care.

Cas kneels so that they’re at eye level. Cups one hand around the side of Dean’s face, eyes darting from there to where his fingers are still working, and then back up.

Dean grins a little, other hand flicking at the elastic of Cas’s briefs.

He’s allowed that before his mouth is claimed, invaded, and he forgets to move his hand for a moment, but then it’s being pulled out of him. Probably not sanitary, but that doesn’t keep Cas from holding it tightly in his own for a moment before he’s yanking his underwear down and leaning backwards. Pulling Dean down onto his lap. Catches his hips right above his erection, and Dean is torn between trying wriggle down onto it and is that going to fit. But then Cas looks at him again, face number is this okay? and Dean nods.

And then he’s being lowered, so ridiculously slowly, and again it’s the push-pull of ow and ohgodmore. And it hurts more than he thought he would despite all the lube. And Cas sees that on his face, because he holds him still for a moment. And then long past the time that Dean is wriggling, begging him to move.

And then he does. Cas’s fingers dig a little deeper into Dean’s sides as he lifts him up. Rises to meet him as he goes back down and—

There’s his prostate again.

“More,” Dean hisses. Leaves fingernails in the other’s shoulders. “C’mon, Cas.”

The eyes meeting his are still far too worried. Not the incoherent, lost expression that Dean’s going for. “I don’t want you to—”

“Fuck.” Dean pulls away, rocks himself up and down, and it’s an ab workout and he’s speeding up. And there, and Cas’s hands are trembling. His head is rolling slightly back and for a moment it’s all he can do to meet Dean halfway, and he isn’t sure anything was ever supposed to be like this. Romance novel moments be damned. “Harder, Cas. C’mon.”

Castiel makes a sound, something torn between a moan and a growl, and then he’s rolling Dean onto his back. Lifting his legs up over his shoulders.

Dean holds on and refuses to let go.

Sam is going to do this.

Sam is going to organize his shit, he’s going to offer his blood without bitching, he’s going to give updates on the gods and be a perfect little soldier because sacrifices, sacrifices, blah blah blah, in the interests of world peace, blah blah blah.

He’d like to say that he came to that very reasonable and mature conclusion on his own, that he didn’t have to get talked to by Benny and Amelia and then Benny and Amelia. That he isn’t taking a vampire’s advice on anything. He’d also like to be able to say that he doesn’t hate both Castiel and his brother.

“Most people at least pretend, when they get new boyfriends,” Sam mutters. “Most people would be like don’t worry, Sam, you’re still important, and then pull away slowly, you know?”

“And I’m cutting you off.” Amelia reaches forward and tugs the beer out of his hand. “Christ. Winchesters. There are better ways to deal with—”

“You aren’t exactly a sober student, either,” Sam says, “so don’t go around preaching.”

She frowns at him, but doesn’t say anything.

There’s a brief pause.

“Wait, are Castiel and Dean actually—”

Sam has been thinking about how it’s unfortunate that his dad had taught him not to hit girls unless they were possessed and-or vampires and-or sirens and-or Rugarus and-or whatever fucking else, because he’s pretty sure he can wrestle the cheap beer away from her, when he manages to process the fragment of a question. “What?”

“Dean and Castiel.” Amelia looks at Benny, seeming to sense that she’s not going to get a good answer from the younger Winchester. They’re alone on the sofa, sitting in a rather uninspired line. Don is at the table, but Sam realizes he must have been listening most of the time because he suddenly appears in one of the chairs. Or maybe he was always there, and Sam thought he was a cushion.

Don would make a better cushion than person.

In the interests of world peace, Sam doesn’t say that. He also doesn’t say that because he knows it’s not true and he knows Don is an upstanding citizen and everything else.

He hates his life.

He hates it all so much.

“They’re not what?” Benny seems far too amused for the situation. He’s breaking around the edges, it’s obvious, but Sam doesn’t comment. “I mean, if they’re not screwing each other’s brains out at this very moment, I’d sure hope they were getting there.”

Sam raises a hand, as though he can block the mental images. “Don’t.” Even though he’s seen Dean in more compromising positions than he can count. Dean’s socks never seemed to stay on the door handle.

Amelia starts to awkwardly laugh, then stops. “Wait, are you serious?” She looks from face to face.

“Lady,” Benny drawls, “did you miss that entire thing?”

Don looks at Amelia.

Amelia looks at Don.

“I told you,” she says. “I told you.”

“I guess I sort of thought they were really good friends.” Don seems interested in the ceiling.

And despite the fact that Sam hates his brother with the passion of a thousand hells, he feels the need to interject here, because he always thought of the Richardsons as being reasonably intelligent people. “That’s not a problem, right?”

There’s a brief silence. “Why would that be a problem?” Amelia asks.

“Well with you being…” he’d heard Don that day, all that Dean Winchester is straight talk, whatever, and he knows they’re not supposed to know he was listening, and he wants Dean to stay, he wants Dean to stay, this cannot be happening to him. “…from Texas.”

They both stare at him awhile longer.

There’s been a lot of awkward staring.

“You know,” Benny says, “this might not be the time for gossip.” (Sam is less sure he can get cheap beer away from him without breaking something, but he could totally take Benny, if he was a little steadier right now.) “Never mind, this is fantastic. Take our minds off ev’rything. Dean and Cas have had some weird deep thing going since long a’fore I came into the picture. Kept trying to leave them alone in Purg’tory to fuck it out but—”

“Benny.” Sam raises a hand. His hands are strange looking. He isn’t sure why, but they seem— elongated. It’s so weird, the way his fingers move. “Stop.”

Benny stops.

They sit in another stint of awkward silence.

Sam wants to kill everybody in this room.

If it would be enough for Dean to stay.

Fuck.

He should probably talk to his brother, let him know that they’ve just outed them to Don and Amelia and by the way Sam hates him, and Sam never wants to talk to him again, except Sam really wants to talk to him again tomorrow and the day after and maybe not every day for the rest of his life but at least once a week or twice a week or so. He wants Dean to have a life somewhere. He wants Dean to grow old and be happy. He wants to pretend groan as Dean and Cas make eyes at each other, wants to go to their place on weekends and laugh at Cas's inevitable exploits. He wants to come back to the motel room to see a blue tie on the door handle. He wants there to be a child, a few years down the line, who goes to R rated movies with Uncle Dean even when Sam says no. He wants a life, and they'll never get one, no happy endings, blah, he knows, he knows that this is the only way, Dean’s choice, staying with Castiel, blah blah blah blah blah he’s tired of it, he’s so, so tired. He just wants to get a freaking reward or something. An endgame. A merit badge. Hey dude, you’ve saved a lot of people, stopped the apocalypse, even, so how about we don’t take away your brother. Your brother does good every day of his life, so why don't we let him stay.

Yeah, that’s going to work.

He should tell Dean that he doesn’t actually hate him. After all, Dean had let him jump into the pit, the least Sam can do is let him stay in Heaven with his angel forever, right? And that’s so not fair. Sam doesn’t want to spend eternity in Heaven with an angel, profound bond or no, but it sure beats—

FirefrieburningLuciferlaughinginhisearLucifer’shandsonhim, ‘lookathim,Michael,canwemakehimdance?’

He feels the strong urge to vomit, then. He doesn't.

He does see Inanna. She kneels next to a statue— a deer, he realizes after a moment, about two and a half feet tall. When she touches it, drags one finger lightly around the edge, light green leaves sprout. Multiply, waving around the deer’s feet, growing up the legs.

Sam shakes his head, tries to snap out of it. “In case anyone cares, Inanna is currently making Artemisia grow on Artemis’s grave.”

“Why?” Don asks.

“Because Artemis would think it was funny,” Claire says. She announces her entrance by knocking the samurai sword off the shelf, although she very neatly dodges it. It isn’t enough to save the floor, though. “Right?”

Sam closes his eyes. Sees another flash of leaves and dark hair, but he doesn’t want to get close enough to listen. “Sure.”

“Yeah, well, fuck her.” Claire hesitates. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The grave.”

Dean isn’t going to have a grave. Dean isn’t going to have— he’s just going to be gone, like that year in Purgatory. Sam needs— something to burn, something to bury. Maybe he can take his coat, or his shoes. Maybe he can build a monument to the skies— Dean Winchester was here, motherfuckers, Dean Winchester was here and don’t you dare forget it, any of you.

He presses his thumbs against his eyelids. It’s so light around them, circles, circles in the sky. He wants to be unconscious for a while.

“Sam?”

“Leave it, Claire,” Amelia says quietly.

Sam can hear Claire knock something over as she leaves. He can’t even take a minute to think about, to realize her pain, not right now. But it’s okay, because “I don’t blame Claire,” Inanna says. “I’m sorry, I’m— I’m so sorry.” She rests her forehead against the flank. Words almost too quiet for Sam to hear, and he wills himself closer. “She’ll be safe, you know. With the angel. It’s going to end soon, and I— she’ll be safer with them.”

When Sam took Physics 101, his teacher had gone on and on about how diamonds were thick enough that they trapped light, making them sparkle more than anything else. This fixation had given spark to several rumors, and when she came to proctor midterms with a ring and a ridiculously generous grade curve, Sam won fifty bucks. He remembered how she had made a point of standing in the light, her happiness and her ring refracting it all over the room.

It had been hard to look at.

He wonders if Inanna’s tears are diamonds. It would be fitting, he thinks, but he isn’t sure how. Just knows that the statue— simple, white, looks like it could have cost a hundred dollars at any roadside place— is lit from the bottom up. Knows that the light in its eyes makes it look alive.

But when the goddess stands, it’s just a statue again.

“We’re gonna kick ass, Art,” she says, and Sam doesn’t want to see any more of this. Doesn’t want to hear any more of this. He’s done, he’s fucking done, and so he opens his eyes.

What he sees there is the batcave, messied by its constant houseguests, and sympathetic, tearful faces. Their tears are not birds or diamonds. They’re mortal, plain and fucking mortal, and that’s all they’re ever going to be.

He’s going to drag Inanna down here with them. He’s going to make Odin get a job at the post office and Loki is— fuck, Loki will probably end up as the head of the CIA or something. He’s going to unleash an army of sociopaths in suits, but it doesn’t fucking matter. They’ll be human, and it won’t be their problem anymore.

Won’t be Sam’s problem.

He jams his eyes back shut, tries to block everything out, because he doesn’t want his world anymore. What he gets is Hades pouring over a binder with Enlil, crossing things out, highlighting and bickering.

“I’ll keep Hell,” Hades says, “but I maintain that because of that I should still have dominion over all of Latin America.”

“Isn’t that the same difference?” Enlil asks.

“That joke was never funny. Especially after I heard it from Crowley about thirty times.”

“You’re sure Crowley will stay neutral?”

The God of the Dead trades his yellow highlighter for a green one. “If by neutral, you mean courting favors from all sides? Yes, I’m sure he’ll continue doing that.”

“Sam?”

“Hades and Enlil have reached an agreement,” he mutters. “Now that I’ve told you that, can I have my beer back?”

“Nope,” Amelia says. “I drank it.”

There isn’t enough beer in the world to be able to deal with this. He wants to be able to close his eyes without Joshua blasting images into his head. He wants to close his eyes and have Dean and Castiel there when he opens them. No such luck.

He has no luck ever.

It’s not.

Fucking.

Fair.

He just wanted a life. Why is that too much to ask for?

He hates all of them, from Dean to his mother for making the deal and then dying before he could come to know her, he hates God for fucking with them so much. He hates that he could put in all that work, could go to Stanford, but there is no freedom, there is no fucking American Dream. He can’t pull himself out by the bootstraps because his boots are fucking on fire, and that analogy doesn’t make sense, and it’s not about the American Dream, except when it is. Inanna is screaming in his head again, and he just wants her to shut up. But she won’t. She just flings both hands up in the air.

“What do you want me to do, Enki?”

“Dividing weakens us—”

“No shit! But if we put all our energy on earth, and they attack heaven, or if we put all our energy in heaven, and they—”

“But what if we guess wrong?”

“What if they guess wrong? I’m not stupid, I’m not trusting Ningal—”

“Oh really? Because—”

She snorts. Turns away. Behind her, a city is spread out— Sam isn’t sure which one. “I’ve got the goddess of wisdom telling me one thing, and Grima fucking Wormtongue whispering in my ear. Your Galla demons keep coming back with different things, and we can only assume that Zeus and Enlil don’t know what we’re going to do because we don’t even know. We need heaven and earth, and in the meantime, we don’t know how much information Castiel has!”

There’s a knock on the door, and the gods’ eyes meet. Enki nods, and Inanna shouts that the person can come in.

“Freyja, hey. We were just discussing dividing our assets. Thoughts?”

“Well, I’d count on Zeus, Odin and Enlil having this same argument over there.” She shrugs.

“Yeah, they have too many kings. They’re going to have a breakdown.” Enki shifts a little bit, but doesn’t change his otherwise rigid stance. “Really, I don’t know how gods have run anything.”

“We haven’t. We’ve been snoozing for a couple thousand years. We’re fighting for a world we don’t fully understand yet and—” Inanna stops, shakes her head. “You’re sure there’s been no word?”

Enki blinks. His eyes flicker for a moment, rainbow like the Galla. “On who?”

“Castiel.”

Freyja comes the rest of the way into the room, sits herself down at the table. Sam wonders how many places like this they have— nondescript rooms, office spaces that don’t exist on a map, hotels full of random extras that just wanted a vacation. “What about Castiel?”

“They’re spying on us, somehow. He appeared at just the right moment to rescue Claire.”

“Maybe she was praying.”

“Maybe.” Inanna shakes her head. “Still, they’re not as distracted as we need them to be. I don’t know how long the Mes held them out.”

Identical sighs come from the other two. “Despite what the vampire told us,” Freyja says hesitantly, “I don’t think he is worthy of much concern. Once we take Heaven—”

“Castiel has taken Heaven!” Inanna shouts, losing all facade of calm. “Castiel led and won a civil war, committed fucking genocide against his own kind, he teamed with Crowley, King of Hell, backstabbed him, he’s come back from the dead how many times now, and you don’t think we should be fucking concerned?”

“Inanna!” Enki stands, looks to her and then to Freyja.

