Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So I bare my skin, and I count my sins,
and I close my eyes, and I take it in,
and I'm bleeding out, I'm bleeding out for you.

- Bleeding Out, Imagine Dragons

Afterwards, Dean finds that he can't remember all that much about how they got out. He remembers Sam pushing a rough hand across his jaw and it coming away smeared with red. He'd gone to wipe it on his jeans, thought better of it, and clenched his hand into a fist instead, like a kid hiding candy-wrappers.

Thinking was like walking on a wobbling platform, like borrowing somebody's glasses and watching the world turn into one giant blur. Dean had been staring at Sam, but he doesn't think he was really seeing anything.

Dean was loosely aware that Cas was watching Sam too. He doesn't know how long it was before Cas stood up- but when he did, he pushed past Sam without comment, stumbling a little as he took the first steps.

"Cas-" Sam had tried to say, but Cas was already climbing the stairs.

"Cas!" Sam called, more urgently this time, and Cas stopped mid-step. He did not turn around, but he stopped.

"Ruby," Sam said plaintively.

After that, Dean's memories all slide into each other and overlap. Someone stabbed the demon guarding the door to Ruby's room- Dean thinks it was Sam, but it might have been Cas- and Ruby slurred something or other as Sam untied her. They walked back out the way they came, picking their way around bloodied bodies as Sam carried Ruby in his arms, bridal-style. Dean remembers Sam cupping her head in one giant hand, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. The image is burned into Dean's brain, nestled next to the loop of blood falling from Sam's lips, that one same drop falling over and over again.

Mostly, Dean remembers confusion and betrayal and anger and hurt, like jagged knives digging into him from inside and out, and he did not know and he does not know which feelings were his and which were Castiel's.

And now, sitting in the backseat of the Impala and watching the road rush towards him, Dean looks at the wheel and thinks, just for a moment, that maybe it'd be best if the car just spun off the road and just… just. Quick. Neat. But nothing's ever quick or neat, not for Dean, so he scowls and pushes the treacherous idea back to whatever polluted recess of his mind it crawled from.

Ruby was conscious by the time they got her in the car, and conscious enough to teleport away after a meaningful look from Sam told her that now really wasn't a good time. Now, it's only Sam and Cas in the car. Dean has experienced many, many awkward car journeys in his life, but he thinks this is the worst.

"How do you feel?" Sam asks, and Dean's utterly unsurprised that he spoke first. It's just like Sam to not get when a silence should remain silent, to not appreciate when something doesn't need to be said, and it's just like Sam to ask after the other person first.

"Terrible," Cas says bluntly, "but that's not the issue at hand."

"Are you kidding me? Cas, you got possessed. You can't-"

"Sam," Cas says, in that commanding tone of voice that always forces the suspect to talk or Dean to shut the fuck up. "Drinking demon blood takes precedence."

That knocks the words from Sam's mouth, until his mouth tightens into a line and he nods. "Yep. Okay." He looks over at Cas, expecting him to add more. Cas does not.

"I had to," Sam says, desperation colouring his words. "Cas, I had to. My powers don't… without the blood, I'm useless. It was- is- the only way to stop Lilith. You get that, right? Cas?"

"I'm tired, Sam," Cas says wearily. "I'm going to try and get some sleep."

"Sure," Sam says, clinging onto anything Cas gives him. "Of course. We can talk when you wake up."

Cas turns away from Sam, resting his head against his window, and switches his attention to Dean.

What do you think? Cas asks. Dean's leaning heavily against one side of the car, legs folded beneath him, and his wings have wrapped themselves around his shoulders in what feels like an almost comforting gesture.

It feels somehow shameful to admit how lost he feels. This is his brother; this is Sam. Dean knows Sam- at least, he thought he did. It's like a maths expert getting two plus two wrong, except this equation is his kid brother's life, and Dean never even saw it coming.

I don't give a crap about his reasons, Dean says flatly. He did what he did. I don't care why.

Then what do we do next?

I don't know, maybe find some demon-blood specific twelve-step program. No, I know there's not one! he adds before Cas can say anything. I don't know, Cas. How am I supposed to know?

Is there anyone who might?

Guilt pierces through Dean like a blade- 'as soon as possible' has come and gone, and he's yet to tell Inias a thing. Dean grits his teeth and tells himself he'll deal with angels later- soon, in fact- and it subsides a little. He really, really doesn't have time for his own shit right now.

Maybe, Dean says. There's an idea growing in his head, and whilst he doesn't like it- he really doesn't like it- he can't think of anything else to do.

Go on, Cas says. Dean's eyes find Sam's in the mirror, then drop to the ashtray. There's an army man crammed there- Sam's work, if Dean remembers right. It was one of Dean's toys, but he'd given it to Sam without question. Take care of Sammy. Look after your brother. Do your fucking job.

Dean makes his decision.

You still got your phone? he asks.

Yes.

You still got Bobby's number?

Singer? Yes. Why?

Dean looks at Sam and feels something heavy settle in his gut- something rotting, steadily pumping poison into his blood. He doesn't think it's the kind of poison that washes out.

You're gonna wanna text him.

"This isn't funny! Let me out!"

Bobby and Cas stand in the corridor as Sam hammers frantically on the locked door. Neither of them seem to know what to say. For once, Dean's glad that he can't be expected to join in. His thoughts are still firmly stuck on the image of Sam's face when Bobby called and asked him to swing by. He'd looked so damn happy.

In the room with Sam, lying next to his cot, are several plastic bottles of water and a stack of what Dean's pretty sure are gas station sandwiches. In the corner of the room, there's a bucket. Dean can't help but think of the space as Sam's cell. Well, if it looks like a duck…

Sam keeps on shouting- shouting for Cas, for Bobby, shouting abuse, shouting pleas, and Dean really, really wants to stop listening.

I'm heading out for a while, he tells Cas.

I understand, Cas replies. I'll let you know if his condition changes.

You make it sound like he's sick or something.

Isn't he?

A part of Dean wants to punch Cas for talking like that about his brother; a part of him agrees. Sam is sick, and Dean's somehow missed it for five months. What if it goes even further back? What if Sam was guzzling down blood when they were hunting together? No, Dean would have noticed that- wouldn't he? The alternative is too much to think about.

Dean teleports out blindly, ending up at the far end of the salvage yard by chance as much as anything else. Far away from Sam's shouts, Dean pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes and lets out a long, juddering breath.

"Dean," comes a voice. The universe can't give Dean two damn minutes, can it?

"Anna," he says tightly.

"We heard reports that you were taking on Asmodeus," she says. "What happened?"

"He's dead."

"Asmodeus is dead?" Anna says in disbelief.

"As a dodo."

"That's…" Anna struggles to find the right word.

"Impressive?"

"Insane. Dean, Asmodeus is nearly as old as Lilith, and he's immensely powerful- I mean, when the angels were being killed, he was our first suspect."

Dean's sure as hell not going to comment on that. According to Inias, the killings stopped pretty quickly after Alastair went bye-bye, so the Host have concluded that he was obviously the culprit. Obviously.

"Hundreds have tried to kill Asmodeus," Anna continues, "humans and angels both. Every one of them died, and none of them did it quickly."

"Well, you're welcome," Dean says with a tight smile.

"How?" Anna says, with near-reverence. "Was it Sam?"

"It was."

"How?" Anna asks again.

"You already caught the show with Alastair," Dean grunts.

"No, I mean how? How is he doing it, Dean? How is he getting stronger?"

That's when Dean knows what he's been starting to suspect: Heaven don't know. Sam and Cas slaughtered every demon who might have told, and with the sigils on the walls stopping anyone above Dean's calibre getting in, there was no way any angel could have overheard. Sam, Cas, Bobby and Dean are the only four people (close enough, in Dean's case) in Earth, Heaven or Hell who know what happened.

Dean has his orders.

"I don't know," he says.

Dean starts to feel the effect as soon as the last word leaves his mouth. His breathing catches, his heart rate shoots through the roof, and it's taking conscious effort to keep himself from shaking. He puts in that effort, though- he keeps his face neutral, his posture painstakingly relaxed. Pictures and sounds begin to flood into Dean's head, but he counters the memories of what's already happened with visions of what might- the angels declaring Sam an abomination, Sam screaming as they yank a knife across his throat, Cas being alone and Sam being dead and it all being Dean's fault.

Dean has his orders, but also has his choices.

Anna's looking at him intently, and whilst he's got every wall he knows of slammed up around his mind, maybe that's making him seem even more suspicious. He's not even sure it would matter if she heard- Dean can hear somebody crying, screaming in terror, and every thought he has is focused on telling himself 'notrealnotrealnotreal'.