“I know.” She nods. “Sorry. Lost my temper for a second.”

She sits. “It’ll be fine,” she says. “We’ll win, and then with all the power of Heaven, we’ll find him and the Winchesters and deal with that loose end.”

Enki nods. “Very good, ma’am.”

“Go fuck yourself, whore. Freyja, was there a reason you had to come in?”

The goddess hesitates a moment, then, “Isis has been captured.”

Inanna stands up again. “Fuck. When?”

“Around eight-thirty,” Benny says. “I’ll wake you up, or we can set the angel-alarm. We, um. We might want to have a sleep-in, but…”

“Yeah, we should move fast.”

They’re talking about things Sam doesn’t care about— they’ll tell him, he assumes, if it’s important, so he pulls away.

“Tell Athena I want to see her,” Inanna calls at Freyja’s retreating form. When the door closes, she turns back to Enki. “I want you to help lead the team in Heaven.”

He nods, once.

“And—” she checks the room, then, so quietly that Sam can barely hear, “make sure Ningal doesn’t come back. I don’t care how you do it, I don’t care if we’re losing, and I don’t care if it has to be in front of everyone, alright?”

Enki raises his hand a few inches off the table, as though he’s considering touching her arm, but then reconsiders. “Have you thought this through?”

“I have.”

“And Nanna?”

“Please, he’s worthless without her.”

“Alright.” Enki nods, makes for the door. “Should I assume that we’ll be discussing tactics with Athena and Thor in the conference room?”

“Make it the library.” She turns back towards the window. Crosses her arms. “I might need some handy projectiles.”

Demon blood, Naomi blood, it’s like a sick little shopping list.

“Makes me wish Ruby was still kicking,” Dean mutters. “She was free with her blood. Or Meg.”

“We could rescue Meg from Crowley,” Cas suggests. “Although that might—”

“How do you know Crowley has Meg?”

“When the reigns passed from Dick—”

“Wait.” Don holds up both hands in a ‘stop’ gesture. “This is Meg from Scarec— that tried to kill you in Chicago and then possessed Sam and—”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Same Meg. Long story.”

“Enemy of an enemy. Also, she and Cas are pals.”

Cas looks decidedly unamused at the pettiness.

“We’ll find another demon,” Dean says. “Can’t be hard to nab some of their—” he stops. Looks at Sam. Realizes. “I think me and Claire should take this one.”

A what shoots around the table, ending with Claire herself. They should just get one of those trackers like they had at the presidential debates to measure public opinion—it’d be faster than having to listen to all the yelling and objections. Also, Dean has a headache, and the marble pattern-not-pattern on the table isn’t helping.

“Just being practical,” he says. “Claire can spot and nab ‘em from a distance. Sam, I’m sorry, but you’re out of the question, a loner won’t go within thirty miles of Cas and we need a loner, and Garth is tracking the cell phones of every hunter, which is information that I don’t think we want in demon hands.”

Don half stands.

“And Claire could kick the crap out of you,” Dean finishes. “Sorry, man.”

Claire frowns. “Don’t I get a say?”

Dean waits.

“I’m in. Let’s go.” She starts to stand, but Amelia catches her arm.

“Shouldn’t you two take some other car?”

Abandoning his baby brings up painful, Leviathan-esque memories of ponies and a trench coat being moved from trunk to trunk. Dean vetoes that out of hand. And then looks at Cas, waiting, wondering if there would be an objection, but the angel just nods.

“You know how to reach me,” he says.

“One demon.” Dean adjusts Ruby’s knife. Between that and Claire’s bow— “Back in an hour.”

“You know that visual irony thing that happens on TV all the time?” Claire asks.

“Yeah. Every Whedon thing ever,” Dean says. “Why?”

“Well, if I was editing this, I’d jump right from you being cocky to now.”

Dean wants to point out that Claire was the one who cited the compound as a site of high demonic activity. And if they had just broken in, like Dean wanted, maybe they would be sneaking around inside right now, collecting the required amount of blood. And not tied to chairs. But no, no, they had to stay away and stick to the plan of find-the-loners, killing the element of surprise. Or something. It seemed that demons had invested in panic buttons.

“Did you see where they put our weapons?”

Well, he’s not totally useless. “Room next to us.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Both have spent enough time in trouble that neither is too unnerved— although this would be a freaking sad ending. Not fighting to close Heaven, not dying in Heaven, but getting their throats slit while trying to grab some demon blood.

That Sam used to find so easily.

Yeah.

Lovely.

Claire cranes her neck around to study the lock on her chains. “Can you pick that?”

Dean misses good, old fashioned ropes. “Soon as we get out of here,” he says, “I’ll learn to pick a lock without looking and without hands.” Then he remembers that if all goes according to plan, he won’t have time, in a week he won’t even be on earth, and, oh, Christ. He’s not wild about the world, but he isn’t as eager to leave it as he pretends, because Heaven hadn’t been so much fun last time it was there (Sam’s heaven was abandoning him, his heaven was—) but the last thing he wants is to remind Claire that sometime soon, even more people will be leaving her, so he tries to cover. “So when do you think we should start praying for Cas?”

But that’s the wrong thing to say too, because her face goes hard. Dean glances from her to the small cement walls of their room, wondering if Cas could blast through them.

The walls are covered in sigils. He’s pretty sure those are the ones to keep occupied vessels out.

So maybe not.

“I don’t pray,” Claire says. Then, at his look— “I swore off… when my dad came back, for that one night, he didn’t say Grace. And I didn’t understand why. And then— all the stuff with angels happened, and I believed more than ever. Castiel was in my head, he was me, fighting demons. Fighting Hell. And so I started praying harder than ever, believed more than ever—” she stops. “And then I felt him die. All those times he died, I felt it.”

Dean can empathize.

He’d felt it, too.

Although he had the visuals to go along with.

“Did you know when he came back, too?’’

“Yeah.” She hesitates. “But they stopped answering. They never brought my dad back. And then I saw him two and a half years ago, on TV, as God— gave the Our Father a whole new connotation, by the way—” (And Dean cracks a smile, trying really hard not to be uncomfortable thinking about thoroughly he’d been fucked by that same body,) “—and killing that priest and stuff. And I realized.” The words are spilling out, faster and faster, and Dean wonders how long she’s been thinking about this. Holding it in. Wonders what’s really going on in Claire Novak’s head. “I realized that… people were changing religions some. There are still some Castiel cults out there. And people were changing to find Churches they agreed with. And I’d never considered that before. I know it’s common, but I sort of realized all at once— people change churches depending on what they believe. We go to Church so that they’ll tell us what we want to hear, and if we don’t like it, we go listen to someone else. And I was an angsty fifteen year old girl who felt lied to, because Castiel had just died again, and I decided that I was done praying, done with religion in general because I’d known that there were some things that weren’t accurate, you know, that the Church said, but then I realized that it’s all just straight-up lies. That if Castiel was God, and if Castiel was dead— there was nobody. And then I saw the faces of the demons that killed Lily’s parents. And…”

There’s a noise outside the door, and they both look. But it doesn’t open, and there’s no air offered. So Dean asks a question, because, what the hell.

“So why’d you run off with Artemis?”

“Because I found a god that cared. I needed to believe in something.” She’s studying her fingernails now, very closely. “And Artemis didn’t— she changed her mind sometimes, but she never sugar coated, she never lied.”

Huh.

Dean’s tempted to ask what she’ll do if they win— keep hunting, go back to her mom and her life, wants to say that they’ll try and save Lily if they can, but he doesn’t, because she’s just lost everything and Dean knows how that feels. Knows that empty promises won’t make anything better, knows that the future is more terrifying than the past. The present.

That there is nothing beyond the moment.

Also, the pre-death share-all is over, because the door is opening now, for real.

“Oh, excellent, my squirrel trap is working.”

Fuck.

Dean had really not bargained on running into Crowley in Kansas City. What the hell is Crowley doing in Kansas City?

“Little bit,” he says, straining again at his chains. If he cracks his thumb back, he might be able to get it out, but there’s no way he’s fighting his way out of here with a broken thumb, especially since their weapons are the next room over—

Yeah, they’re boned. He looks at Claire, but she doesn’t look back. Her braid is starting to unravel slightly, as though responding to the low humming that entered the room with the demon.

Crowley pulls up another chair and straddles it. “I was hoping for Moose,” he says, “but you’ll do. I have a few questions for you… numskulls.”

Well, that explains the not-dead bit.

“As long as I get to be conscious,” says Claire suddenly.

The other two look at her, and then Crowley looks back at Dean. He taps his head, raises his eyebrow in a question. Is she okay in there?

“Yes,” says Claire.

“What?”

Dean looks back at her, wondering if there’s a Galla demon in the room or something. Or if she’s finally cracking, because— she looks at him, exasperated, and there’s an almost Cas-like expression on her face that—

Oh.

Vessel can’t fly through the walls.

Dean isn’t sure if there’s anything that can keep out waves-of-celestial-intent, though. Not with all the cracks.

The angel raises Claire’s eyebrow, and then turns back to Crowley. Once again, they lose any surprise advantage when the king of Hell gets to his feet, mouth half opening. Dean wonders what all the ‘real faces’ are that Cas and Crowley can see, how they can recognize each other in any vessel. But Crowley is recovering quickly— still standing, but relaxed. More with the contrapposto… and Dean has been researching gods way too much lately if he’s started to think in art history terms. Their statues aren’t at all accurate anyway.

“Your other body was more my type,” Crowley says. “Although you might be more Dean’s, now.” He winks, and Dean doesn’t like his expression, although that’s not news.

Cas must not like it either, because he— she— easily pulls her hands out of the chains. Stands.

Crowley’s blade appears in his hand.

“Good thing I never held with all that don’t-hit-girls gender stereotyping,” he says.

And then he moves forward.

Castiel dives out of the way, her shoulder hitting the ground as she rolls. Gets to her feet behind the demon, and then Dean’s chains are falling as well.

“Knife,” Cas says, in a voice that isn’t Claire’s.

And then Dean is running for the door. Room on the left, room on the left, don’t be locked— but fortunately for him it’s not locked because there is still a man in there writing something down and that’s fine Dean can take him out with no weapons easy. He wishes for his makeshift blade from Purgatory, Inanna's sword, his gun, his anything. And then he doesn’t have time because he’s got his fist in the demon man’s face, and they grapple for a second. But it’s easy, easy.

Still got it.

Crowley hates fighting. Dean’s managed to work that bit out in their previous encounters. He plays the politics. Gets friends that can do his messy work for him.

Dean figures that those friends will be there shorty.

Make that now.

He grabs Ruby’s knife in time to stab the one that has just reached him, but it’s a few more moments of grappling before he can get Claire’s bow and quiver as well. A few more punches, and one gets a good hit to his jaw before he figures out how to get said weapons on his back, and he’s fucking Legolas, although the effect is slightly ruined by the fact that he has no idea how to shoot. It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s back in the other room.

Like he’d thought, Crowley is standing off to the side, watching Cas take on three demons like it’s a Battle Royale that he’s placed a bet on— a bet so small that he barely cares. And Dean just has time to appreciate a rather fantastic kung-fu move that takes one demon off its feet while its friend gets the smiting-forehead-treatment before they’re on him. And he turns.

Tosses an empty vial to Cas, and then it’s back in the flow. He’d told himself, during his varying R&Rs that he didn’t miss this, but maybe— well, as long as he’s holding his own, he isn’t putting up too much of a fuss. This, he can do. He can punch and stab and swing. He can take an arrow and jam it into an arm, slowing the demon woman down enough that he can get the knife in her throat. He can watch Crowley out of the corner of his eye, wait for the other to make a move. He can take a fist to the head and come up smiling, spitting blood into a set of black eyes, and he is good.

It takes him a few moments to work his way over to Cas. Cas, who’s burning out demons as fast as she can get Claire’s hand on their foreheads. And Dean is absolutely sick for taking a moment to appreciate that yes, he can still definitely be attracted to women, but he’ll continue this crisis later, when he’s done slashing and shoving demons (possessed people, people that had lives before, people that had families, but they’re probably dead already,) into the angel’s welcoming arms.

And then there are nothing but empty meatsuits in between them and Crowley.

And silence, but only for a moment.

“So.” Crowley looks down at the vial which, at some point during the fight, Cas has managed to fill with blood. The blood that’s all over Claire’s jeans and Dean’s shoes and not on Crowley’s still-perfect suit.

That should not be as annoying as it is.

“Word on the street is that you’re looking for the angel tablet.” Pause. “At least, that’s what I’m told the word on the street is. I’m not a fan of streets myself. Filthy places.” He brushes off his shirtfront, as if for emphasis.

They don’t say anything. Just watch as the King of Hell moves closer, idly twirling his blade between his fingers .

Cas looks at Dean. Dean nods.

And they move.

Crowley moves faster.

He’s locked down by his own wards, but he’s still far faster than he should be. Maybe there’s benefits to being the king, maybe his literary agent was a ninja in his spare time, because a moment later they’re all standing still again. Just shifting places. Red Rover, Red Rover, send Crowley right over.

“Please. Let’s not get violent.” They’re being eyed as though they’re a particularly fascinating puzzle. “The rest of my loyal followers will be here shortly, of course,” Crowley says. “Perhaps they’ll do something about the smell while they’re here.”

Claire’s face is flat, murderous, rigid, Cas, and it looks— slightly wrong. But Dean can’t look much different, because Crowley is smiling a little.

“Please invite me to the wedding, squirrel,” he says. “I’d be ever so offended if I was left off the guest list.”

Cas kneels, presses the second vial to the neck of the demon at her feet.

Dean and Crowley watch, equally confused. Equally slow.

And then in one abrupt movement, she flings it at the sigil on the wall. Deadly accuracy, and it breaks, smearing the sigils with dark blood. And then her hand is on Dean’s arm, and they’re standing in an office. Dean isn’t sure where— it’s empty, just a computer and a whiteboard and a photo in an ‘I love you, Mommy’ frame. In half a second, Cas has taken an Expo marker and is drawing a quick line of symbols on the board.

Dean sits down on the desk. Takes a deep breath, does a quick inventory of his injuries. There are no vitals punctured, so he counts it a win. Although the fact that he isn’t sure how much longer he can breathe might be a sign of a broken rib, which is a bit less of a win.