"Are you sure?" she says.

"Yes," he says, too quickly and too much like a gulp. Anna touches a gentle hand to his elbow.

"Dean?" she says.

"I told you, I don't know!" he snaps, and he forces himself to look at her- or, at least, he aims his eyes at where he thinks hers are. His vision is swimming, flashback after flashback stealing his sight from him. Through the haze, he sees Anna step back.

"Okay," she says. "Thank you anyway. I'll tell Zachariah."

It takes Dean too long to work out that Anna's gone, and when he does he lets himself crumple to his knees. He barely even notices.

Dean can't go anywhere. Where is there to go? Wherever he goes, Heaven can find him. Once they figure out that he's lied to them, they'll rewire him again and they'll do it properly this time- or maybe they'll finally decide that he's too much trouble and send him right back where they plucked him from, with Sam and Cas hurtling after him.

Dean has nowhere to go, but he needs to go somewhere. He needs to put as much distance as he can between himself and the people he's put in danger. Dean doesn't know if the panic room is angel-proof- he doubts it- but if the angels don't know where Sam is, Dean can't risk giving them any hints. It's only then that it hits him: angel proofing.

It's risky, and it's going to announce to every single member of the Host that Dean's got something to hide, but it's the best chance they've got. Dean closes his eyes and focuses on Cas, catching hold of the familiar presence and letting it haul him towards it like a leash recoiling. He knows he's arrived at Cas' side through things deeper than sight.

Cas?

Dean?

They- I need-

Dean can't even focus for long enough to string a damn sentence together. When he looks at his hands, they're dripping with blood. It's alive on his fingers, writhing like maggots, and he can feel something crawling over his lips.

Let me see you, Cas says. Bobby isn't here.

Firm hands close around Dean's arms the second he drops into visibility. Dean slumps into the familiar hold, and he can't tell if Cas is holding him or holding him up.

"Breathe," Cas says. "Sit down, and breathe."

He guides Dean to something- bed or sofa, Dean can't say- and pushes gently on Dean's shoulders until he sinks down. The memories come thick and fast, and Dean's mind grabs one and latches on, fusing with the vision and letting itself be swallowed whole.

"Why have you stopped?" the voice commands. Dean can't tell who it is anymore. It's too hard to focus, on anything at all.

"I can't," he says weakly. "Too much… I'll…"

"Sit up!" the angel snaps when Dean slumps to the ground. "I did not say you could lie down!"

Slowly, head thick and spinning and so very heavy, Dean brings himself to his knees. Leaning heavily on his hands for support, his eyes find the angel's.

"Good," Raphael says. "Now, what seems to be the problem?"

"I can't…" he says, but loses the other words. Raphael waits patiently for him to continue.

"I'll die," Dean chokes out. "If I lose anymore, it'll kill me."

Somebody hits Dean, the slap hard across his face. He blinks in confusion and sees Cas lowering his hand.

"Focus," Cas says. "What's happening?"

Dean grits his teeth. "Angels. I'm supposed to tell them about Sam. I didn't."

"How do we keep them out?" Cas says, moving with Dean effortlessly, and Dean would be grateful if he had the time or presence of mind to be anything at all.

"Sigils. I can- paper," he gasps. Cas understands and immediately turns to searching, tearing through drawers and pushing stacks of books over. Through the watery pieces of reality his senses offer, Dean's worked out that he's in a bedroom; it must be one of the spare rooms he used to stay in as a kid. Bobby's house always was too big for just one man, and he had enough space to give Dean and Sam separate rooms every time they stayed. Maybe he figured they'd want their own space, but nine times out of ten, Dean would wake up to find Sam curled up at the base of his own bed. He'd complain about it in the morning, but he was never serious; if Dean's being honest, he never slept quite the same after Sam took off. The nights were too quiet.

"Here," Cas says, pushing a scrap of paper and a pen into Dean's hands. It's hard to focus, hard to think, and it takes Dean far longer than it should to recreate the sigils he saw at the funeral home and strip club. He doesn't know if they're right, but hopefully they're close enough. Dean's hand shakes as he draws, but the grounding warmth of Cas' hand against the small of his back helps.

"They need to be in blood," Dean says.

"Does it need to be angelic?" Cas asks, retrieving his dagger.

"No," Dean says, and as soon as he does Cas draws the knife across his own palm.

"Cas, no," he says uselessly as blood begins to ooze from the gash.

"On the walls?" Cas asks, ignoring him. Dean just nods, figuring this is a fight he's already lost. Without warning, the memory takes him over again, picking up where it left off.

"My apologies," Raphael says, with what sounds like genuine concern. "Don't worry yourself, Dean. I can fix things."

Another angel appears- Irriel? Uriel? Something, it was something. But this angel isn't alone- he's clutching somebody in his arms, somebody large and heavy and trying to fight him off.

"Get off me!" the man cries. Despite how heavy they are, how tired, Dean's eyes widen.

"Sam?"

"Dean?" The angel throws Sam to the ground before disappearing, not even looking to see where the body lands. Sam's thrashing when he hits the ground. When he jerks his head up, he looks desperate, sad and scared- and he's looking straight at Dean. Sam's shock is clear, eyes swelling as he looks Dean over.

"What happened?" Sam says, starting to crawl towards him. "Dean, what happened to you?"

Dean looks down at his body- objectively, from a distance, like the macerated mannequin has no tie to him. The tanned arms are covered in heavy red slashes, blood painting everything the same shade of rose. His jeans are rolled up to his knees and his calves and feet are in the same kind of state- gashes curving across the flesh, slicing at his heel, running between his toes. When he ran out of space on his limbs, he'd had to shed his t-shirt and continue his work on his chest and back. The blade he's clutching is slick with blood, so slippery that he has to keep wiping it clean on his clothes, on his skin, his face.

He meant what he said. He can't afford to lose much more.

A hand cups Dean's face, and he can just about make out Cas crouching in front of him.

"Hey," Dean says hoarsely, and Cas exhales, relieved. He lets his hand drop from Dean's face, but he doesn't move away.

"The sigils are complete," Cas says, gesturing at the wall. "If Bobby asks, I can say I found them in a book."

Dean doesn't care what Bobby thinks as long as he's safe. After all, as far as Bobby- and Sam- are concerned, a passing 'psychic' turned out to be a warrior of the Lord; a friendly guiding spirit who took them home after one of her brothers made Cas torture a demon. They don't know what angels are or what they can do.

"Will this pass?" Cas says with grave concern as his fingers brush Dean's wrist. As Dean goes to reply, the memory smashes into his head at full-force and yanks him back into its grip.

"You can use him," Raphael says. Dean looks from Sam to Raphael, uncomprehending.

"You need to finish your task," Raphael says. "I said cover the room, and the room is not yet covered. Use Sam."

"No," Dean says, not even having to think. "Never."

"Excuse me?" Raphael's voice is cool, but his eyes flame with anger. "I assigned you a task, Dean. You will complete it."

"Okay," Dean says, the word thick in his mouth, and raises the blade to his face. He slices it across his cheek but it's like trying to cut himself with a credit card. The skin won't part beneath the blade, no matter how hard he presses.

"You chose to stop," Raphael says calmly. "You said you had to stop, and so you chose to use Sam."

"No," Dean says again, shaking his head. "That's not what I said. This isn't happening, okay? It's just not."

"You don't have a choice," Raphael says, in a voice like lightning on a lake, like a stake driven through an eye socket, a vastness of force and power channelled into the hiss and spit of five syllables. "That's the point of this, Winchester. It's the reason you're here. Pay attention to what you're writing, or we'll have to begin again, and I doubt you want that."

"I'm not hurting Sam," Dean says, leaving no room for argument.

Raphael sighs. "So be it."

"Dean?" Cas is calling, but Dean's too far gone. This is it, he knows; he's not coming back from this one. He's done, gone, out of the fight for good.

The blade comes away from Dean's hand and flies towards Sam as if pulled by a magnet. Sam reaches out and catches it one-handed, with reflexes Dean knows he does not have.

"Dean?" Sam says unsurely.

"No!" Dean yells, dragging himself forwards on useless, lacerated limbs. It's hard-going but he ignores it, disregarding the pain until he's at Sam's side. When he reaches for Sam's arm he finds he can't touch it, his fingers held back by an invisible barrier. He can only watch.

"Dean, I don't… what's happening?" Sam says, scared, as he begins to move the blade towards his own arm. Raphael is watching him and his eyes are following the blade- or are they dragging it? Dean doesn't know. Sam's not the one doing this; then again, this isn't Sam.

"He's not real," Dean moans, rolling his head away. "He's not real, he's not real."