“Where are we?”

“An old Roman Enterprises building.” Cas turns. “Its demon warning system is still relatively intact, and it had a whiteboard. We’ll be safe, for a few minutes.”

“Oh.”

Cool.

He’s pretty sure he’s about to collapse.

But then Cas is in front of him. Her hands too small as she pushes up his t-shirt. But then she places one glowing palm against his chest, and he sighs in some relief as a rib pops back into place.

Their eyes meet.

She’s not a kid, she’s not eighteen. She’s Cas, the same Cas as a few hours ago, and Dean is definitely, definitely screwed if he’s attracted to her now. Impossibly screwed. But it doesn’t matter, because they have one blood down, and so he should be dead in a few days anyway.

Him and Cas both.

“Where’s your other body?” he asks, having to look away because their faces are too close and Claire is still in there, dammit. Even if he can’t see her.

“Back at the Men of Letters building.”

“Is it— he— still going to be—” Dean gestures at his chest. Will you be able to go back?

Cas’s hand is so soft as she touches his face, sealing his lip back together with her fingers, closing the cut by his ear. “Sam and Amelia should be able to keep it going, yes.”

Dean wonders if they’ve been alternating CPR shifts for the last half hour. But then again, Jimmy had only been brain-dead, after Van Nuys. Maybe he doesn’t need that much help.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Although in all fairness, it wasn’t entirely my fault.”

A smile flickers around her mouth.

And then, after a brief moment of hesitation, she presses Claire’s lips against his forehead. Then another pause before she drops down to his lips.

Dean’s hands go to her shoulders. “Claire?” he asks, because, morals and shit.

“Asleep.” Cas hesitates a second, then presses her hands to his shoulders and jumps. Balancing Claire's knees on the desk as she deepens the kiss. “She just screamed, and I quote, um, ‘oh-em-eff-gee block me and then make out already, this sexual tension is ridiculous.’”

Dean has a sense that other things were said, but he doesn’t question it because he’s too distracted with the warm body pressed up against his, Cas and her Cas-ness, and letting her into his mouth. Letting her explore him with a new tongue, a new set of hormones, and an age of memories.

“We should go back,” she says after a moment. Lips barely brushing his ear.

“Yeah.”

But she still hesitates a moment before sliding off him.

“I’m, um, going to unblock Claire in about five seconds,” she says.

“Oh.” Pause. “So I shouldn’t tell you what I’m going to do once you’re back in your own body?”

He gets a grin and a head-tilt. “Probably not be wise.”

“Damn.”

Then she’s reaching out again and foreheading him to another random field, and then another, and then they’re outside the Hagia Sophia, and “I’m pretty sure they’re off our tail now, Cas.”

And then they’re in a desert, and on an island, and he’s pretty sure the angel is just trying to make him uncomfortable before they’re back in front of the batcave door.

And even though he knows that it’s fine, Dean’s stomach still squeezes when he sees Jimmy Novak’s empty body lying on the hard floor. Benny and Amelia are on either side of him. Benny’s hand is on his pulse, and Deans starts to be worried, when he realizes that Amelia has just started chest compressions.

“There you are,” Benny says. “Hurry it up, will you? My wrists are cramping up.”

Cas just stares at the vacant body. And then in one smooth leap, she’s gone over the railing. Lands in an Iron Man pose.

And as she walks, all the Cas seems to melt out of her. Her posture changes, shoulders slump, gait alters just a little.

Claire Novak kneels next to the body of her father.

Dean watches from above as Castiel gives her this moment, this closure. Lets her pick up the hand that used to be Jimmy’s and hold it to her face. Whisper something that he will never hear. Lets her sit just for a moment, and look.

Lets her say goodbye.

And then she nods a little, and there’s another hum in the room. And then it’s Castiel’s eyes that open, Castiel’s back that curls up as he sits, he sits, and his eyes that hold Dean’s for a moment before he turns back to Claire.

She hugs him tightly for a moment or two before slowly leaving the room.

It’s at that point that Dean decides it’s safe to descend.

He finds Dean in the kitchen, flipping pancakes.

“Having fun?”

“Loads. Want one with a smiley face in it? I know how to do smiley face pancakes, you know.”

He’s too tired for this. He also knows that Dean hadn’t known how to make smiley face pancakes when Sam was growing up, which means that he probably learned for Ben. And he knows that he promised never to mention them again, that failed experiment in normal life, but he couldn’t stop hoping— even though he knew, logically, that Dean was never going to have been able to move beyond Castiel, even if he knew that Dean was never going to move beyond hunting… his brother had always been good with kids.

And Sam might have had some sort of fantasy about being an uncle, even an adopted one, of watching Dean and—

But that’s not going to happen.

Christ.

“I’m not okay with this,” he says, because it’s always great to go straight to the point. He thinks so, anyway, although his head is hurting and some crucial information might be lost. “I hate this.”

Dean turns off the burner. Faces him.

“So do I,” he says.

And Sam knows it’s true. Can see the sincerity bordering on tears in his brother’s eyes. Knows that—

“It’s killing me,” he says. “That this is the— that this is the choice. But I— I’m not letting those sons of bitches get this earth.”

“And you’re not leaving Cas.” Elephant in the room, might as well give it a pat and ask its name.

Dean looks down. “No,” he says quietly. “I’m not leaving Cas.”

“Yeah.” Sam knows that. Sam had known that as he fought to keep the angel’s vessel breathing, as he had had, somewhere in his mind, the thought that if Cas couldn’t get back into him, maybe he’d be stuck, maybe he’d die, maybe he wouldn’t be able to take Dean into Heaven and away from Sam. But Cas is family, too, and Sam wouldn't do that to him. “So, how was it seeing Cas as Claire?”

“Cas wasn’t Claire. Cas was Cas.”

Yeah, smooth diversion, and probably the right answer from Dean. But—

“C’mon, man, it wasn’t even a little weird?”

“Course it was a little weird. But it was still Cas.”

The spatula is twirling into very interesting patterns. Sam watches it for a moment, mesmerized, before his brother goes back to the stove.

“You didn’t come in to ask me about how I felt about Cas switching vessels.”

“Nah.” Sam looks at the floor. “I just— I don’t like this, and I’m angry, and I’m angry at you, and the gods, and everything, and I think I might hate you a little bit.”

Dean nods. Nods like he knows, and fuck, probably thinks he deserves it. Thinks he deserves his brother shitting on him for making decisions. Sam left. Sam has left Dean so many times, and still— Christ, he’d probably been expecting even more verbal abuse. Maybe even a few punches.

“But I also know that we don’t have any other options.” He’d practiced this in his head, but it sounds weird. “I know that— I don’t understand what’s going on between you and Cas—” and he doesn’t want to understand, at all, “—but I know that…” he gestures, hoping that it conveys some sort of meaning. Galla demon he is not. “I don’t want… you know I don’t really hate you. I know I don’t really hate you. I hate—”

“That these are our lives.” Dean nods a couple times. Still doesn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I— I mean it, Sammy. I’d never— if there was another way, you know I’d take it. Don’t think for a second that this isn’t killing me, Sammy.”

Yeah, he’s going to back out of this one, stat. He’s already done the thing where he looked at his brother and counted down the months, days, minutes, hours until he’d be gone. Until he’d have to bury him and— but at least then he’d had hope. At least then he’d had Ruby, and last options, and that naive hope that maybe after everything they’d be okay, that they deserved some good karma, that maybe Dean wouldn’t go to Hell because he was Dean and maybe he could be above the laws of Hell and crossroads deals.

“Don’t let it,” he says finally. “Don’t let it, Dean. Because this isn’t goodbye, alright? I’m— I’m going to live, and then I’m going to find you, and we’ll go get beers at the Roadhouse.” There shouldn’t be this many tears in a smile. “Before he had to go and save your ass, I told Cas that if he hurt you I’d set all the dead people we knew on him. We know a freaking army, man.”

The response had been was something to the effect of If I cause harm to Dean, there won’t be enough of me for them to find, and Sam had said that he wasn’t talking about the physical, and Castiel had said that he knew. All in that cold, detached kind of way that Dean can read emotion in so well. Sam doesn’t understand it. There’s a language in there, that, much as he likes Cas, despite all they've been through together, Sam can't speak.

Dean still has that slightly curious, slightly mortified look. “Sam, we’re not— you don’t tell him shit like that, okay?”

Sam smirks. “You’re not what? Not walking funny the other morning? Hey move your shirt collar a bit.”

“Shut up.”

“Deeeaan—”

He gets a pancake in his face.

And then he’s laughing and they’re both laughing and he knows, he knows that any second he’s going to start crying, and he’s going to hold onto Dean and try and refuse to let go, like he’s a freaking nine year old again. He knows that in a few minutes someone is going to pick them up off the floor and send them to go and read up on that summoning, and he doesn’t know if it’ll be Garth or Claire or Benny or anyone, and he knows that his world is falling apart. But in this second, he laughs.

“You know,” Dean says, “painting Devil’s Traps and shit on the ceiling has gotten harder in my old age.”

“For Chrissakes.” The next thing Dean knows, there’s a hand around his neck, and Claire is climbing up him like he’s a fucking jungle gym before making a jump for some cracks in the wall. A few very brilliant parkour moves later, she’s lying on her back, draped over two pipes that really shouldn’t have held her weight. And Dean takes the fifth or sixth opportunity to check her out, and be relieved at the lack of attraction there. (He may or may not have done a careful character inventory: Scarlett Johansson was attractive, the voluptuous Asian lovelies were still attractive, and so what if it’s the end of times? It's always good to have a strong sense of self.)

Claire reaches out a hand. “Spray paint?”

Sam throws her some. It lands on her stomach, and Dean turns. “Right,” he says. “We should have gotten Michelangelo on our team earlier.”

“Michelangelo didn’t actually paint lying on his back, Dean.”

“Shut it, Sasquatch.”

This is too normal, and it hurts, because of how forced it all sounds. Dean sticks to painting as many symbols as he can remember— although it looks like there are more than there are, due to the number of mistakes. It’s not his fault— his spray paint is faulty. “Looks a bit like that barn,” he says after a moment, because the silence is even worse than anything else. The hissing from all the cans makes it sound like they’re taking a communal piss. “Remember, Cas?”

“I remember that nothing worked,” Cas says. He does something angelic to his paint instead of just shaking it like everybody else, and Dean grins.

“Always be prepared.” After all, it’s unlikely that Naomi will bring an army of demons, but just in case.

“You’re never prepared.”

“Be that as it may. Put that line a little to the left, Don. Hey, is there a banish-all-angels-except-for-Cas sign?”

“Naw, I doubt there’s a special clause for angels that you’re f—” Dean scowls, and Benny changes tracks. “—friends with.”

Cas frowns down at the chalk in his hand. “I think that was intended as humor.”

“It wasn’t very good.” Dean bites his lip as Cas draws yet another chalk circle. Apparently being an angel comes with the ability to draw perfect circles, which Dean thinks is kind of a lame superpower. But, whatever. He’s drawn them all over the room, inside each other but not touching— it would give anyone with trypophobia a panic attack, but once they trace it with holy oil, they’ll definitely catch her in one. Dean just hopes it’s one of the smaller ones. “Are we, uh, good to—”

“Sam has the ritual.”

Claire bounces back down towards the floor, swinging through the pipes. Nearly knocks over Amelia and the milk carton of holy oil. She’s just in time, her feet hitting ground just as Sam lights the first bit of moss.

It’s not a kink, or anything, but Dean will never get tired of Castiel speaking Enochian. The bouncing rhythm, words that he doesn’t understand— but he’s spent half his life shouting exorcisms he doesn’t quite understand, so that’s normal. It just sounds pretty— and isn’t it weird that words can sound pretty? That names are pretty, that people like the sounds of different words?

Humanity, language. It’s all ridiculous. Ridiculous and kind of wonderful.

And then Cas says the last word, and it’s out of dreamland and back to— the flapping of wings. Less like Cas’s and more— a swish, maybe. A falcon flying overhead, a vulture coming down. Amelia and Cas both drop their lighters at the same time.

The circle that Naomi has landed in is bigger than Dean had hoped for, but they can’t have everything.

He isn’t quite sure what he’d expected— something a little more Helena Bonham Carter, a little less Amanda Tapping. But she’s also the quintessential (and that word he didn’t learn from Bela) angel, with the suit and the perfect hair and the face like something smells bad.

“Castiel.” She looks from face to face. “You brought all of your pets?”

Assbutt, mud monkeys, cockroach, pets? “Angels suck at insults,” Dean says lightly. “You controlling, sadistic, power-hungry, goddamn fucking little shit-assed manipulative bitch who isn’t worthy of the—” Dean has more, but Cas puts a hand on his arm. So he contents himself to meet Naomi’s glare, daring her to make a crack about him being well trained. About him bending over— can she see it on him? Can she see Cas on him?

With the way her lip is curling, it doesn’t seem that unlikely.

“So.” She looks at them, somehow seeming as though she is not the one trapped. More at ease than the rest of them. “Where’s the tablet?”

Sam takes a step forward. “What?”

“I assume you wanted to trade the tablet for a place in heaven when you die.”

That wasn’t what they wanted and she knows it, but she also knows how it will throw them, because Sammy isn’t going to Hell. He isn’t. Tablet or no tablet, and Dean doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s standing in front of his little brother, his little brother who is both taller and bigger than him, his little brother who he might never see again if they go through with this, who does not deserve to go to Hell. Dean won’t let him.

Sam swats Dean out of the way. “No,” he hisses into his ear. “She’s playing games.”

But—

“No, Dean. No deals.”

It’s barely a whisper, but Naomi might be able to hear. Cas can hear, or at least tell, by the way he is looking at them. Eyes looking almost demonic in the firelight, and Dean falls back, takes his place in the circle.

Garth scratches his nose.

Dean hadn’t wanted him there. Dean had wanted him to stay with the Trans. But Dean isn’t really on a streak of getting what he wants, as evidenced by Cas’s voice.

“We will not trade,” he says. “But we need your blood.”

Dean had opted for the surprise attack. Make her think they’re going for the kill and they might be able to sneak off some blood. But Cas had insisted on explaining, on giving her a chance. Since Cas himself had been given so many second chances. (“This is how I’m different from two years ago,” he’d said, and Dean couldn’t deny him that. Could only tell him that he seemed to be growing a Doctor Complex. But then Amelia had reminded him how many times the Doctor had committed genocide, and it wasn’t funny anymore. If it ever was funny— Dean’s sense of humor has been mangled beyond all repair. He’s always relied on Sam to tell him when things aren’t funny, and he isn’t sure how he’s thinking of that at a time like this, and he’s also not sure how he’s going to be able to leave Sammy when they get the blood, how he’s going to be able to let his brother down like—)

“Heaven is going to be under siege,” Castiel says, drawing himself up. “You won’t win.”

“You have no idea what we’re capable of. We pulled you out of Purgatory. I fixed you.”

Cas looks at Dean for a moment. “I wasn’t broken.”

“Please. We had so much planned for you… still have planned for you. Just because you’re hiding from us doesn’t mean our wiring still isn’t in your head. Go back to Heaven, and we could make you tear Dean apart.”

And Dean swallows, because they could—

“Normally, we’d practice.” She knows she has a captive audience, she knows they know that she’s playing for time, but the horror has settled heavy. Holding Dean’s down, and he’s suffocating under it, under the image. “A thousand Deans. You’d kill him, over and over, so that when the time came, you’d do it quickly and without hesitation. Now, though, it’ll only be more painful for you both.”

“Um.” Cas studies his blade in the firelight. “You put a lot of power and energy into dragging me from Purgatory, trying to control me, trying to manipulate me. I’d been dead for a year. Forgive me, but you must be… um, very short on angels. And loyalty, since you have to control us like robots to get us to—”

A large gob of angelic spit crosses the fire and lands at his feet. “You’re disgusting, Castiel. You presume— you, who rolls around in the dirt, the mud. You make me sick.”

Cas doesn’t flinch. “I shall take advice well from one who has had to mindfuck people to get them to carry out basic orders.”

Dean has heard Castiel call Raphael a little bitch, but this still surprises him.

“It’s the only way,” Sam says. “You— you can’t win, Naomi, but you could still keep them from winning.”

"I'll laugh as you burn," Naomi tells him.

And it's go time.

Sam has never fought an angel. Just that mental prize fight with Lucifer— screaming up through his own mind, working desperately to move his hands.

He’d hoped that experience would give him an edge.

It doesn’t.

He lands on singed shoes, and it’s only because of Claire’s diversion that he doesn’t get his neck snapped the moment he enters the ring. A fifteen-foot wide circle of Holy Fire.

“Welcome to Thunderdome, bitch,” he mutters.

For someone who doesn’t have a weapon, Naomi is doing well. She and Claire aren’t even touching each other, despite the deadliness of the fight. Claire’s knife is nothing but flashes.

Sam moves. Gets a nick on her elbow, but he can’t get enough blood to collect. Just a smear on his fingers. He’d have dropped the flask, anyway, because he’s ducking.

Benny vaults over his back.

Twisting, turning.

Sam has never understood Dean’s love of the fight. He can do it, of course. He can take people down and, fuck, sometimes he enjoys it. But he’s never had the constant desire for motion, and it’s been a long time since he’s judged himself on who he can beat up. It’s never been purely instinct. He’ll hit, he’ll swing, he’ll kick and once or twice, although he’ll never admit it, he’s even bitten and pulled hair.

But it’s never been a relief, like it is for Dean.

It’s never been a dance, like it is for Inanna.

It’s just survival, and getting to the next minute. It’s hoping he’ll be able to eat French toast later and all the things he’ll never have.

It’s three on one, but Naomi is slipping between them.

It’s like trying to catch smoke.

And then it’s like trying to dodge the knife that Amelia just threw. And it’s a good throw, but all they get is a knife in holy fire, and Benny loses what little advantage he might have had— loses it again when Garth decides to join the party.

It’s not elegant, it’s not beautiful, it’s not a dance.

It’s Naomi spinning, hands moving, and the fact that Sam is reasonably sure that both his nose and one of his ribs are broken. It’s Claire’s yelp as her feet get too near the flames. It’s Garth, throwing himself in front of Benny.

The knife burns brighter. The edges are turning red.

“Sam!” Dean yells.

And Sam understands. He waits for his next opening. And then he’s rolling forward, reaching into the fire.

It takes two tries to not drop the scorched handle. But then he’s up and turning and Naomi darts away from him, but Claire is in front of her, knife out, and Sam has tunnel vision now. There’s nothing but the burning feeling in his hand, that he’s forcing away, and then he’s diving forwards and it doesn’t pierce the skin, not at first, but it’s hot enough and holy-oiled enough that the angel hisses. Turns, hand raised, staggering a little.

And then Benny’s teeth are in her neck.

And she’s yanking, pulling away, and Sam can only hear the distant yell, the distant order to run. And he’s rolling through the fire, and the pain is coming back, but there’s no time and he tries to rock himself around so that he can see. See the vampire, spitting into Dean’s jar, choking on holy blood. Claire dragging Garth to safety. Naomi rubbing her neck, murder and desperation on her face.

And then there’s no one but Amelia, hair frizzy, lit up by the firelight in a halo. Reaching for him, face stretched with panic.

“Sam,” she says. “Sam, you’re on fire.”

And then there’s Don, his knight-with-shining-bucket, dumping water all over him.

Right.

He starts to get up, when he’s hit by another wave, this time from his brother, and he has to spit some of the weird-tasting pond scum out of his mouth. “Was that really necessary, Dean?”

Dean shrugs. “You were on fire, Katniss.”

It takes a few minutes to reconvene. To make sure all the blood samples are stashed in Cas’s coat, to make sure that Sam and Claire and Benny and Garth don’t have any fatal injuries, to make sure that—

“Cas.” Dean swallows. “She was lying.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“Cas.” Dean puts his hand on the angel’s shoulder. Gripped you tight. “I trust you.”

And he knows that the Angel will understand how much that means, that he’s only recently started trusting Sam again, that there’s no one left alive that he’d ever— but there’s too much emotion on Cas’s face, and Dean can’t look at that, so he leans forward. Kisses him gently, to hell with everyone around.

“If this were a bad movie,” Cas says, “that’s all it would take to fix everything in my head.”

“Please.” Dean grins. “You haven’t given me a chance.” And out of nowhere, he remembers what that Ghostfacer— Ted? Ned? Ed?— had said on their Pilot. Something about Gayness saving the day. It’s so distant, like all his pre-Hell memories, yet perfectly clear at the same time. Alastair had been keen on having him remember as much as possible, so as not to let time slip away. Not let him turn into nothing like the others. Every day, he could still see Sammy’s face, hear the sound of his dad instilling in him various values that John so rarely kept to himself. He remembered the smell of thunderstorms and the sound of laughter, and all the reasons why he shouldn’t pick up the knife, not ever.

Just to make it worse when he finally did. Because he could remember the failures, too. (That stab was for Sammy going to Stanford, that scream was for the time Dean had to drag his dad’s drunk, passed out body into the hotel elevator.)

“We’ll be okay,” he says. “Shall we, um—”

Sam looks at him, though the blood on his face and the burns and the blackened coat. “Now— but—” he bites his lip. “It’s too soon, we need— we need to be prepared, and have a map, and I need some aloe, and—”

Dean closes his eyes.

Sammy.

He pulls his little brother into a hug, carefully avoiding the burned spots. He hasn’t done that so much— coming back from the dead seems to be a pre-hug requirement. It had been different when they were younger. He has a faint memory of carrying a toddler Sam over the mud, because the little princess hadn’t wanted to muck up his Spider Man shoes— Sam, as a five year old, Sam, when he started third grade for the fifth or sixth time, Sam growing steadily taller until Dean couldn’t tuck him under his chin anymore.

Until he became old and bitter around twelve or thirteen, and hugs became sporadic and manly at best.

Dean tries to make up for that now. He’s always assumed that Sam didn’t crave contact like he did, since he’d never gotten into fights and one-nighters. He’d always assumed— but Sammy holds him back, and Dean doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to pull away.

He isn’t crying. Winchesters have never been good at crying in front of anyone else. They have shit to do, they have people to save and things to hunt. And Dean wants, more than anything, to stop time. Right here, fire and injuries and Naomi be damned.

“Take care of yourself, Sammy,” he says. “Don’t… don’t let me see you for a good long time, yeah?”

Sam’s Adam’s apple drops as he swallows.

“You, too. You— don’t miss.” This time. “Tell— tell Bobby and Dad and Ellen—”

“I will.” Dean nods a few more times than necessary. “I’ll find them, I’ll get them all together so you— when you—”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Dean takes a step back. Claps Don and Amelia on the shoulders. “Stay safe.”

Right.

Okay.

He doesn’t look at Naomi, or the crackling fire. Doesn’t take his eyes off his Sammy as he blindly reaches for Cas. Feels the familiar fabric of the trench coat under his fingers.

“Beam me up, Scotty,” he says.

Sam flashes him a Live Long and Prosper sign.

Dean tries to smile.

Sammy isn’t waiting for him with fireworks this time.

They land in a subway tunnel, the rumble of the S line being the first to welcome to them to the great beyond.

“Where are we?” Dean asks.

“New York, as remembered by…” Castiel tilts his head towards the man standing under the sign. “Him.”

“The subway is one of his happiest memories?”

Cas just raises an eyebrow. “Come on.”

“Where?”

But the tails of the trench coat are already disappearing between the doors closing, please stand clear. Dean has to jump after him.

And then they move.

It’s been a long time since Dean had been in NYC, but he’s pretty sure that the trains aren't this clean.

“So we’re—”

“Looking for the Garden,” Cas says. “I tried to get us to the right time.”

“Was that why I saw a flash of caveman on the way up?”

He gets a slightly offended look. “Humanity has been around for millions of years. The fact that I placed you in the right century is quite a feat.”

Right. “So they just line up the heavens chronologically? What if I was dead and I wanted to go visit, like, the Sun King or something?”

“He used to have people watch him get dressed, I doubt his heaven is open to visitors.”

Yeah. Figures. Dean shrugs and sits down in one of the patterned seats. They’re softer than the real ones, too. Cas sits across from him, and they stare at each other for a minute. Cas has a five o’clock shadow, and Dean is considering the pros and cons of rubbing his face against it, his mouth, of trying to pull those sounds out of Castiel, but he really shouldn’t do that because this really isn’t the time, so he clears his throat and looks away.

“So where are we going, Cotton Eyed Joe?”

“Castiel.”

Dean nearly falls out of his seat, as he turns to the angel that’s appeared next to him. And then he scrambles out of the seat anyway, feeling for his muti-sword.

“Samandriel.” Cas smiles, but Dean sees his hand tense up, like he’s about to drop a knife from his sleeve.

Alfie holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender— and, apparently to add to it, takes his hat off. “Peace, brother.”

Only an angel could say that without being a hippie.

The subway doesn’t rattle like the ones in reality, either. Instead it hums, eerie and quiet— it brings him back to a hunter that John had been friends with. Dean doesn’t remember his name— Ralph, maybe— who'd been able to play the saw. He used to brag that he could kill vampires with it, then lull his children back to sleep when he’d wiped it down. It had always unnerved Dean— it was a haunting sort of sound. Beautiful, but twisted.

“Castiel, what’s going on? Naomi—”

“She’s indisposed.” Cas moves closer to Dean, still on the defensive.

“Relax.” The kid’s eyes are wide. It's so hard to think of him as anything but a kid, even though he’s probably— well, he might be younger than Castiel, but that’s still older than Methuselah. (Dean wonders, not for the first time, how old Methuselah actually was. If Dean had been alive too, he’d probably have hunted the guy.) “I’m not going to tell them where you are.” He hesitates. “I can do that, I can—”

Light flickers around his vessel.

“Naomi is blocked,” Cas says carefully. “She isn’t in your head right now.”

“How 'bout that.” Samandriel smiles a little when he opens his eyes. “But we’re going to be under attack. We cannot defend Heaven, Castiel.”

“Samandriel.” Dean wonders if all people use names this much, or if angels are just forgetful in their old age. “I know you have no reason to trust us, but, please— we’re going to help.”

Samandriel frowns. “I told— Dean— I think you— what do you want to do?”

“Cas.” Dean reaches out. “Cas, we can’t.”

Cas shakes his head, and the train hits its first bump. “There’s no way to stop this war,” he says. “We can’t save Heaven, not the way you want. But we can save earth.”

There’s just that eerie saw-sound for a second, and then— “I’ll buy you some time, Castiel.”

Samandriel vanishes, and the subway dings.

“This is our stop.”

The monologue doesn’t stop. “You’re sick,” Naomi is saying, but she’s half spitting at this point. “Stop, call them back, it won’t—”

“Don’t you get it?” Sam snaps, trying to see Naomi, Naomi, not Athena raising her rather terrifying shield. “You’ve lost. Inanna’s lost. We’ve all lost. The best we can do—”

(Do not engage, do not, but he has to have a fight, has to keep fighting.)

Naomi shakes her head. A few pieces of hair have come loose, flopping around— it looks stupid. “Hell will win,” she says. “Close Heaven, kill the angels— you want a winner? It’s Crowley, you blood-sucking cockroach. Crowley who will be laughing.”

“We can handle Crowley.”

“You should have closed Hell first. It’s like trying to dry the rock at the bottom of the waterfall—you’ve just sacrificed your brother for nothing.”

Sam turns away. “Go to Hell.” He’s gone, Dean’s gone, for good, and he can’t process that— everyone is still looking at him like he’s about to collapse, but he won’t, because the pipe that Claire had been climbing on earlier is falling from the ceiling, and Sam doesn’t know if it was weakened when she did that, or if Naomi pulled it down, or both, but either way he hurts and Garth is already on the lighter. Just barely manages to get the outermost ring of fire lit as Naomi storms out of the first. She’s making a beeline for Benny, and Sam moves, tries to help, but it’s not just fire, it’s not just yelling but the sounds of battle are rising in his ear. And Inanna raises her spear, a crash of light, and it’s not a city, it’s—

“Sam!” Don yanks him down, and a knife is going over his head. He doesn’t know whose because the ocean is rising up, higher, higher, and Apollo is a beam of light in the darkness. The bringer of music, music that’s breaking Sam’s eardrums as he tries to pull away. He’s drowning, drowning in the water and the light. As a massive eagle rises, talons outstretched, to collect the twisted body, and then Inanna is flying, and she’s on fire, glowing in the light. And Fenrir roars and the water recedes and someone is screaming. He doesn’t drag himself back into the moment so much as hold desperately to anything that might be able to pull him.