"Does it matter?" Raphael says softly. He's crouching by Dean's head now, his face a mixture of disgust and pity. Behind them, Dean hears Sam cry out in pain and shock. No, it's not him, it's not real. Raphael extends a hand and Dean finds himself facing Sam- not Sam, it's not Sam- slicing his skin open as tears run down his face.

"Dean?" Sam's eyes fix on Dean, on his big brother, begging him to take it away, to make it better.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean chokes out. "It's okay." Raphael is right: it doesn't matter if this is real or not. It's still happening.

"Good," Raphael nods, back in front of them now. Sam extends his arm and Dean gently presses two fingers to one of the bloodied wounds.

"It's okay," he says again. He turns to the wall on his right and slowly begins to smear out the words.

I must obey. The room had changed as Dean worked: every time he nearly coated a wall, he'd find another foot of white space he hadn't touched yet. I must obey. That's what Dean had written, over and over again on that always-growing wall. I must obey I must obey I must obey, in his blood and then in Sam's and then, when Sam had lain dead and bloodied at his feet, in Cas'. It had taken days to complete.

Now, as Dean sits in Bobby's spare room with his screaming head in his hands, he knows that this will be the last thing he sees. The final slip of consciousness is a breath away from coming loose, and it will do so with the whisper of 'I must obey' in his ears and the scent of drying blood raking his throat.

And then, all at once, the memory becomes meaningless.

"Dean? Dean!" Cas' hands are tight on Dean's shoulders, so tight they hurt.

"Cas?" Dean says unsurely. "It's gone."

"What?"

"It's gone," Dean repeats. "The… everything. It's…" He clenches a fist to his chest and then flings the fingers out in a mock explosion, the pain flying far, far away. All of the anger, fear, guilt, it's all vanished, leaving only the faintest of aches as a sign it was ever there.

"How?" Cas says. "Why?"

"I don't know," Dean says, "but I don't trust it."

Cas' eyes find his, searching for answers Dean doesn't have. Dean can remember it all, every cut and cry and plea, but none of it means anything to him. He pushes harder. He thinks every blasphemous thought he can, prays for God to die and for Heaven to burn, and he gets nothing. No response. His collar hasn't just been loosened; it's been pulled off.

"Could it be the sigils?" Cas says uncertainly.

"Maybe," Dean says, eyeing the markings. "Looking good, by the way." A few are slightly different to what Dean drew, but looking at them now, he thinks they're actually closer to the real thing. Cas has spent a lot of hunts being relegated to 'sigil drawer', so who knows? Maybe the skill's transferrable. Or maybe it's yet another weird fluke in the long stream of weird flukes that make up Cas' life, but they don't have time to worry about that right now.

"How's Sam?" Dean asks.

"Dean-"

"Priorities, Cas. How's Sam?"

"We think he's started to hallucinate," Cas says, and Dean tastes bile.

"You sure?" he says roughly.

"He was saying Alastair's name."

Dean rubs a hand over his face. "How long is this gonna go on?"

"We don't know. There are no documented cases of a human drinking demon blood."

"Yeah, well 'no documented case' pretty much sums up our lives," Dean mutters. "I lied to Heaven, Cas, and they're gonna be pissed. I don't know that they wouldn't try and hurt you or Sam or Bobby just to get me to show my face- or hell, maybe they'd do it to blow off steam, I don't know. We need those sigils up everywhere."

"What do I tell Bobby?"

"Tell him the angels might not take that kindly to Sam guzzling down demon blood. Tell him you don't know if they're watching or not, but if they are and they find out, you don't know what they'll do." After all, that's not that far from the truth.

Cas brings Bobby in and shows him the sigils, regurgitating Dean's explanation, and Bobby grudgingly agrees to put the new sigils up.

"I am too damn old for this," Bobby grunts, wincing as blood bubbles to the surface of the cut on his hand. People are painting walls with their blood again, and it's still because of Dean. He's not happy about it, but it's got nothing to do with the memory from discipline. Dean's glad that he's not a gibbering wreck, but he doesn't like this. He's sick of Heaven treating him like a circuit board, cutting connections and sticking them together as they please. It makes him worry about what wires they might have ripped out.

"I'm sorry," Cas grimaces as Bobby begins working.

"Make yourself useful and cover the kitchen," Bobby says, with good-natured grouchiness. "I'll handle upstairs."

They cover the walls swiftly, with Dean only entering a room once all of the sigils are in place. Nobody's sure what to do about handling the panic room. They peek through the window and find Sam deep in conversation with somebody that isn't there.

"We can't leave him," Cas says. "It isn't safe."

"He's coming off demon blood," Bobby points out. "That ain't safe for us. For all we know, he'll take a swing at anyone who walks in the room."

"Sam won't hurt us," Cas says confidently. Before Bobby can respond, Cas pulls the door open and slips inside, pulling it shut behind him. Sam jumps and turns at the noise, blinking heavily like he's coming out of a dream.

"Crazy bastard," Bobby mutters. Dean has to agree. He loves his brother, but he doesn't know how much they can trust him right now.

Be careful, he tells Cas.

"Cas?" Sam says in confusion.

"Hello, Sam," Cas replies. He uses the knife to poke the just-healed cut on his palm back open.

"What- what're you doing?" Sam asks as Cas starts to mark out the circle on the wall.

"Sigils," Cas sighs, like he wishes Sam wouldn't talk to him. Sam doesn't play along.

"Against what?" he asks.

"Angels." Cas finishes the first sigil and starts on another.

"Why angels?"

Cas doesn't reply.

"Cas, why angels?" Sam repeats.

"Try and rest, Sam," Cas says, finishing the second sigil.

"No!" Sam gets to his feet, and Dean feels Bobby stiffen next to him.

Dammit, Cas, I said be careful! Dean says, knowing it's probably not fair but needing someone to pin the blame on.

Cas takes a breath. "I'm sorry," he tells Sam, the words slightly forced. "The sigils are to protect you. We don't know how the angels will react to your… situation."

"The demon blood," Sam says flatly.

"Yes." Cas works quickly and speaks slowly; he's nearly finished.

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "Cas, I'm so, so sorry. I let you down, I let Dean down- I get it, okay? I do. Let me out of here. Please."

Cas finishes the final sigil. He turns to face Sam.

"I am sorry for this, Sam," he says. "I truly am."

Dean doesn't watch Cas leave. He hears the shouting and thudding, and he knows it's taking both Cas and Bobby to physically shove Sam back into the room and shut the door on him. Sam begs and curses and pleads, and Dean can't look.

He can't leave either, though; he feels that, after everything, he owes Sam that much. Dean stays in the corridor and, once Sam's calm enough, teleports into the room to sit by his bed. Sam keeps on hallucinating, but his responses are too vague for Dean to work out what he's seeing.

Cas and Bobby drop by every now and again to check on Sam, but they never stay for long- Dean thinks they're finding it too hard to hear Sam in pain and not be able to help. Dean, on the other hand, is kind of an expert at that by now.

Hours later, a sudden jolt of anxiety rockets through Dean's head, and it doesn't take long for him to realise it's not his own. Cas?

Yes?

What's up?

I'm fine.

You sure? Admittedly, the anxiety's gone now, and they are all worried about Sam. This felt different though- stronger, somehow more raw.

Yes, Cas says. How's Sam?

Sleeping. Dean's been wondering about dreamwalking, but Sam's been seeing ghosts all day; Dean doesn't know if he could handle any more.

Dean heads back upstairs after a while and sits with Bobby and Cas. The two of them seem to get on okay, though things are understandably stilted. They watch the news, and it doesn't make for very reassuring viewing.

"That's a Seal," Bobby nods at the TV: sixty-six kids have been killed in some New York school. Children are dying, Sam may very well be doing the same, and Dean's more useless than ever. Another current of anxiety ripples through Dean's head, and he glares at Cas even though his ward can't see him.

What the hell is up with you? Dean asks.

Nothing.

I'm not buying it. You're worried about something.

We don't know if Sam will be alive come morning, Cas lashes out. Of course I'm worried.

Dean backs off- but he can't shake the suspicion that there's something more, something Cas isn't telling him.

Day turns into night, with Sam alternating between talking and screaming (and once, which Dean is determined to forget, sobbing). Anxiety that is not Dean's own brushes over his mind with increasing regularity. Dean thinks that Cas is actually trying to stifle it, to hide it from him, and that can't be a good sign. It's nearly one in the morning when the anxiety turns into a sudden lurch of fear, and that's when Dean cracks.

Upstairs. Now, he says, leaving no room for argument.

Dean?

I said now, Cas.

Cas stands up. "I'm going upstairs," he says.