In this case it’s Don, who’s yelling in his ear.

And he only manages to see the warehouse again when there’s a motion and then Don is on top of him and bleeding, bleeding, and then Garth tackles Naomi from the left. And Sam carefully rolls Don onto the floor— nonono— and he’s bleeding, but not badly, out the side, and “Sam, behind you.” He turns and rejoins the fight. He’s gotten cut somewhere, it hurts, and he has to focus on it, focus on defending Don, because they have to get him help.

“Amelia!”

Claire manages to hold Naomi off a moment, in time for Amelia to dart around them. Kneel next to her husband, presumably trying to stop the bleeding, but Sam doesn’t know for sure.

Because he’s too busy in the fight.

He’s Sam Winchester and he’s raising an arm to block Naomi’s swing, and if it wasn’t four on one they wouldn’t have a chance. And he’s Isis, raising a staff with an Ankh on it, power spreading. And then he’s ducking to avoid Odin’s spear and standing up to avoid Naomi’s swing, hands harder than swords, and all he can do is try not to die.

Dean has to run to catch up. It looks like it should be blistering hot out— heat waves rise from the pavement, the run down cars, but it’s cool. Almost chilly. And Dean is about to ask where they’re going but that’s when they round a corner, when the sign appears— “Wait. Cas, wait—”

But then Cas pulls him the rest of the way forward, into Singer Salvage.

He’d known how realistic Heaven could be, but— there is the rusted truck Sam had hidden in, that time he’d won the title of South Dakota Hide-And-Seek Champion. And there’s the Impala, run down from some accident or another, but maybe looking like it can run— like Dean just fixed it—

And then they’re at the door. Same wood, same splinters, it shouldn’t be that accurate, but then he’s being pushed inside.

“Who is it?”

“Cas,” Dean breathes. “Cas, what—”

But then Bobby has rounded the corner. And before he can react, before anything, every other instinct is kicking in (that moment after you establish that the person is real, pretend they’ve done the silver-and-holy water) and he’s locked himself firmly in Bobby’s arms. Doesn’t have to worry that it’s not Bobby, because it’s Bobby, smells like Bobby, and, and, God—

“What’re you doing here, boys?” Bobby asks as they break apart.

And Dean starts to answer him, but then he can’t, because he sees the other man that’s standing in the kitchen.

It had occurred to him that he might find John Winchester here, but he’d never thought it would be so soon, never thought it’d be now.

And he’s terrified.

Lean away from Bobby, right, he hugged Bobby, but he doesn’t know if he can hug John, Cas is here, he should stand closer to Cas, defense, but don’t stand close to Cas, God, can he tell? He’s sorry, he’s so sorry, he left Sammy, he’s making John’s sacrifice worthless by just skipping out on earth, he left Sammy, he didn’t save Sammy, and God, Cas—

He ends up swaying back and forth for a moment getcloserrungetcloserrunaway but then John has decided for him, and he’s finding himself getting his third hug of the day.

This is some kind of record.

“I’m sorry,” Dean manages. “I’m so sorry—”

His dad just looks back at him, amazement plain on his face. “Sorry for what?”

“You’re not dead,” Bobby cuts in, repeating his earlier question. “What’s going on, boys?”

Dean looks at Cas.

“Maybe we should… um, sit down,” the angel says. It takes him a moment to shake John’s hand— and everyone can hear the coldness in his voice when he answers the greeting. “John. I’m Castiel.”

“Bobby’s— told me about you.”

“Really.” Cas looks back at Bobby, who shrugs.

“You alright in the head then, now?”

Cas mimics the shrug— it looks painfully awkward and sarcastic, and Dean wants to laugh— and then marches for the kitchen. “Hurry. Time is of the essence.”

Time is of the essence. Dean grins. “Hey, Dad, you met Henry yet?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” He’ll tell him about it later.

This house had burned down two years ago, but it still feels so normal— his body knows where to turn, which steps to avoid, how to angle his hips so that he can get between the table and the wall— because this was the closest he had to a childhood home and it’s never really left him. He sits down next to Cas, who looks at him for a moment. Slightly scrunched eyebrows.

Are you okay?

Cas what if he how do I—

Breathe.

He puts a hand on Dean’s arm, and Dean understands. Nods. Then jumps, when Bobby clears his throat. He’s the only one here that seems to have anything together. But then, Bobby was always the one they trusted to not lose his shit. “Cas, come help me rustle up some booze.”

Cas frowns, then stands up. And Dean doesn’t want him to go, and he’s so pathetic, but then he’s alone with the father that he can’t look in the eye. Which he figures might have been the goal.

They haven’t been in Bobby’s house together since Dean was a kid.

“Dean?” John leans forward. He looks so much like Sam when he’s worried. “Are you okay?”

Dean tries to laugh, but can’t. Everything he’s wanted to say is gone, the speeches he’d written in the space between consciousness and sleep, everything— he doesn’t know how long he’s wanted this moment, doesn’t remember how many times he sat outside a hotel room and asked his dad to come back. But all that manages to come out is “You should have said goodbye to Sam. You should have told me about Sam.”

It’s the wrong thing, and a heavy silence falls between them.

“I know. I was— I know.” Now it’s his dad that can’t look at him. “Do you want me to leave?”

“What— no—” No he wants—

“Because I… if it’ll make things…” he gestures, still studying the wall. “I always knew I was a terrible father, Dean, I— sometimes I think that the only reason I held out in Hell was that I was okay with the pain. I was okay because it distracted me from— Bobby’s filled me in on the last few years, and… I don’t know. I guess some perspective comes with being dead.”

Jo said the same thing. The urge to defend is innate. “They were terrible circumstances, Dad.”

“Bobby told me, about what happened since I— since I died. Most of it, anyway.”

Oh.

He doesn’t realize for a moment that his hand is being covered in an older, more wrinkled one. “I’m— I’m so sorry, Dean.” God, is his voice cracking? “I never wanted—”

“Me to go to Hell?” Dean can’t do this, Dean can’t have this chick flick moment. He wonders what’s taking Bobby and Cas so long. It’s not like Bobby would ever lose the alcohol in his own damn house. “He told you I broke, then? He tell you everything after that was my fault?”

“Dean, no.” John passes a hand in front of his eyes. “I— that was your entire lifetime, I—”

Dean wonders if he’d forgotten how dysfunctional they were, or if the century or so that John has had to reflect has been worse. Because for someone who only recently came out of decades of torture, he seems to be doing just fine. And yet they can’t even finish their sentences. Did they ever finish their sentences? He can’t remember. It’s been forty-seven years for Dean. One hundred and twenty six for John. It’s amazing that they even have things to talk about.

“It’s cool.” Dean bites the inside of his mouth. “Character development for all. At least we got an angel out of the deal.”

As if on cue, there’s a crash in the kitchen. Dean is half on his feet before he realizes that it’s only Bobby yelling something. He doesn’t know what, but then there’s Cas, speaking levelly and yet whose voice is more piercing. “If you’re looking for an apology— you’re not going to get one.”

“I’m—” but then they drop out of hearing range.

Dean looks back at John. “I guess Bobby told you about the soul thing—?”

“Yes.” And the look he’s getting is all too knowing. Dean searches those eyes, desperate for something— disappointment, revulsion, something that would mean that this was his father and not some illusion conjured up by Heaven to try and lull him into complacency.

“We were in Purgatory together. Right after— right after we burned Bobby’s flask, me and Cas got stuck down there.”

“You went to Purgatory?”

“Yeah, and Sam got a dog. And my best friend is a vampire. And then we got out but then we had to—” Dean stops, tries to reorganize. “Ellen and Jo and Gordon Walker and Martin are—” tries to sort out his thoughts again, but he doesn’t know where to start. He’s been to Heaven, Hell, Purgatory and back since he was lying in that hospital bed wondering why his Dad has chosen now to tell him what he should have all along. But fortunately for him, John— because at least he’s still somewhat predictable— is stuck on the second one.

“A vampire?”

“Long story.” Dean studies his fingernails. “I—” he doesn’t want to be having this conversation. They should be hugging and crying and drinking beer or something right now. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen in Heaven? Right after the seventy virgins?

But then he’s saved by another bang in the kitchen. “Course I knew, I ain’t blind… No, that’s not my problem.”

They can’t hear what Cas says. John is studying the ceiling.

Dean knows all its cracks and blobs by heart. But he really wants to be in there, wants to know what Bobby’s problem—

“Dying from the inside out, boy!”

“Do I intervene?” Dean defers authority automatically.

“Sounds like they’re winding down.” John is still avoiding his eyes. “Um, I’m guessing this isn’t about the Purgatory deal.”

“—Not a boy, Bobby, and neither is Dean—”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

Strained silence at the table, more low voices in the kitchen.

“Dean?”

“Yessir?”

“Are you and Ca—Castiel, um, are you two—”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“BOBBY! CAS!” Dean stands. “How ‘bout that beer, huh? There’s a fucking war going on!”

He takes the chance to look back at his father. Shouldn’t care, but he does, fuck, he cares so much. Cares enough to analyze every well-known wrinkle for disappointment, anger, disgust.

John purses his lips. “Huh,” he says again.

“I’m sorry.”

And then finally he meets his eyes. “Don’t be,” he says. “Dean, don’t ever be.”

Something breaks inside him, but he isn’t sure what. Just knows that it’s all he can do to lower himself back into his chair, and now Dean is the one looking at the ceiling, because if he looks anywhere else he just might cry. And then—

“Good talk,” Bobby is saying, as he and Cas come around the corner, arms laden with bottles. Dean does a quick-once over, tries to get a read on both of them. But even though they have to know that they weren’t that quiet, he gets nothing. Just Cas, looking at him, with headtilt #.02

Are you alright?

Dean nods, just barely, lets his eyes flicker towards John.

We’re fine, he’s fine.

Cas settles in next to him, and Dean straightens up.

“Now,” he says, “about that apocalypse.”

Bobby slams a beer down in front of him. “So, you being here— this about the pagans?”

“Yeah— what?”

“I was in Hell, boy, I know what’s going on.”

Everything is heavier, colder, darker. “What do you—” because when was Bobby in Hell, when was—

“Apparently if you’ve pissed off the kinga’ Hell enough times, he pulls some strings.” And that’s not fair because what if— what if they fail and Naomi was right and Sammy—

Wait. “How did you get out?” Dean looks at Cas, as though he expects the angel to have pulled him out too. In between everything else that was happening.

“Well, Crowley has made peace treaties with Hades and that Mesopotamian one. Ereshkifart. They’re sorta dividing up the areas, fighting over whose people go where— it’s chaos. I just worked the bureaucracy a bit.” Then, at Dean’s raised eyebrows, “What? Been doing it all my life. Just a matter of getting to a place where nobody knows which way’s up and then talking fast.”

“Christ, Bobby.”

He gets look number remember all those times people called me an old drunk? “Crowley’s Hell involves waiting in lines. Left me time to plan, although I see where he was goin’ with that. I was near insane, and I’d only been down there a year.”

“Hell time, or real time?”

“Ain’t no days down there anymore, how should I know?”

It occurs to Dean that there are so many of Bobby’s stories that he’s never heard. So much going on in his life— they weren’t the only hunters that Bobby had helped, weren’t the only people in his life, even though sometimes they’d thought they were. All those years before, all those hunts, all the— Christ.

Dean had almost forgotten how much he missed him, and for a moment, he’s okay with how things are turning out. And then he remembers Sam and leaving Sam and he feels— he doesn’t even know what he feels, anymore.

He doesn’t understand how his life is real. But, back to the essentials.

“We’re closing Heaven,” Cas says, just as Dean blurts “the tablet—”

They look at each other again, and Dean nods a bit. Surrenders the floor.

“We’re closing Heaven,” Cas repeats.

“How does that work, then?” John asks.

“Imagine,” Castiel says, “that Heaven is floating above the earth. And as all the souls die, they are… drawn up, into a funnel. It creates this… beam of light between Heaven and Earth. Angels can use the souls as a… sort of bridge, and it is the souls— you— that give us our power.”

“Which was how yeh were able to—”

“Yes. All that energy, is the might of Heaven— angels are allocated certain amounts of it, depending on their rank, because there is a similar connection between this… power and an angel’s grace as there is between worlds.”

“So what you’re saying,” Bobby says, “is that you’re all plugged in to some heavenly battery.”

Dean has an image of all the angels flying around on little glowing strings.

Everything makes a lot more sense that way.

Cas huffs a little. “In a sense. What we’re going to do would be to stop any of the power of the souls from leaving the heavenly domain.”

“Which would leave all the gods on earth unplugged,” Dean says, “and there’d be no way for anyone up here to take the soul train back down. So we gotta get to the—”

“Garden. That’s where it’ll be. Joshua has been sending Sam messages, so hopefully…” Cas trails off, studying the wall. “We have to go there now.”

John is nodding. “And you’ll come back?” (Always the soldier, always in battle mode, but his face betrays him, it always has, but Dean isn’t going to call him on it, he never has.)

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, we came here first, because—” he stops, realizing he doesn’t know. Looks to Cas, and—

“No,” says Bobby. Cas’s glare should have had him reduced to a few ashes right there, but— “I’ve been around Winchesters for decades, angel, I know that look.”

It takes a second to understand. And then Dean is jumping up, kicking his chair (Bobby’s chair, ate here, sat here, read the paper here, joked about Sam’s hair here,) back in the process. “No,” he snaps. “You jackass, Castiel, you wanted me to have a backup plan?”

“Dean—”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t. After—”

Cas stands as well. “Not backup, Dean, but you know nothing is guaranteed—”

Stoptalkinglikeatextbook. Dean wants to hit him, punch him, kiss him, can’t he see how much Dean is losing today already? “You think I’ll leave you—”

“You’re stuck here!” Castiel’s voice is now a roar. “You need a place to go, in case—”

Dean stares at Cas, hoping he gets the message that Dean can’t say out loud. Not here, not ever. If you’re gone it’ll only be because there isn’t enough of me to get back here, you fucking idiot. You always come back to me— you think that won’t go both ways?

“Sorry, Castiel,” John says, but there’s a certain note of warning in his voice. “Winchesters don’t let people go.”

John is forgiven.

For everything.

At least for the moment.

Dean tries not to think about how not letting people go had started all their problems in the first place, because it doesn’t matter.

They’re too set in their patterns now.

They’ll never be rational.

And John understands. And Dean hates his father a lot of the time, when he’s not loving him or missing him or all three at once, but he’s leaning forwards now. “So, when do we leave?”

“No way. You’re dead. You’re done with this crap.” Dean waves a hand. “We can handle it—” Liar liar “—but.”

“Dead don’t mean done.” Bobby pops open another bottle, and Dean has to remember to focus on his breathing so that he can do this because he isn’t even sure how he’s supposed to process this day yet.

Deep breathing. In, out, like Sam talked about.

John looks at him. “What do you need?”

“Dad, can um—” he hesitates. “Can we borrow the car?”

“Hey, baby.” Dean pats the steering wheel. “I know you’re not real, but I’ll forgive you, alright?”

Cas settles into the passenger seat. Tilts his head back a little, and it takes a moment for Dean to realize that he’s smelling it.

It smells the same. Dean already knows that.

“One thing that still eludes me about humanity,” he says after a moment. “Why do you call your cars and romantic partners ‘baby’? How is that not…”

Dean snorts. “You trying to distract me?” But Cas just waits patiently. “I don’t know, man. You still upset about that ‘baby in a trench coat’ comment?”

All he gets is silence and the quiet humming of the radio as he starts the car. Drives backwards out of the lot, turns, and he wonders if the real Impala is still parked outside the warehouse. He wonders how much time has passed on earth, if they’re too late— because they’re in a bubble here, protected, the battle millions of years away. A century could have passed, for all he knows.

He really hopes it hasn’t.

So crawl on my belly till the sun goes down.

“We were stuck in a cycle then,” Cas says finally. “Weren’t we.”

It takes a moment to realize what he’s talking about, and another to pull his thoughts together. “I was mad at you,” Dean says. “You— you didn’t stay, after Stull. I’d just lost— and you didn’t even consider staying, and then you knew Sam was alive and you didn’t tell me and— yeah. I was mad.”

“We are who we are.” When Dean glances over, all he sees is the back of a head. “You never asked me to stay.”

No, Cas was supposed to read his invisible signals, his my brother in a hole, he was supposed to— fuck, Dean doesn’t know. Pop in at Lisa’s, help Ben with his history homework once in a while? Actually, Gabriel started the fire of Rome.

The radio crackles again, lyrics finally registering.

In this twilight, how dare you speak of Grace?

“Remember when you put this song in?” Dean asks. “Right after we met the Galla?”

“You didn’t like it. Take a left.”

Dean turns, and the car twirls off the road without so much as making him dizzy. The entire scene around them changes. What had once been a relatively ordinary highway is now barely a goat trail through a tangle of branches and vines.

“Too late.”

“What?”

“Too late in time, Dean. We have to keep going.”

Dean looks around. There is no sign that a highway was ever there— it’s just more of the same in all directions. Who the fuck’s Heaven is this? “How do I get back to the highway?”

“Reverse.”

“What?”

“R is for—”

“Go backwards, D is for drive forwards. I wasn’t under a rock during the election.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Dean reverses. Figures it doesn’t really matter if they crash into trees, because there’s nothing around but fucking trees, and they have to move somehow. Sure enough, the more he thinks about the road, the fewer trees there are. And then he jumps as they hit a rumble strip, and are back on the highway.

This time the scene is different— the rolling hills of South Dakota are gone. Instead they’re just a few feet away from a deserted, two-lane bridge.

The water below is perfectly still, reflecting houses, clouds and trees that are nowhere around. Birds that are not in the sky.

Dean would wonder what it means, but then the radio comes back to life, and he can’t help but smile.

“Me and Sam never had Simon and Garfunkel aliases,” he says. “I tried to get us some for— I think it was Custer County Sheriff’s department. But the guy making them said that that’d be way too obvious.”

“As opposed to Jan and Dean?” Cas smiles a little. “Ford and Hamill? Gibbons and Beards?”

“Shut up.” Coming up with the aliases was one of Dean’s favorite pastimes— it was sort of a game he’d been able to play. After all, if anyone had known enough about Van Halen or Route 66 to call them on it, they’d be worthy of… whatever.

…and a fighter by his trade. And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down or cut him ‘till he cried out…

Dean takes a deep breath.

“So, how far to the garden?”

I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains.

It hurts enough to see the battle on earth, but even more in Heaven, when the surroundings are ever-changing as well. Sam swings, and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to block a blow from Enki or Naomi, he doesn’t know if he’s supposed—

Enki turns at a flash of blonde hair, and he’s running after Ningal, and she turns. There’s no surprise in her face, only her voice— “Enki, what—”

And then Don’s cry of pain brings Sam back, and he ducks, and Naomi is still coming at them even as she has to fend off Benny. Benny ducks under one of her arms, only to slash forward with a knife. There’s an angel blade a few meters away, and Sam could run to it, except Enki is burying his sword in Ningal’s heart, and she’s falling to the ground, and he turns and moves off because Hades is looking out upon the Heaven he was banished from, and on earth Fenrir has cornered Odin. And the wolf is bleeding, but the god is bleeding more.

He falls. And then Fenrir roars as Mjolnir bounces off the top of his head, and then Thor is there.

And then Sam is useless, crouching over Don, because he can’t fight. Not when Thor is bent the same way over Odin.

“I’m so sorry, father,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

Odin reaches up, touches his face. “I’m never going to forgive you for deserting,” he says, but there is love in his voice. And Thor nods. Closes his eyes.

“I know.”

And then the Allfather stills, and Sam covers his head as another knife goes overhead. It’s not the angel blade, but it lands in the no-man’s-land between the fire and the warehouse wall.

And the visions are stronger, and he’s begging Joshua to stop, please, but Enlil is pulling Inanna away from Zeus, and she spins, weapons out. He doesn’t plead with her, doesn’t try and pressure her not to fight— they’re just two opponents in battle. And in Heaven, Athena offers Enki a hand up, but then is distracted by Horus, and then nobody is human-shaped anymore, and it’s burning Sam’s mind from the inside out, the flashing lights, the— fear—

And then it stops.

It stops all at once, and all he can do is rejoice, surge up towards the battle going on in front of him. Fall back into that rhythm and blink the spots out of his eyes.

He doesn’t want to leave Don undefended, even as the other man urges him on— but then he signals to Garth, and Garth pulls away, comes towards him. Sam can barely recognize his face under the blood, but he gets a grim nod— and then Sam is lunging forwards, because one of Claire's knives is on the ground.

And Claire and Benny are so busy trying to keep Naomi away from it (it’s not dancing, it’s a vampire, an angel and a teenage girl covered in blood and flailing limbs) that it’s easy for Amelia to become unfrozen, to kick it in the right direction. It cuts Sam’s hand as he grabs the wrong end, hands already burned from before, but the rest is almost too easy.

It’s almost too easy to twirl it around and grab the hilt, almost too easy to dart forward.

Almost too easy to nod to Claire, get her to head-butt the angel back, for Benny to hold her arm and let her and Sam crash.

That’s for my brother, he thinks, watching with grim satisfaction as the blade is buried between her vessel’s ribs. That’s for Castiel, as the telltale light comes pouring from her eyes, her mouth.

And he can’t help but feel that he’s giving her what she wants.

That she gave in too easily.

That she’d rather die an angel than a human.

That she’d rather go now than feel the grace leave her body, feel Heaven permanently out of reach.

It’s not for several moments that he realizes that he should have gotten out of the way. But it’s too late now.

There are feathers burned into his side.

The garden doesn’t look how Dean remembers it.

It’s not the Cleveland Botanical, and Joshua isn’t pruning anything.

It’s more of a field— large and open, with a massive tree in the center.

And two large, black wings marking the entrance.

Cas is out of the car before Dean can turn off the ignition, kneeling next to the scorched earth. There’s no body, but Dean knows who it was, even before Castiel stands.

For a moment, he can almost see Cas's wings. Flared out to cover all that’s left of Joshua. And this is Heaven, so maybe they’re there. Maybe everything is different here. The way there is no horizon, but just garden— with cities and villages and skyscrapers in the background— extending into the nothingness, and if Dean squints he can—

“They’re already here,” Cas says. It’s only when Dean looks closely that he can see the pain— not new, but just added to the growing ache of everything Castiel had lost.

He didn’t want to come back.

“So where’s the thing?”

Cas points to the tree.

And, well. Dean figures that makes sense.

“I was expecting it to look like the purgatory portal.”

“It does.” The trunk opens with a flick of the angel’s wrist, and he stows the blood vials safely in his pocket before stretching out the balloons. “When you look at it right, I suppose— it does a similar thing. Your perception is just altered.”

Right.

He can’t help but look back at the wings, can’t help but remember his dream, remember running along the path made of Castiel’s death and he can’t think about that, not here, not now.

“Alright.” Dean nods a couple times. “Where do you think they are? The ones that killed Joshua?”

He gets the very comforting response of “I don’t know,” and then they’re driving the Impala those last few meters.

When Dean was a kid, he didn’t think he’d ever be looking at the honest-to-God tree of life.

He didn’t think he’d be trying to poison it, either.

If only his teachers could see him now, right? He shakes his head once before pulling out the first can of holy oil.

“You sure you got enough water in there to get out, if I—”

“Yes.”

Okay then.

Cas is kneeling next to the tree, sword tip balanced over a crack in the bark. “It’ll set off alarms,” he says. “Even though they’re battling—” in another part of heaven, thank god, but they’ll be close. Someone is already here, just waiting.

Dean can’t do anything but smile. Because here he is, in a garden that only he can see. It’s not perfect. The grass doesn’t bend right, the tree sap doesn’t smell right, and he can feel a breeze that doesn’t so much as rustle a leaf. But this is just the garden, the center. They’ll never be able to create something earthlike as perfectly as they can in the rest of Heaven, because here there are no minds to build off of.

It’s beautiful, but it’s not human. It is not loved, in the way that the memorized places are. Nobody will be counting the leaves on these trees. Nobody will play soccer in this field.

That’s when the light starts.

As Dean drops his lighter, as a ring of fire springs up— not to contain Castiel, but to protect— his smile widens.

“I’ll hold them off,” he says, voice echoing through time. “I’ll hold them all off.”

“Dean.”

Dean should probably have kissed him, or given a manly hug, or something, before he lit a wall of holy fire between them. All he can do is move closer, to the point where his shoes are starting to smolder, and put a hand on the angel’s shoulder.

“Get it done.”

Cas turns back to the tree, and then they’re not alone.

At least there’s only three. Dean pulls out the blade that Inanna had given him— works on gods and angels, she’d said, and Dean hasn’t had time to test that so he can only hope that it’s not going to go all Elder Wand on him if he tries to use it against the wrong person.

But they seem to be angels. Suits, whole shebang.

Lovely.

Dean twirls it a little, just to look menacing. It’s not the only thing he has in his arsenal, but he doesn’t want to give away the others too soon. Still, if he kicks that stick just the right way, it’ll be in his hand, no problem.

“Hey there,” he says, going for polite. “Problem?”

The light behind him indicates that Cas has made the first puncture in the tree-portal-thingy. Okay. Stalling, maybe. Maybe if he can stall—

“Stop this,” says an angel in the body of a burly white man. “Stop this, now.”

“I’m Abbott, this is Costello,” Dean says. “We’re from the wildlife service.”

They’re really funny when they’re confused. It’s only for a moment, but it’s enough time for Dean to hit the first two with the water balloons.

And then with a kick, the stick is in his hands. End burning.

“I wouldn’t come any closer.” This is what he can do. It doesn’t matter that they can kill him with their brains— many things can. Just another hunt. Just another hunt. He brandishes the holy-burning stick in their general direction.

The woman is the one without the telltale stain on her suit, and she is the one that speaks now. “Castiel,” she says, although she doesn’t get any closer to the fire. “Castiel!”

“Ariel.”

Dean can’t turn around to see what Cas is doing, so he can only hope that he hasn’t stopped drilling holes. Because they don’t have much time now. He raises the stick, makes sure they can see the sword in his other hand.

“You two know each other?”

The third angel— his vessel looks younger than Dean, but of course that doesn’t mean anything— only tilts his head a little in the eternal gesture of angelic perplexity. “For eons,” he says. “You are Dean Winchester.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” He feels really stupid brandishing a burning stick, but these are desperate times. “I wouldn’t come any closer, man.”

“The name’s Daniel,” says Big White Guy. “This is Zephon, and we cannot let you continue, Castiel.” He moves like he’s going to go forward, and Dean shuffles a little.

“Yeah, no.”

“You seek to stop us by setting us on fire?”

He can only hope Cas is hurrying. If they’re going to spread pieces of him across the universe, then he doesn’t want it to be for nothing. He also doesn’t want to start violence until he absolutely has to, because his odds are— well, he’s taken tough odds, but three angels, one-on-one, in Heaven?

At least there had only been one Lucifer. But then, he hadn’t been fighting back.

He has to last until Cas finishes— until there’s no chance that they’ll throw him down into Hell— because God help him but he doesn’t want to go to Hell.

But that doesn’t stop him from stabbing forward when Daniel’s blade comes from the sleeve of a coat that was too tight to conceal a weapon. It doesn’t stop him from using the burning angel’s distraction to club him in the neck, and he staggers out of the way. He doesn’t scream, and Dean admires him a little for that, and he looks over his shoulder just the once to see Cas inserting the fourth vial and the tree is starting to glow brighter and then there’s no time for that.