"Get some sleep," Bobby nods. "I'll get you up if anything happens."

"Thank you," Cas says.

What's this about? Cas asks as he climbs the stairs, managing to sound pissed off without speaking out loud.

You tell me.

Cas opens the door of the bedroom Bobby's allocated him and by the time he shuts it, Dean's standing in the middle of the floor, arms raised slightly at his sides.

"What is with you?" he says.

"I don't know what you mean," Cas says briskly.

"Bullcrap," Dean retorts. "Something's wrong, isn't it? Don't lie to me," he says as Cas opens his mouth. "Don't you do that, Cas."

Cas pauses, reconsiders.

"Yes," he admits, his head bowed. "Something is wrong."

"Alright," Dean says warily, glad Cas is at least admitting it. "What?"

"Nothing of importance."

"Cas."

"I mean it, Dean," Cas says heatedly. "I'm safe, Sam's… stable. It's nothing."

"Really? Dean says. "Because it sure doesn't feel like nothing." The tough approach is getting him nowhere, so he rubs a tired hand over his face and tries again.

"Hey," Dean says. "Look at me."

Cas reluctantly meets Dean's eyes, and Dean smiles encouragingly.

"There you are," he says. He moves forward, close enough to let his hand brush against Cas', and he hears Cas let out a quiet breath. It sounds scared, like he hadn't dared to let the breath go until he knew Dean was there to make sure he took another.

"Talk to me," Dean says simply.

At first, Dean doesn't think Cas is going to say anything. When he focuses on his ward, he can sense the same anxiety as before, but with a new edge to it- almost like embarrassment, like shame.

"I'm hearing voices," Cas says, so quietly that Dean nearly misses it.

"Like before?" he asks once he's wrapped his head around what Cas is trying to say.

"Yes."

"Okay." Of all the things Dean had been expecting Cas to say, that really had not featured. "Right. When did that start?"

"Several hours ago."

"Okay. Uh, what are they saying?" Dean asks, out of morbid curiosity more than anything else.

"I can't tell," Cas says. "It's nonsense."

"Was that how it was before?"

Cas shifts. "I can't remember," he says agitatedly.

"Okay, hey, it's okay," Dean says, trying to sound calmer than he feels. "This is no big deal. You're stressed, right? That's all it is."

"You really think so?" Cas says. Dean seizes onto the whisper of hopefulness he can feel underlying the doubt.

"Cas, the world's on its series finale," he snorts. "That's enough to make anyone crack, no matter how tight their head's screwed on. It'll pass."

"And if it doesn't?" Cas says. Dean flounders.

"… there's drugs and stuff, right?" he says. "I mean, I don't know much about this crap, but-"

"I don't want to go back to the hospital," Cas says. His voice is flat, mechanical, but Dean can sense the anxiety whipping up around Cas like a storm threatening to tear him into pieces. "I can't go back, Dean. I can't."

"You won't," Dean says. "I won't let happen, okay? I swear."

Cas sags. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding disgusted at himself. "This really isn't something we have time for."

"Sam's demon blood detox isn't something we got time for either," Dean points out. "I don't know about you, but I don't have much time for the friggin' apocalypse. These things never book in advance." Dean entwines their fingers together and feels Cas' distress soften, fade a little at the edges.

"Thank you," Cas says softly.

"Don't mention it. Bobby was right, you know," he says, changing the subject. "You should try and sleep."

Cas snorts. "I don't think that's going to work."

"Still," Dean says. "What's the alternative? Watch Sam talk to the walls?"

Cas consents to at least lying down, and Dean takes the chance to go and check on Sam. His little brother is pacing the length of the room, muttering all the while. Dean thinks it sounds more like 'assholes-locked-me-in-a-room' muttering than half of a conversation, though, which he thinks might be progress.

You 'kay? he checks on Cas.

Yes. How's Sam?

Better, I think.

Sam stops and his head snaps around. "Mom?" he says, startled.

Dean groans. Yeah, I take that back. How're the voices?

Still there.

Louder?

No.

That's gotta be good, right?

Cas doesn't reply. Dean sighs and turns back to Sam.

"What if it's stronger than me?" Sam asks empty air plaintively. "Look at me. What if Cas is right?"

Sam listens intently. "Even if it kills me?" he asks. Whatever Sam hears in reply makes him press his lips together and give a slight nod. Yeah, Dean's not so big on that.

Dean takes a quick trip upstairs to check on Bobby. There's an empty whiskey glass sitting on the table, and Dean watches Bobby sigh and pours himself another drink. Dean sits down, content to stay for a while, but a tortured scream from downstairs sends him rocketing back to Sam's side.

There's nobody there but Sam- of course there isn't- but he's stretched out on the cot, his arms pressed against the metal like he can't move them.

"Please," he's sobbing. "Please, no. No!" He screams again, long and piercing, and Dean feels like his heart is shattering. Sam's still screaming when Dean leaves, making his way back to Cas' room where he knows the shrieks will not reach.

Cas is lying on top of the sheets, propped up on his elbows and staring at the ceiling.

Back, Dean says before he touches down.

Cas sits up. "How-"

"Worse," Dean says grimly. Cas' face softens in concern and he shifts his legs up, looking at Dean pointedly. Dean sits down heavily at the end of the bed and, after a few seconds, drops his head into his hands. As Dean stares at the carpet, he starts to talk. He finds that he can't help it, that the words don't ask for permission before coming out.

"When I was a kid," Dean begins, "I had to grow up pretty quick." Sometimes he still feels four years old inside, but he doesn't tell Cas that. Dean feels the weight on the bed shift and knows that Cas is kneeling behind him, listening.

"I got good at not reacting to things. Blood, dirt, shit, salt…" He makes a dismissive hand gesture. "No big deal. There was only one thing, one thing I couldn't handle, and that was puke. I don't know why. Everything else was fine, but if someone hurled, I was gone."

His father had hated that, he remembers. Dean saw his first exorcism at about seven, and he had to leave because the way the guy heaved was enough to set Dean heaving too. Being ordered out of the room, desperately willing himself not to throw up because that'd make things even worse had made Dean feel like a baby, like a rat getting under his father's feet. It had been days before the ice left his father's eyes, days of silence that screamed of John's disappointment louder than words ever could.

"After mom died and we started hunting," Dean continues, "getting a balanced diet wasn't exactly high on our list of priorities. Mostly it was crappy convenience store stuff- whatever was cheap and easy, to be honest." He remembers spoon-feeding Sam ice cream and instant oatmeal in McDonalds parking lots; trying to persuade his father to eat something, to consume anything other than endless cups of strong black coffee.

"It suited me just fine, but Sam's always been finicky. All the fat and sugar and junk messed with his stomach- maybe he was too young for it, I don't know." Dean tried his best to keep Sam healthy, but it was tough. He remembers buying Sam fruit gums instead of chocolate whenever he could, because everyone said that fruit was good for you, but Sam never liked them much and Dean didn't want to make him eat food he didn't like.

"He got used to it eventually," Dean says- or maybe Sam got old enough to start picking out healthier stuff, Dean can't remember- "but as a kid, he used to get stomach ache pretty often. I remember this one night, when I was… eight, I think. We were staying in this seriously crappy motel when this noise woke me up. Sam wasn't in bed, so I checked the bathroom and…" Dean makes a repulsed face.

"He'd been sick?" Cas guesses.

"Everywhere," Dean says. "It was bad. He was curled up next to the toilet and he was crying, and when I walked in he started saying sorry, over and over again. He knew what seeing people throw up did to me. He told me to go away, that he'd handle it. And I looked at all the mess, and I was sure I was gonna puke or pass out or something, but then I looked at Sammy and I thought no. I told myself, 'you can do anything for Sammy. You can do anything he needs you to'. And I did. I cleaned him up and I put him back to bed and scrubbed that damn bathroom till it shone."

He still remembers it now- the way the too-bright light had flickered and stuttered, the rhythmic flush of the toilet as he dropped wad after wad of vomit-soaked paper into it. And every time Dean looked down or the smell threatened to overtake him, he would tell himself 'this is for Sam. You can do anything for Sam.'

"It wasn't easy, but it was," Dean says. "It was fucking disgusting, actually, but it was what Sam needed, and there was nothing I couldn't do if he needed it."

Dean feels Cas' hand close on his shoulder, and he twists around to look at him. "And now there's you," he says, and he refuses to acknowledge that the way his voice cracks on that last word. "And it's the same. I know I've hardly been much use so far, but I still- there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, Cas." Dean swallows, laughs weakly. "You know, sometimes, I'm not worried about Lilith. Sometimes I just know that we're gonna win, and I know that the world's not going to end- because if it did, that'd mean you and Sam got hurt, and I can do anything, any damn thing at all, to keep you two safe."

"Dean," Cas murmurs, moving forwards properly to sit by Dean's side.

"But then I remember that's not how this works," Dean says, because he can't stop, not now. "I remember that in the real world, good people die and bad people don't, and there's not a damn thing you can do about any of it. I remember that I screw things up, and that God certainly doesn't give a shit, and so where does that leave us?"

He can't stop thinking about Sam screaming his heart out downstairs, and about the voices chattering away in Cas' head, and about Bobby's bottle of whiskey getting emptier by the minute, and it hurts. There are too many things going on, too many things Dean needs to fix. He's only just gotten fixed himself, and for all he knows, the pain has only gone away because the angels have severed the nerves.

"You deserve better," Dean says. "All of you deserve better, but you most of all."

Cas tries to move his hand to loop around Dean's shoulders, but Dean pulls away. "You've spent so damn long not having a life, stuck staring at the same four walls, and this is what you get as your prize? I'm the knight in shining armour? I'm not even here, Cas. I don't even exist half the time."

"I don't care," Cas says firmly.

"Why not?" Dean says. "There's a whole world of people out there, Cas, people who don't fucking disappear when someone walks in the room. I'm your guardian angel, and I'm bad enough at that. I shouldn't be your…" Is there a word for it? Dean doesn't know, and he's too agitated waste time finding out. "You deserve someone better," he says again. "Someone human, for a start."

"Dean," Cas says. "I. Don't. Care."

"You're telling me life wouldn't be easier if I was human?" Dean challenges.

"It would be easier," Cas says, "but that's not an option. If the choice is you as you are, or another- any other- human, then there is no choice."

Dean's mouth is dry, his thoughts an incomprehensible blaring of static. "You don't mean that," he says.

"I do," Cas murmurs and kisses him, pulling at his shirt to close the gap between them. Dean pulls away.

"You can't-"

Cas just brings their lips together again, this kiss longer and harder than the last. Dean almost gives in but then he breaks away, ready with another counter-argument.

"I don't want anybody else," Cas says before Dean can say a single word. He holds Dean's gaze as he speaks, eyes determined and fierce like he's prepared to fight for this. "I want you."

And then Cas kisses Dean again, moving his hands down to grasp at Dean's hips, and Dean only holds out for a few seconds more before he gives in; he needs this too much to fight it. He needs something to hang onto, something to lose himself in, something to distract him from the hate and hurt that defines him as much as his name or face ever have. Take me some place else, some place where things are better. I need to forget, just for a little while. Cas' lips are hot and hard against his, his teeth pulling at Dean's lower lip, and where did he even learn to do that? Dean grabs at Cas' shoulders and yanks him close, as close as it's physically possible to get, and it's still not enough. Please, just let me forget.

Dean pulls Cas into his lap, hands sliding under the material of Cas' shirt, and Cas moves his legs so that he's straddling Dean, his knees pressed tight against Dean's hips. Dean drops his lips from Cas' to mouth against his jaw, his neck, sucking and then biting at the skin he finds. Heat rushes through Dean's body, a desperate stream of want and need ricocheting throughout his bones, and he can't tell what's his and what's Cas'. Somehow, it doesn't seem like an important distinction.

Cas' hands skirt at the edges of Dean's t-shirt, pushing it up, and Dean breaks away long enough to tug the damn thing off and drop it. The air is cool on his sweat-soaked skin, and something about the sensation makes him freeze in place. It's the first time, he realises as the material hits the floor, that he's taken the shirt off on Earth. In Heaven, he had shed it during discipline, but everything Dean has done on Earth has been in the same rags he died in.

"Dean?" Cas says. His voice is husky and heavy, but the concern is clear. Cas raises his hands to Dean's face, long fingers sliding against his skin. Dean leans into the touch, his forehead pressing against Cas'.

"Are you okay?" Cas murmurs.

"Yeah," Dean says hoarsely, trying to shake the feeling of abnormality, of otherness, that the realisation brought. The air is still cold against his exposed skin and he presses closer to Cas, who runs a thumb over Dean's lips.

"What do you want?" Cas says, and Dean knows what he's asking- if Dean is okay, if this is too soon, if this is too much.

And well, Dean wants a lot of things. He wants Sam to be okay; he wants Lilith diced into a thousand tiny pieces; he wants the whispers in Cas' head to skip town and never come back again. Dean wants to wear a new shirt every day, and to sleep and piss and eat like a regular human being. He wants things to be okay, he wants to make everything okay, but he's learned the hard way that no matter how much you want something, you can't always get it.

So instead he turns his head slightly to murmur "I want you" into Cas' ear, because he wants that too and beyond all logic, beyond any reason, he might just get to have it. He cannot make things better, but maybe he can make things feel better.

Cas' mouth is on his again in a heartbeat. Dean curls his hands into Cas' hair before moving them to pull impatiently at Cas' shirt, yanking it up over his body and kissing him as soon as the material's out of the way. He doesn't understand what's going on when Cas pushes away suddenly, clambering from Dean's lap and standing up.

"What are-" Dean says in confusion as Cas strides towards the door.

Cas locks the door. "I really don't want to be interrupted," he says, and despite everything, Dean laughs. He feels a pulse of something that goes deeper than arousal, a surge of something that wants to grab hold and never let go- to claim, to protect, to keep.

It's something that crept up on Dean without his intention (hell, without his awareness), something that Anna picked out and even goddamn Asmodeus hinted at it, but he refuses to think of either of them right now. All Dean knows is that it's still hard to tell what is Castiel's and what is his own, but he's almost certain that this belongs to both of them.

Dean's worked with the 'first time' thing before- more than once, actually- but this is different. So many things are a 'first time' for Cas and, between the demons and the angels, there's a continual threat that 'first' could become 'only'. If Dean can't promise Cas a future, he needs to make sure the present counts. Suddenly, it's not just about forgetting- it's about memorising, about hand-carving a new memory that is theirs and theirs alone. Heaven have no claim on this; the world outside this room cannot touch this, cannot touch them. They are somewhere else; somewhere safe.

He meets Cas halfway, dragging him back to the bed. He starts to wonder if Sam or Bobby would be able to see his clothes lying discarded on the floor, but somehow he never makes it to the end of the thought. He takes vicious glee in the way Cas has to muffle any sounds he makes against Dean's neck, which backfires in the best possible way when Cas turns to their silent, private link instead, and he's more than loud enough to make up for it.

And Dean forgets. He forgets which pieces of skin are his, where he ends and where Cas begins, whether he's angel or human, worthy or worthless, and for a while, for a short, perfect while, everything else fades away and leaves them alone. The world shrinks to nothing but Dean and Cas and the sheets around them, the material crumpled and clawed at and finally drawn up to cover them.

It doesn't take long for Cas to fall asleep afterwards, his head lolling against Dean's chest and their legs tangled together. Though it's cheesy and unforgivably chic-flic, Dean lies awake and watches Cas sleep, a soft smile on his face. It's a strange thing, but Dean thinks that if he could do it all again, he wouldn't take a different path. Alastair and Zachariah and Raphael be damned, he wouldn't give this up. He stays there, entwined with Cas, long into the morning.

At about five, Dean carefully disentangles himself, and is pleased when Cas rolls over and goes back to sleep. Dean doubts that you can sleep off a schizophrenia relapse, but it can't hurt. Anna's necklace is still looped around Dean's neck- he'd thought it was best not to take it off, just in case- but he pulls his clothes back on, deciding not to think about the way his wings push through the material like it's not even there. He looks back at Cas and his breathing tightens, doubt starting to curl on his gut. Later. He'll handle that later.

When Dean goes to check on Sam, he finds that his brother's still sleeping. The only person awake is Bobby, who's been awoken by a ringing phone.

"Suck dirt and die, Rufus," he snarls. "I already lost one kid. You call me again, I'll kill you."

Bobby hangs up and goes to throw the phone across the room, but thinks better of it and sets it down on the table instead. He flips the TV back on, where a bewildered newsreader from Key West is describing how ten species- none of them considered threatened or endangered- appear to have gone extinct, all at once.

"Seals," Bobby mutters to nobody. "More damn Seals."

There can't be many left, but Dean can hardly call down Inias or Anna and ask for the exact numbers. All he can do is hope that the angels give up on hounding Dean for long enough to kill Lilith- or, failing that, that Cas and Bobby will do what's long overdue and stick a knife in the bitch.