Because Zephon has shagged ass, probably to change clothes, but he’ll be back, and Ariel is coming at him, at the ring of fire, and he has to keep her distracted, keep her away from it. He lets the insults fall out, because pride is the only thing the angels can pretend to have left, tells her that with the battle going on, the least the angels should be doing is trying to keep the world from falling into pagan hands. And then he slips in a few jabs about Naomi, and really, battles should never be fought by wit alone because Dean Winchester would lose.

But it’s enough, for now it’s enough, even though her blade is slashing into his side and he’s doubling over in pain, even as her hand connects with the side of his head and he has to roll to avoid falling on a piece of fire. His stick, discarded, burning forever. And she’s moving down, and he makes a desperate swing with Inanna’s blade, makes her flinch as it rips through her shoulder, but she moves too fast to hit anything important. Why do they die faster when you hit them in the neck or chest? It’s not like it matters, it’s not like—

Another blow makes his head spin, and he’s bleeding, and, ow, and at least she seems to be taking a while to finish him. He doesn’t know where Cas is in the ritual but all he has to do is poison the tree of life with their blood, how long does it take, but then he sees that the reason she has the time, time, it’s such a luxury and Dean wishes he’d had more of it, wishes he’d done more things— taken Sam out of the United States once in a while, gotten over his fear of flying so that they could go see those stupid paintings that he liked, when he’d flirted with that girl, what was her name, with the painting case— Sasha, Sarah, he doesn’t remember, it’s been so long, god, it’s been so long and Dean is still old and the next swing of the knife hits his shoulder— but she has time because Zephon is back, throwing water on the holy fire as Cas— Cas puts in— it’s got to be the last one, last vial, last blood, he’s chanting, how long has it been, two minutes, three? It’s been long, so long, but Dean has to stop them.

Has to stop them.

So he rolls, tries to drag himself forward. Ariel grabs the back of his shirt and hauls him up, yells as he gets a good stab to her side but she doesn’t waver despite the flowing Grace, and he can hear Cas shout his name, and he has to shake his head no because it’ll take him too long to put out the fire anyway, to get to him, and they have to— they have to—

He’s been to Hell, he’s been tortured by Alastair, he can handle this. He can handle feeling his blood soaking into his clothes, takes a look at the garden because Ariel is about to kill him and there’s no telling what she’ll do with his soul—

His soul—

She’s an angel, but Dean has a soul.

And isn’t that the difference?

There’s a reason that the humans were chosen over the angels. There’s a reason that they win, every time. There’s a reason that the angels, who appear to have everything, have nothing.

Because the souls.

Henry Winchester was able to tap the power of his.

Souls allowed you to care. To love, to emphasize, to— for some reason— sleep. And Dean isn’t going to go on about defeating angels with the power of love— this isn’t Harry Freakin’ Potter— but it has to have some power if souls are so sought after.

So that’s what he focuses on.

He thinks of Sammy.

Cas.

Bobby.

John.

Benny.

He thinks of how it felt, watching Bobby’s soul vanish. Sammy, age Younger, giving him a messily wrapped Christmas present. The perfect feeling of his head on a soft pillow, in that fraction of a second before he falls asleep. Nights that he’d stay up, talking with Benny under the cover of Purgatory’s trees. Holding onto Cas by that river, beers with Sam after innocent lives saved, good dreams, the way John had looked at him, that last day— I just want you to know I am so proud of you— that stupid army man, the way Cas looks at him, even when he’s holding Dean down, taking him apart, or putting his soul back together, and there, there it is. There’s his soul, underneath the frightened eyes of haunted children and two dozen fake identities and “We can’t save everyone, Dean,” and gunshots and blood and there. And once he’s found it, it’s easy, so easy, to tear it out, because this is Heaven and he has a soul and these angels have nothing on him.

He grins.

His vision goes white.

Zephon screams, and Ariel’s hand falls away from his neck.

Sam is in the kitchen again. It’s becoming a bit of his home away from home. He should be upstairs, probably, helping Don, but Garth and Amelia seem to have that covered.

It should be easier to look into the eyes of someone who took a knife for you.

He takes a deep breath, rubs his face. He knows what he has to do. He knows, because he knows what he’s always done. He knows how this story ends. But getting upstairs and packing seems like a lot of effort right now.

“Sam.”

“Hey, ‘Melia.” He leans up against the counter as he looks up. “How is he?”

“He’ll be alright.” She fronts the stove. Crosses her arms. “So, what’s your plan?”

“What?”

“What are you going to do now?”

She shouldn’t ask that question. How the fuck does he answer that question? It’s over, it’s all over. Now all Kevin has to do is finish decoding that tablet, and Sam can die closing the gates of Hell. Isn’t that it?

But she’s looking at him, like—

“I can’t do this,” Sam says. He can’t look at her. He has to look at the kitchen, the kitchen with its stupid, outdated appliances that Dean had cooked burgers on. He had been trying to nest, but they don’t get that. Winchesters don’t get that.

Hasn’t he learned?

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t do this.” He shakes his head a few times, trying to get a grasp on what he’s saying. “I can’t… it doesn’t work, ‘Melia. Don almost died, and I… I have to go close Hell, and maybe, maybe after that I’ll get a break.” Or maybe I’ll die. “Maybe after that— but all I do is get people killed. And… and I’ve tried to stop loving you, and it’s not working out so well, so being around you doesn’t make anything easier, and I don’t want to see your lives— I just can’t. I can’t stay here and pretend that everything’s great, that we’re a Scooby gang, that I won’t someday be burying you and breaking you out of jail. I don’t want to ruin your lives. And I will. And I can’t. So I have to leave.” The words come out tangled. It’s not what he wants to say. He starts over.

“I’ve seen hunting destroy so many lives. My dad’s, my mom’s. Bobby and Rufus and— nobody comes out clean. Nobody comes out okay. And I’ve dragged you and Don farther into this than I ever should have. It’s too late for me. I have to close Hell. I have to make it safe. And maybe after that, I’ll get to breathe. Stop, settle down somewhere. With someone, maybe, I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair. It really is too long— but Dean isn’t here to make fun of him for it, and that’s just another reason to get out of Dodge. “I’ve lost everyone, you know? And… and I can’t keep you here. I can’t see you again. Because you and Don, you deserve to go live somewhere. You deserve a life. So I can’t— so I have to stay away from you. Do you understand that?”

It’s a few moments before he dares look at her. He wants a beer— not to drink so much as just something to do with his hands, his mouth, or else he’s afraid that all the words are just going to come spilling out again, even more tangled. It’s a side effect of growing up with Dean, maybe, having to compensate for what his brother never said. But he’s also gotten good at reading unspoken language, at sensing when he’s being lied to, at getting people to open up. It’s a skill that has come in so well when he’s hunting— and, fuck, maybe he should become a goddamn therapist.

Amelia pushes off the stove and takes a step closer to him. “I understand,” she says slowly.

“Good.”

“And I’m calling your fucking bullshit.”

Um. “What?”

She turns her back on him, just to go back to the stove. Hands swinging, like she isn’t sure what to do with them. “I said, that’s bullshit. I told you already, Sam. Don’t damsel me. This isn’t a CW drama, and you don’t have to leave me for my own safety. All your friends aren’t dead, Sam. You just won’t let them in. Dean was right— you are the one that leaves. Because you’re so goddamn scared of having someone else leave you first.

"Fun fact, Sam. Don went through a war. You think we’re clean, you think we’re pure? You saw me last year. You know what I’ve done, how I've lived. And I’m sure that there’s more in Don’s head that he won’t tell me, won’t tell anyone. We’re pretty goddamn fucked up as well. And I don’t know if that’s a requirement to be friends with you, or something. But it doesn’t fucking matter.” She takes a deep breath. “Because you don’t get to choose, Sam. You don’t get to just walk out on us and tell us it’s for our own good. You do not get to make all the decisions. Not again. You can stop Lucifer, you can stop a hoard of pagan gods, but do not think you can stop Don and I from caring about you. He took a goddamn knife for you— you don’t have the right to just walk out on us. To leave us wondering if you’re alive or dead.”

“Amelia—”

“Shut up. You just want a way out, you just want to run away. That’s what you did when you abandoned Kevin, that’s what you did when Ruby had to save your ass, that’s what you did when you went to Stanford. Don’t give me all that shit about all your friends being dead, about having nobody, because that’s goddamn insulting to me, to Don, to Benny and Garth and Kevin and Linda and Charlie. Because you’re stuck with us, Sam. You think you don’t have family? Bull-fucking-shit.”

“Am—”

“I’m not done.” She isn’t any closer to yelling now, but her fist is clenched, and she’s pulled herself up. He still has a good foot on her, but it doesn’t seem to matter. “People die. I’ve watched countless dogs die because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time and we couldn’t save them. So many of Don’s friends died in a war that we’re fighting over nothing. So if you’re running because you think it’ll hurt you if something happens to us, then you need to get your selfish head out of your selfish ass right this second because it’s not going to hurt any less than waiting for you, than wondering if you’re alive, than worrying and checking police reports to see if your body has turned up somewhere. And if you can’t be around me because it hurts too much— tough fucking cookies. You think you’re the only one that’s hurting? Goddammit, Sam. You left me. You didn’t give me a choice. Just like you’re trying to not give me a choice now and I’m not fucking having it.”

Each word is a punch, a kick, a knife. Sam’s had some pretty bad injuries in his time. And he’ll take this over, say, a hellhound attack, or having his neck snapped, or burning in the pit, but he’d rather have a see-I’m-not-a-shifter cut any day.

And she’s not even done.

“Life sucks, Sam. And you know I fucking love you too. And it doesn’t matter, and we’re never going to have what we did, or what we could have. But if you’re going to just run out because of that— that’s not how life works. Because we’re your family, whether you goddamn like it or not. So you can go and take time. Mourn Cas and Dean on your own, if that’s what you want to do. But you are going to goddamn pick up the phone once in a while, and you’re going to goddamn answer when we call, and you’re going to goddamn tell us when you learn more about this gates of Hell shit and you are goddamn going to let us help, alright?”

He’s left only to gape at her as she pats him on the arm once, like she hadn’t just unleashed the wrath of the Richardson on him, and turns to leave. He should say something, probably, but all that comes out is “How long have you been working on that?”

“Since Don told me what you were probably going to do.” She folds her arms again when she looks back. “Also, he didn’t almost die. Stop being a drama queen.”

The next second, Sam is alone in the kitchen.

When the light clears, he’s gone horizontal. At least, he thinks so. It’s hard to tell. There are arms around him, supporting him— and there’s Cas’s face, coming into focus above him.

Dean doesn’t feel dead.

He tries for a grin. “Hey.”

Cas doesn’t move for a second, so he tries again.

“You get the, uh… the uh… the thing?”

“Yes.” Cas nods a little bit, but Dean can feel his arm tense up. “I got the thing.”

It hurts. Everything hurts. He wants it to stop, but he’s afraid if he closes his eyes— he was dead the minute he set foot in heaven, he shouldn’t be this scared of the transition. He shouldn’t. But his hand is finding its way to Cas’s sleeve anyway. Curling onto it. Holding.

“I was pretty badass,” he croaks. “Admit it.”

A light fingertip traces his face, and Dean feels the cuts close. But what Cas can’t heal are the knife wounds, the ones that tore up his insides and it hurts, God, it’s burning.

Alastair. Not as bad as Alastair. He can do this. He can do this. He can do this.

Okay.

Cas lowers him slowly to the ground. But comes with him, until he’s sort of curled around Dean’s head. Like a snow fort, he thinks irrationally. Like that snow fort in Maine. But Cas isn’t snow. Cas is warm. Why is Cas so warm?

“Are you okay?” A hand cradling his head. A motion. He’s not right, something about Cas isn’t right. “Cas— are you okay?”

It hurts to talk. It hurts to live. The sun is so bright. Is that really the sun? What is up there? Does Heaven glow? He used to think Heaven was the moon, that it was lit from the inside, and then he didn’t believe in Heaven at all. Though that if it existed, it was black, black, black.

“I’m fine.”

“Cas.”

The hand runs gently down the back of his head. Cards through his hair. They fit together so perfectly here. Little broken puzzle pieces, left out in the rain…

“Zephon got in a couple good hits,” he says. “I’ll be fine. I just— need a moment.”

Dean tries to take a deep breath, but that seems to be something that he can’t do anymore. Everything is slightly blurry.

“I think I’m—” there’s not enough air to finish the thought. “I’m…”

And Cas curls a little closer. “Dean—” he stops for a minute. Then, “Dean, Dean, I—”

“No…” he pulls on the trench coat again. “No. Let’s not have a sappy exit here.” That gets a broken sort of laugh. “Come on, can’t a guy die in peace?”

And then there are lips on his forehead. Whispering into his skin.

“Never.”

“Oh,” Dean says.

He holds the trench coat tighter, but he can’t see it anymore.

“Okay,” he says again.

And then he dies.

“Hey, Don.” Sam adjusts his pillow a little bit. “How’re you holding up?”

“I got stabbed,” Don says, still sounding a little amazed. “I got stabbed by an angel.”

“Tough gig.”

“Yeah.”

They’re silent a minute. Sam should probably say thanks for saving my life, but he isn’t quite sure how to word it. He’s starting to debate the pros and cons of ‘thanks, man, I owe you one,’ but that sounds a little more like something Dean would say, and Sam isn’t going to—

“You think Dean and Castiel did it?”

Sam blinks. “He’s my brother, I don’t want to think about—”

“No.” Don’s snort is impressively loud for someone who has just gotten stabbed by an angel. He makes grabby hands at the cup, and Sam holds the straw up to his mouth for a moment. He doesn’t wipe the drips off his chin, though, because that seems a little demeaning. “Heaven. Did they close it?”

“They must have,” Sam says. “I mean, all my vision things stopped. And all the freak weather has calmed down.” Pause. “It’ll probably take them awhile to put out the fires in Yellowstone though.”

“It’ll grow back.”

“Yeah. Would have been nice to see Zeus fall into a hot spring, though.”

He gets a sort of grunt. “Amelia talk to you?”

“Was that what that was?” Sam laughs a little bit. Tries to pretend he’s not still reeling.

“So you’re staying, then.”