Doubt pulls at Dean's mind. If it's really that simple, why haven't they done it already? The only thing looking like a real option was Sam using his powers, and that's sure as hell off the table. Dean has no idea where Ruby is, and he doesn't care. If he ever sees her again, he'll send her ass back to Hell so fast it'll put the goddamn flames out.

Morning fades in, and Sam wakes up. He seems peaceful at first, but it doesn't last. Dean stays in the corridor rather than sit in the room itself. He wants to be there for his brother, but being around Sam right now is… difficult.

"Help!" Sam's shouting from where he's stretched out on the table, body arching with his screams. "Cas? Bobby! Help! Please, help!" Then, lucidity giving way to desperation, he cries louder than ever: "Dean! Dean, help me!"

Dean turns away from the window and leans heavily against the wall. "Would if I could, Sammy," he says miserably. It's another half-hour before Sam takes a break from yelling, and after a few minutes of blessed silence, Dean hears feet padding towards him. He turns his head to see Cas approaching, and his heart pulls a neat little trick where it flips itself over.

Cas was in a pretty bad way yesterday, and when Dean thinks of what happened last night, the words 'taking advantage' are hard to ignore. There are no obvious waves of self-disgust or shame coming from Cas, but Dean's still uneasy. There's only one real way to find out- and, fuck, he really does have to find out.

Hey, Dean says, and he has to admit he's relieved when a soft smile spreads over Cas' lips.

Hello, Cas replies. I thought I'd check on Sam, he says, walking towards the door, and Dean presses closer to the wall to avoid the ever-creepy sensation of being walked through.

More hallucinations, I think, Dean provides.

Bobby said, Cas replies, yawning. He looks through the window and turns away, satisfied with whatever he sees. Are you here?

To your left. Dean waves, though he knows no one can see him. Sorry for ditching you this morning.

Cas tilts his head in confusion, but if he's not bothered, Dean's in no hurry to elaborate. He's hardy had much experience with bedroom etiquette.

You, uh, feeling okay about last night? he asks instead. He can't believe how friggin' surreal this is- his little brother's detoxing from demon blood in the next room over, and he's checking that his last hook-up doesn't regret anything. But, as the niggling feeling in his chest won't let him forget, Cas is more than just a random hook-up. He means something to Dean- exactly what, Dean's not even going to try and classify- and Dean needs to know that he's okay.

About what? Cas asks.

About the, you know… that. Dean scowls at himself.

If you're asking if I regret anything that happened, then no, Cas says. Obviously not. Dean's picking each word apart, searching Cas for any sign of a white lie or cover-up, but it's all genuine. Dean lets out a long breath, something heavy lifting from his chest. For a moment, he actually forgets to reply, and Cas' face creases with sudden concern.

Why?  Cas says uncertainly. Do you?

What? No! Really, no.

And Dean means it. Sure, there's still guilt pooling in his gut, but he's determined not to listen to it. He doesn't regret it, Cas doesn't regret it, and as far as he's concerned, they're the only two people who really get a say on the matter. Dean doesn't know if what they did last night was right, but he's determined not to care. He's spent too damn long worrying whether what he and Cas are is 'right', and it's never gotten them anywhere good. From now on- for however short a period of time that might be- they're whatever they want to be.

Bobby tell you about the Seals? Dean says instead.

Three more yesterday. How many are left?

Too damn few for my liking, Dean says bitterly. How're the… y'know?

Voices?

Yep.

Still there, Cas confesses, and Dean's heart sinks. I thought they were going, but if anything, they're louder.

Do you think I could hear them? Dean says. If I tried listening in?

Why would you want to?

Dunno, Dean shrugs. Curious, I guess.

Cas seems hesitant. You can try, but I doubt you'll make any sense of it.

Dean focuses on Cas, and images and sentences that are not Dean's own float into his mind. Fear for Sam, for Dean, concern over the Seals breaking… Dean sifts through them, pushing them this way and that, but nothing sticks out.

Nope, Dean says, giving up. Looks like you get to keep that one to yourself. Apparently the whole thought-reading thing comes with 'no mental illnesses' in the disclaimer.

Time passes. Sam's drinking the water Bobby left him, but he's not really eating, and his periods of lucidity are further and further apart. Cas is getting worse too- every now and again he mutters under his breath, shaking his head like he's trying to dislodge whatever's living inside.

Dean's sitting in the corridor again when he hears a loud thud from Sam's room. He rushes to the window to find Sam lying on the floor, mid-seizure.

Sam needs help, Dean tells Cas frantically. Cas strides down the corridor a few seconds later and makes straight for the window.

"Bobby!" Cas calls once he's seen what's going on.

What if he's faking? Dean asks as Sam jerks and writhes.

Do you think he would?

I think he'd do anything.

As Bobby turns the corner, Sam is suddenly picked up from the floor by nothing, slammed against the wall by that same nothing.

"What in hell?" Bobby gasps. He throws the door open and he and Cas rush in. Together, they manage to push Sam down against the cot, though it takes their combined weights to hold him down.

"We're gonna have to tie him down," Bobby grunts.

"I know," Cas says, and Dean leaves. He sweeps up into the lounge, unwilling to see them tie Sam down like an animal, unable to cope with the fact that he can't help. His wings twitch behind him, sensing his unhappiness, but that only makes him feel worse. He's a little kid playing pretend; he's useless.

Cas and Bobby reappear ten minutes later, both looking exhausted and dejected.

"Sit," Bobby says to Cas, who does so. He pours himself a glass of whiskey and goes to pour another for Cas. "You drink?"

"Not really."

"World's ending, boy," Bobby says, pouring it anyway. "Drink."

What did you do with Sam? Dean asks, though he's not sure if he wants to know.

We had to chain him to the cot, Cas replies. He doesn't sound happy about it. He takes a swig of the whiskey and winces as it goes down, but he takes another all the same. Dean's pierced by another stab of anxiety, stronger than the background noise that Cas' worry had become. He looks at Cas sharply and sees that his fingers have gone white where they're gripping the glass.

Cas? Hey!

It's nothing, Cas says before Dean can even ask, setting the glass back down with care.

"So what's the plan?" Bobby asks.

"The angels are still working on stopping Lilith," Cas says.

"Yeah, and how's that going for them?" Bobby snorts. Cas remains quiet. "Let me ask you something. How many times have you met these so-called angels?"

Cas falters. With Dean spending so much time with Cas, there hasn't really been a need for other members of the Host to get involved. When you remove Dean from the equation- as Cas now has to- explaining why they should trust the angels is suddenly a lot more difficult.

"There was Anna," Cas says, "and then Uriel."

"So twice? That's all?"

"Yes."

"Alright, let me get this straight. You met two things that claimed to be angels- despite there being no damn proof of angels existing in the first place- and that seemed fine to you? They told you the world was ending, and you're A-okay with lettin' them handle it?"

"Not particularly, but I fail to see another option," Cas snaps. "We could try and kill Lilith ourselves, but we don't even know where she is, much less if the knife will work on her."

"Good point," Bobby says. "But then again, we got something here that we know can kill demons."

Cas looks at him sharply. "Are you suggesting we let Sam go?"

"I don't like it any more than you do, trust me- but if it stops Armageddon…"

No! Dean says. No freakin' way. No more 'greater good' crap, Cas.

"The angels can handle it," Cas says, but it doesn't sound like he believes it.

"Okay, why don't we call one down and ask them? Oh, wait. We've got damn angel-be-gone sigils on every wall. If they're so trustworthy, why can't they stick their big toe in this building?"

"I told you. If they find out about the demon blood, Sam is in danger."

"Based on what? Seems to me all they've done so far is save you from witches then ask you to gut some demon as repayment. Either there's something you're not telling me or there's something they're not telling you, and either way, I don't like it."

Bobby might be right both ways, Dean thinks. They can't tell Bobby that the reason the walls are covered in sigils is that there's a guardian angel hiding behind them, one who's fucked over a force not known for taking disobedience lightly. There's not a damn thing Dean would put past them.

Equally, though, Dean doesn't know why his emotional shock-collar's suddenly been deactivated. He doesn't know what's taking the angels so frickin' long, he could fill books with the things that don't make sense about Castiel's history, and after all this time Dean still doesn't know why he was picked to be a guardian in the first place.

The following silence is interrupted only by a vicious scream from downstairs, a sound that's quickly becoming a backdrop to their lives. Bobby and Cas exchange wary glances before rising as one and heading dutifully to the door.

"Stop!" Sam is pleading. "God, please, stop!"

He's still tied to the cot, but that hasn't stopped the hallucinations.

"I'm sorry!" Sam shouts, twisting against the restraints. "I didn't- I'm sorry! Please don't-"

"We should go," Bobby says uneasily. Sam's face glistens, but Dean can't tell if that's with sweat or tears.

"Stop!" Sam pleads. "Please don't- I'm your brother, please, please-" Sam screams again, long and loud and agonised. Coldness drips into Dean's gut.

"Dean, please, stop!" Sam begs again, and Dean thinks he's going to be sick.

He thinks it's me, he says numbly to Cas.

I know. Cas' words are laden with sympathy, with pain, and with the knowledge that nothing he can say will help.

He thinks it's me, Cas. Fuck, he thinks… Dean can't stay here, not here, not while Sam's going through that. He sits in the bedroom instead, closes his eyes and pitches himself into the blackness of the trance state. He's still not sure that dreamwalking is a good idea, but he can't just sit around and do nothing. In the end, though, his reservations doesn't matter; Sam's mind is a closed door. No matter how hard Dean tries to break past the barrier, he's kept firmly out. Hallucinations, it would seem, aren't interchangeable with dreams.

It takes a long time before Dean finally admits defeat. He sits back and stares at the wall, trying to unpick right from wrong. It's not an easy task, and it's not made any easier by the regular surges of fear that flood his mind. Dean can tell that Cas is trying to hide it again, but he's not doing a very good job.

Evening falls, and in the early hours of the night Dean is stabbed with a terror that's nearly unbearable. He teleports to Cas' side in an instant, convinced the angels have arrived or that Lilith's on the doorstep.

Cas is sitting hunched over on the sofa. Bobby stands in front of him.

"Cas?" he asks. "You okay?"

"Shut up," Cas moans, curling up tighter. "Shut up, shut up."

"Only tryin' to help," Bobby says, sounding a little affronted. Cas shakes his head.

"Not you," he says, voice strained.

Cas? Dean asks, but Cas doesn't reply. His shoulders heave with what Dean realises, with dawning horror, is a sob. He's never seen Castiel cry.

Cas? he tries again, and terror pulses from Cas as he presses his hands over his ears.

"Not again," he mumbles. "Please, God, not again."

There goes the G word. Dean's knows that Cas still believes there's someone upstairs- he's even overheard Cas praying once or twice- and, even more counterintuitively, Cas seems to think that 'He' actually gives a shit. Cas takes the existence of Heaven and angels as proof that God exists; Dean takes it as proof of the exact opposite. He doesn't see a loving, caring father condoning what Raphael does to those who have a different set of priorities. If there was ever somebody watching over humanity, then he's been dead or missing for a very, very long time.

"Maybe you should go lie down," Bobby says, clearly at a loss for what to do. Sam must have explained how he met Cas at some stage, and Bobby has no idea what to do with an ex-mental patient midway through a relapse. Neither does Dean.

Bobby persuades Cas to pry his hands away from his ears and guides him upstairs. Cas falls onto the chair without comment, clutching his head in his hands again.

"You want me to stay?" Bobby asks.

"No," Cas whispers, and Bobby nods.

"Call if you need anything, okay?" he says, and after one lingering look of concern, he goes. Dean materialises as soon as the door closes.

"Hey," he soothes, crouching in front of the chair. "It's me. Cas, it's me."

"Dean," Cas says, his voice cracking as he looks up.

"The one and only," Dean grins. "Hold still, okay? I wanna try something."

He presses two fingers to Cas' forehead and focuses. He's healed cuts, burns, even a broken bone. How different can this be? He focuses on the idea of Cas' mind healing, of the voices fading away and leaving him alone, focuses everything he has on the desire to make Cas better.

"It's not working," Cas says.

"It will," Dean insists.

"Dean, it's not." Cas moves backwards and sits upright, tilting his head back. Dean wants to shout, to knock a hole in the wall or shatter a vase, but getting angry isn't going to help here. He forces himself to stay calm instead, breathing out heavily through his nose.

"What are they, louder?" Dean asks when Cas' grip on the arm of the chair relaxes slightly.

"Louder," Cas grunts, "more frequently, more of them."

"Still nonsense?"

"Yes," Cas says, but he hesitates before he answers.

"Go on," Dean presses.

"It's nonsense," Cas says, "but sometimes…. I think I understand it."

Dean blinks. "So what does it mean?"

"It still makes no sense," Cas says frustratedly. "It's like hearing fragments of a conversation, I can't piece it together. But the fragments… Dean, it's nonsense, but I understand it. And I think- I can't remember, but I think this is how it was before, when I was a child."

"You were really ill for a really long time, Cas," Dean reminds him, playing the voice of reason, pretending he knows a damn thing about what's going on. "It makes sense for that crap to resurface sometimes. The whole nonsense thing is pretty weird, I'll give you that, but that doesn't mean it needs worrying about."

"Bobby wants to let Sam go," Cas says. Dean's mouth tightens into a line.

"We can't, Cas," Dean says. "It's not right."

Cas nods. "I agree. It wouldn't-" He lurches forward suddenly, and Dean grips him by the shoulders.

"Cas?"

"Nothing," Cas gasps as he looks up, their faces a breath apart. "Loud, they're loud. That's all."

Dean leans forward to press a quick kiss to Cas' mouth. "I know," he tells him, and then he stands up. "I gotta go. I'll be back soon, okay?"

Cas nods. He's still bent over, his arms resting on his knees. "Where are you going?"

"To see Sam. Call me if you want me, okay?"

"I'll try not to."

"So not what I said."

Cas grimaces. "Dean," he says. "I'm so s-"

"If you say you're sorry, I'll punch you," Dean warns. "And then I'll have to apologise, and I friggin' suck at apologies. M'kay?" Cas doesn't answer, but a weak smile tugs at his lips. Dean grins back, with brightness he doesn't feel. "See you soon, Cas."

Dean doesn't find Sam. He doesn't find Bobby, and he doesn't stay in the room with Cas. He makes his way down the staircase, all the way to the back door, and he stands and stares at the wood.

Do I really wanna do this? A fresh shriek from the panic room gives Dean his answer. With a final look at the protective sigils Bobby and Cas spent so long creating, Dean teleports outside.

"Anna!" he shouts. "Anna!"

Dean can't see any other option. He can't hold Sam and Cas and the whole damn world together, not all at once. It's too much for anybody to handle, especially someone with his track-record when it comes to fucking things up. Dean's willing to negotiate. The angels can't get inside the house, so everyone inside is still safe- but they can have Dean. If it stops Lilith, if it helps Sam and Cas, it'll be worth it.

"Anna!" he hollers again. He hears the familiar flutter of wings, but it's not Anna that arrives.

"Would you answer someone else's mobile?" Dean demands. If Inias looked bad before, the only word applicable now is 'awful'. His hair is pushed up at strange angles and his eyes are rimmed with red.

"Anna's busy," Inias says tiredly- and then, "You lied to us."

"I did," Dean confirms. "I'm guessing Anna told?"

"No, Anna told us you had no idea how Sam is getting stronger- but Zachariah is powerful, Dean. He saw that she didn't really believe you, understood that she was trying to protect you. You know how Sam is getting stronger."

"I do."

"Tell me."

Dean goes to answer, but the words stick in his throat.

"Dean?" Inias says when Dean doesn't answer.

"What're you going to do to Sam?" Dean asks instead.

"Nothing, for now." Dean makes a noise of disbelief. "I mean it," Inias insists. "Believe it or not, we have bigger things on our plate."

"Swear on it?"

"Dean, the world is ending. I don't have time to waste on lies."

Dean's still unhappy, but Inias has a point. "Demon blood," he says. "He's been drinking demon blood."

Inias exhales. "Somebody did suggest that," he says. "I was hoping it wasn't true, both for his sake and for yours. Withdrawal from demon blood can kill."

Dean nods; he'd guessed as much. "They've got him tied up in a room, going cold turkey. It ain't looking good."

Inias grimaces. "Only time will tell."

"Could he do it?" Dean blurts out. "Kill Lilith, stop the apocalypse?"

"Possibly," Inias says, "but if he's relying on blood for strength, he would need to drink a colossal amount. I don't know what effect that would have on Sam, but it's likely it would be permanent."

Permanent. Lilith dead, but Sam lost. Is it worth it?

"You're forgetting something," Inias says, breaking up Dean's tangled web of thoughts. "You were chosen, Dean, not Sam. I told you that God has work for you, and this is that work."

"What's 'this'?"

"I don't know."

"Sorry, not buying it."

"I don't- but Zachariah does. If you come out of hiding and agree to work with us- to follow any and all instructions Heaven give you- then you can stop this."

Dean falls quiet as he thinks. "If I do this, Sammy doesn't have to?"

"That's what I've been told."

"And Cas?"

"No harm will come to him."

"Then I'm in," Dean says decisively.