“I don’t know.” He honestly doesn’t. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to mourn his brother this time. Not when— fuck, not when Dean is probably happier up there. “But if I don’t, I’ll come back.”

Dean has had out-of-body experiences before.

He’s seen dead Deans and pseudo-dead Deans. Even killed a couple of them himself.

But even Sammy and his Ouija board didn’t hurt as much as Cas, curled over his bloody corpse. Framed by the wings of the angels they killed. He wants to reach out, but he doesn’t have anything to reach out with. Everything seems both in his face and far away.

Like there’s something wrong with the air.

He sees as Castiel unfurls a thick black wing, drapes it over his body. Curled around the edges like a blanket, pressed low like a shield. Like both.

He wonders if they’ve always been there, if he can only see them now that he’s whatever he is.

He sees the battles going on in the distance, swords still flashing, because maybe they haven’t realized yet. Maybe they don’t care.

He sees Castiel, struggling to keep the other wing off the ground as he fades out of consciousness.

He sees a truck pull up behind the Impala, and he wants to yell, wants to warn them. He cannot.

He sees Bobby and John get out of it. Go running to the bodies.

He sees Bobby look carefully at Cas’s wings to make sure that they’re real. Not burned like the others.

He sees John kneel over his body.

They’ve both seen Dean dead before, too. But that doesn’t stop John from touching him like it’ll bring him back. Like he has the spark of life.

Dean has no mouth to reassure them with.

He sees them both carrying him back to the car. Sees them place Castiel in next to him. It looks difficult, but they’re used to handling corpses.

He hears Bobby: “Shouldn’t we wrap up Dean’s wounds before we move ‘im?”

And he hears John: “I don’t think— he’s already dead, right, shouldn’t it just take a little bit for his soul to figure out where’s North?”

And he hears the rumble of the truck as it tries to start. He follows it down the road.

He sees the battle-torn edges of Heaven.

He sees beyond forever.

He sees the heaven of the first man to die, and he sees the place they’re saving for the last.

He sees the car turn. And it’s much faster for Bobby to get back to his Heaven, because his Heaven is where he makes it.

He sees them lay him down in a bed, not bothering to put an old sheet under him.

He sees Cas latch onto his sleeve.

He sees Bobby, too worried to roll his eyes at that.

He sees things from closer now. Closer, but slower. Time is bending, it’s like swimming through molasses, and now sees as good a time as any to get back down there.

Without arms, he reaches for his body.

And Dean opens his eyes.

And wishes he hadn’t.

There had been a sense of calm, of detachment before. Now the panic is hitting him in the face. Cas’s wings aren’t visible to him anymore, no sign that he’s not dying—

“Cas—”

“He’s alright, son,” Bobby says gruffly. Then looks over at John like he’s said something wrong, but they don’t get a reaction. “He’s come through worse.”

Dean doesn’t know how much energy it took to fight Zephon and finish poisoning the tree, he doesn’t know. Only knows that he’s reaching for Cas and Cas isn’t reaching back, and he hides his face in the angel’s neck for a moment.

“Don’t get to die in peace,” he whispers.

“Dean.” His dad’s hand is on his shoulder now. Not where Cas’s print was— but on the top, where he used to pat him when he’d done something right. “Dean, what do you need?”

“A minute,” he manages, sitting up. His wounds have closed, but there’s still blood all over his clothes, and he wonders if his spares are still in the chest of drawers over there. Wonders how deep Heaven goes. “Please, can I have a minute?”

His two fathers move out. Worry curling behind them.

“You’ll wake up,” he says to Cas. “You had damn well better wake up.”

He gets another finger twitch, and it’s better than a confirmation.

“This shit is crazy,” he says quietly. “I’m dead and in Heaven, but I’m also back in my body. This is insane. So you should wake up and look confused and tell me that you don’t know what happened.”

He doesn’t get a response this time. Dean sighs and lies back down. There’s no panic now, though, no worry— Cas waited for him to wake up, he can do the same. Because Cas always comes back. And then they can go to— they could go see anywhere. Traveling through heaven like it’s time, because in a way, it is— they can see a happy moment in Ancient Rome, Mesopotamia. Someone out there has to have a happy memory at Woodstock or Disneyland that they can crash. He wonders if the gods, now that they’re stuck here, will drop in on their old priests, if they’ll continue fighting the angels, or if they’ll just wander. If Dean’ll find himself in the middle of another war— no Heaven, no Hell, just more of the same.

He looks down at Cas— sleeping, angels don’t sleep— as he thinks.

But his clothes really are bloody.

Upon investigation, he discovers that yes, there is some plaid flannel in the dresser. He wonders if he should take a shower first, but fuck it, because he’s not leaving this room. So he just ditches his clothes in a pile on the floor, and has just finished zipping up clean jeans when—

“I really hope you weren’t planning on getting dressed.”

It’s a tired voice, but it’s enough. Dean spins around, torn between getting on arm through his shirt sleeve and getting to the bed as quickly as possible, and he probably makes an ass of himself but it doesn’t matter. He gets the other arm in but doesn’t bother to button it because it’s all he can do to climb up the bed, to hold onto Cas because he’s never ever letting go.

“How are you?”

“Well enough.” Cas makes like he’s going to sit up, but thinks better of it. “Between the damage we did to the Grace and Zehphon— I just needed a bit.”

“But you’re okay? You’re going to be okay?”

The only answer Dean gets is a hand curling around the back of his neck. Dragging him down, and then Cas is kissing him. Rough, possessive, permanent. And Dean lets him. Shifts over so that he’s balanced above the angel, tilting his head so that tongues can go deeper, so that he can say everything without having to actually use his vocal cords for anything more than quiet groans.

I’m glad were alive, he says.

We did it, he says.

We’re fucking awesome, he says.

I’m glad you’re okay, he says.

I was scared, he says.

I thought—

But then Cas is twisting his hips, rolling Dean onto his back. Looking down at him for a moment before he leans in, traces over Dean’s Adam’s apple with his tongue.

“Don’t we have—” God, he’s dead, he shouldn’t get turned on this easily. “Don’t we have to start running?”

Cas studies him for a moment. Head tilted, eyebrows together. “Yes,” he says after a moment. As though Dean’s hips aren’t pushing up, as though Cas isn’t grinding down, half hard despite his recently comatose state. As though Dean isn’t half a second away from spreading his legs and begging Cas to fuck him, to hell with John and Bobby downstairs. They could go outside, and Dean could bend Cas over the Impala, too, that wouldn’t be a problem. He isn’t sure if this is what yay-we’re-not-dead moments are supposed to look like and he doesn’t give a damn. It’s not like they have to have a sentimental talk or anything, because Cas knows everything he’d say already. Of course Cas knows.

“But we have a few minutes?”

Lips are on his again. Tongue slipping through his mouth. His own hands, slipping up under Cas’s slightly burned shirt. Digging into his back. He wants to stay here forever. He wants. He has.

He has.

“Yes,” Cas says. “We probably have a few minutes.”

THREE MONTHS LATER

Sam weighs the pros and cons of opening the hotel room door.

In the end, he does it with a gun at his side.

Dark eyes flick from the gun to his face, and then— “Relax.” She holds up both her hands, palms out. “I’m not gonna off you. Lemee in.”

There’s no way he can stop her, really, so he takes a careful step backward.

“Seriously,” Inanna says, kicking the door shut behind her. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You don’t want to kill me?”

She laughs a little. Walks over to the kitchenette like she’s been here a thousand times and liberates a beer from the fridge. “I did for awhile,” she says. “Thought about it. Had vivid fantasies about ripping your legs off, make you live the rest of your life crippled.”

This doesn’t really make Sam feel any better about the whole situation, even as she sits down in one of the chairs. Pops the beer open. “But?”

“Stupidest thing. I kept thinking of Enki. He got stuck up there, you know.”

“I know.” Of course he knows. It split his head open.

“Like your brother.” Inanna considers the foam a moment before slurping it up. “But there was this time— ‘fore we all went Briar Rose— there was this man I really wanted to kill. What he did— I was pissed as Hell. Was gonna smite the entire city to get to him. Enki, he takes the guy and hides him away. Says he’ll give him to me when I’ve calmed down. When I’ve thought about it awhile. So that’s what I did.”

He moves a little closer, careful to keep his gun aimed at her head. “So—”

“Take a beer, Sam, this is getting weird.” She waves a hand in his general direction. “Seriously. What, you want to feel me up, make sure I’m unarmed?”

“There’s a knife in your pants and probably something in your bra.”

She twitches an eyebrow. “You’re good. Probably not going to do much against that gun, though.” She leans over backwards, only one hand on the counter keeping the chair from falling over, and opens the minifridge again. Works another Sam Adams out of the six-pack. “Seriously.” She throws it at him, and he catches it.

This is probably one of the stupider things he’s done lately, but, fuck it. Sam keeps the gun out, but sits down across from her. Pops the top off the bottle. But he doesn’t take a drink, not yet.

“So why are you here, then?”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Because I read those Supernatural books, and you’re really good in bed.” Sam is going to find all the copies of that particular book, put them into a big pile, and then salt-and-burn them. “No, it’s cause— honestly?” She takes another drink, and there’s both a weariness and a strange sort of life in her voice. “’Cause you know who I am.”

He takes a careful gulp as well. “Aren’t there others that were down here?”

“Yeah,” Inanna says. “A handful of us. We were pretty scattered when your brother did— whatever you guys did. And it’s not like we have social security numbers or anything I can trace. Last names, even.” Beat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Athena had worked her way into the Situation Room by now, and I’ve been checking the music scene for Apollo, on and off, but to be honest I don’t know if he’d want to talk to me.”

Sam wonders where gods go when they die. He wonders if, when Apollo bites it, if he’ll have a fake Artemis with him in Heaven, or a real one. “How’ve you been living?” the idea of her getting a job— or even a cheap apartment— is odd. He can’t picture her outside a hotel. Which fits, he figures, since she’s here now.

Inanna rummages in her pocket for a moment, pulls out a wallet. It looks vaguely familiar. “I offered this to your brother, but he was too smart to take it.”

Sam remembers now. “That the one with the unlimited supply of twenties?”

“Yeah. Magic still works, you know— it’s not Hell based, even. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of us start brushing up on our witchcraft.” She’s quiet for another moment. And Sam wonders how many former gods he’s going to have to hunt. “The only person I think I could find is Claire, but…” she hesitates. “I still feel bad about that.”

She should. Sam isn’t going to make excuses for her, and she knows it. “Doubt you’d be able to find her anyway.”

“But she’s alive?”

“Yeah. Last I heard, Lily had found her. They were with Charlie and Benny, taking care of this baby-eating… I don’t even know what it was in DC.”

“Sure it wasn’t the Abortion Rights headquarters? ‘Cause that’s what they do, according to a leaflet some woman gave me in Newark.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought it was.”

He can’t help smiling, just a bit. They sit through another moment of quiet, before— “So, what. You’re here ‘cause you want to… trade war stories?”

“How did you guys do it, anyway?”

It doesn’t matter much if she knows, he figures. And Christ, maybe he’s been just as desperate for someone to talk to. He hasn’t checked in with the Richardsons in a couple weeks. “Tablet. An, um, angel tablet. Written by the Metatron, told us how to close Heaven.”

“So Casitel and Dean are stuck up there permanently, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Sucks.” She raises her bottle in a halfhearted toast. “I guess I can empathize.” And there’s no reason for Sam not to mirror her. Tap their bottles together.

They’re silent for a couple more moments.

“I came, because—” she isn’t looking at him now. Her head is angled just away from the window— the fading sun is making the edges of her hair glow, and it’s not hard to imagine her in battle. Imagine her in flames, tearing up cities, tearing up worlds. “Well, Artemis said something— kinda got to me, I guess. She said a lot of things. But— it was that she hangs out with people, ‘cause she likes them, and also ‘cause… ‘cause she’s got all these stories, and it’s kinda dumb to keep them all to yourself.” She faces him again. “I know so much, Sam. I’ve seen the rise and fall of cities, of whole civilizations you’ve never even heard of. I could point you to to the archaeological evidence for it, too. I know spells and sigils that have been forgotten, and— and I still suck at touch-typing.”

“You want me to be your biographer?” Sam asks.

He gets a shrug. “You know you’d love it.”

Yeah, that’s probably true.

“I’m a warrior, Sam. Goddess of battle. I’m not a puppet like the angels, but I gotta—” she makes a random gesture. Got to have a mission.

Sam understands.

Fuck it.

“There’s another tablet,” he says. “Kevin’s been working on it again.”

“Another?”

“Yeah, apparently God made a bunch. Blueprint of all His creations. Bit like the Mes, actually.”

She grins a bit. “You still have those, by the way?”

“Yeah. We gave up trying to get past Enlil’s seal— that was pretty smooth. Figured out what they wanted anyway, though.”

“Is that why you did it?” she asks.

Sam nods.

“You didn’t trust me to win?”

“Wouldn’t have mattered. Eventually… eventually Ningal would have gotten the better of you, or someone would have done something. You guys would have started fighting again, and if there’s one thing I’ve gotten out of the last few years, it’s that that doesn’t end well. Not for you, not for any of us.”

Inanna considers him for a minute. “So what’s this other tablet?”

“Closing Hell,” Sam says.

Her bottle hits the table with a thump. “I’m in.”

“Thought you might be.”

“What do we do?”

“Well, it involves killing a Hellhound, but Kevin is still looking into the specifics.”

“Would I have to wear flannel?”

“We have a strict uniform code. The secret handshake is also mandatory. Can I offer you another cheap beer?”

And this may be one of the stupider things Sam’s done, but then, he’s gone on two suicide missions on the say-so of Crowley. And both Sam and Inanna have been lost since Heaven closed. Working together only seems natural.

Maybe there was no other way this could end.

She nods. Then: “You know, if I’d wanted to, I coulda taken you the moment you opened that door. Gun or no gun.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

“You still living out of Don Richardon’s bank account?”

“How did you—” Sam sighs, pulls his head out of the minifridge. “No, the hunter ATM was a good idea, but too many old habits kicked in. Felt like I was being tracked.”

“Good thing I’m on board, then,” Inanna says. She grins at him. “We can pay our way in twenties.”