"Thank you, Dean," Inias says, and his relief is strangely intense. His entire body sags with it, eyes filling with a watery kind of light. "I'll tell Zachariah. This is… good. For many people."

Despite what his teachers used to say, Dean's not stupid. He can put two and two together and get four, and when he combines Anna's sudden unavailability with how plain ruined Inias seems, like the whole damn world's been pulled out from underneath his feet, the answer is clear.

"Anna's in discipline, isn't she?" Dean says. "For lying to protect me?"

Inias' head falls. "She disobeyed," he tells the ground. "I- Zachariah made me take her…"

"You hand-delivered her to Raphael?" he demands, and takes Inias' silence as confirmation. "I don't- she trusted you," he says in disgust.

"I didn't want to do it!" Inias snaps, looking up. "I told him I didn't want to, I begged him not to make me- but then he asked if I was disobeying, and I- I serve Heaven, Dean, I trust Heaven."

"No, you don't," Dean snarls. "You know you don't, so don't you dare give me that."

"What am I supposed to do?" Inias says angrily, and whilst it's supposed to be defensive, Dean thinks there's an honesty to his question, a desperation.

"Fight back!" Dean says. "You're better than this, Inias. Don't just roll over and lie at their feet."

Inias looks at him, long and hard. His eyes are glistening. "I wasn't lying, Dean," he says, his voice quiet and measured. "I don't know what Zachariah has planned for you. But over the next few hours, one way or another, we will find out, and I sincerely hope that you will remember what you just said to me."

"Which means?" Dean says, but Inias has already touched his arm and taken him to Zachariah's office. There's been a change, though- now, Dean's wings slump heavily against his back and the background radiation of Cas' anxiety vanishes. His powers are blocked.

"You're tardy," Zachariah calls. He's sprawled out in a chair, his feet propped up on the desk.

"Dean's agreed to help us," Inias announces. Zachariah claps in delight.

"Dean! I knew we could count on you, buddy," Zachariah says, swinging his legs from the table. "So what was it? Witchcraft? Elbow grease?"

"Demon blood," Inias says. "They have him detoxing at Robert Singer's house."

"Good, great. You can go, Inias."

Inias lingers. "What about Anna?" he asks.

Zachariah's smile drops and, when he looks at Inias, his eyes are sharp.

"What about her?" he says coldly, and then he snaps his fingers and Inias is gone. "I'm sorry about that, Dean. He's usually better at realising when he isn't wanted."

"I said yes, okay?" Dean says; he's got no time for Zachariah's bullshit right now. "I agreed to come back."

"Inias gave you a choice?" Zachariah says sharply. When Dean doesn't answer, he gives a long-suffering sigh. "You know, I'm starting to think I need new staff. This was never a request, Dean."

"Yeah, you're scary, I get it," Dean says, waving a hand. "I said I'd help, okay? I said I'd do what you want, so quit jerking me around."

"You know, I'm never sure whether to admire your chutzpah or turn you to ash for it," Zachariah muses, standing across from Dean. "All the same, no time like the present and all that. They're at Singer's, you say?"

"Yeah."

"If only somebody hadn't angel-proofed the house," Zachariah laments. "I'm a little disappointed at your lack of hospitality, but I trust you have good reason. Who knows? Maybe Castiel fucked your brains out."

Dean slams up every mental barrier he has, shoving Zachariah far from his mind. Zachariah chuckles, amused. By now, Dean can usually tell when someone is trying to push their way into his thoughts, but Zachariah is an expert.

"Took you long enough to notice," Zachariah comments, but Dean doesn't rise to the bait. Right now, he has to stay focused on what matters, and that's getting Sam and Cas out of this mess alive and well.

"What's wrong with Cas?" Dean asks.

"That's a very negative attitude," Zachariah says disapprovingly. "I mean, I know Castiel's a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but that's just disrespectful."

No, that's not going to cut it- not now, not with everything that's going on. Dean's world is fragmenting around him, and he can't piece it back together until Zachariah gives him the goddamn glue. Dean needs answers.

"Why Castiel?" Dean says, a mystery from long ago that never got answered. "Out of everyone in the world, out of all those people who need protection, why did you assign me him?"

"What, you want to swap?"

"Answer the damn question."

"I think you're forgetting who holds the reins here, Dean."

"Enough, okay?" Dean says. "Enough. I have pushed aside a lot of crap about Castiel, because frankly, I didn't have the time to look into it. But he's had a shitty life, and now it's getting even worse, and I'm pretty sure that you won't find what's wrong with him in any diagnostic manual. So cut the bullshit, because I'm not doing a damn thing until I know what's going on."

"Oh Dean, you drama queen," Zachariah says, rolling his eyes. "Go on, then. Untwist your panties and pick a question."

"What's wrong with Cas?"

Zachariah pulls a face. "I'm sorry, this category is temporarily locked. Please try again later."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that all will become clear with time. I can tell you that Castiel is safe- no harm will come to him. Is that good enough?"

"No."

"Tough," Zachariah says. "It's all you're getting. Ask something else."

"How many Seals has Lilith broken?"

"Oh, only sixty-four."

"There's two left?" Dean says in disbelief.

"Yes, time is very much of the essence. With that in mind, you are going to go into Singer's house and release Sam from wherever you're keeping him. All clear?"

Dean stares at Zachariah. "What if he drinks demon blood?"

"That's the aim, champ."

"You want him to drink blood? What the hell?" Dean shouts. "You sent Anna to discipline because she tried to cover that up, and now you're telling me you want it to happen?"

"Anna was sent to discipline for not being honest with us," Zachariah says. "I'd like nothing better than to send you back for doing the same, but right now you're of better use on Earth. We need Sam freed so he can finish this."

"Inias said-"

"Inias is an idiot. Look, Dean- Lilith needs to die. Yes?"

"Obviously."

"Well, I don't think that flimsy knife you band around is going to cut it. Face it, Sam's powers are one of the only things that can put a dent in that piece of filth, and they're what we're going to use against her."

"If Sam drinks that much blood," Dean says slowly, "he won't even be human anymore."

"Maybe not, but who cares? Neither are you. A half-angel and a half-demon. You'd make a neat pair."

"I'm not doing it," Dean says. "There has to be another way."

"It's been less than two minutes and you've already forgotten your promises," Zachariah comments. "I wish I could say I was surprised."

"I said I'd serve Heaven. Since when do Heaven want angels cosying up with demons?"

"Heaven wants a lot of things, Dean, the majority of which you don't get to know. When you took the Grace, you swore to obey God and his angels, and now God and his angels are telling you to let Sam loose."

"And I am telling you no," Dean replies unflinchingly.

Zachariah sighs. "Did you notice that we lifted your restraints?"

"The memory crap?"

"Elegantly put as ever. Yes, Dean, that. Did you wonder why?"

"Because I'm pretty?"

"Wrong. There are actually three reasons. Number one: it was a test. We wanted to see whether you'd bolt if we took off the choke chain, and you did- but you also came back, so that was annoyingly inconclusive. Secondly, we thought it would be a show of our… good nature. Someone pointed out that you might be more inclined to help if you didn't think of us as the 'bad guys', so when you holed yourself up in there with Sam and Castiel, we thought we'd give you a few hours' of respite- enough time to come around to our way of thinking."

"And third?" Dean says warily.

"The third," Zachariah says, "is that when you keep on shocking a rat, it starts to get used to the electricity."

Dean doesn't have words to describe what happens next. It's the same punch of guilt and pain and fear, but it's stronger than ever before. It's all-encompassing, inescapable, filling up every nook and cranny inside of him, flooding into cells until he's sure he's going to burst.

Memories flash before his eyes, but they don't feel like memories. They feel like here, now, this very second: Cas on his knees begging for mercy, Dean using his nails to dig a hole for Sam's mutilated corpse, a drill opening Dean's skull, his mother spitting that he's let her down, Raphael's cold observation, and then Alastair. Alastair singing as he splits Dean open, Alastair smiling and nodding with pride as Dean shears off muscle, the woman under Dean's knife screaming in agony.

The tidal wave dims enough to let Dean understand what Zachariah's saying. Dean's on his hands and knees, digging his fingers into the carpet as Zachariah stands over him and talks.

"We were kind enough to take away all of those nasty memories of Hell, but as you've rejected every other kindness we've offered you… something about gift horses and mouths, I forget."

Dean's engulfed again, yanked away from the world and tossed from agony to agony. Some are from Heaven, some are from Hell, and some he can't pinpoint as being either. In some, he is cut, burned, hit, crushed; others have him watch the same things happen to Sam and Cas, to his mother and his father and Bobby. Others still have Dean carry them out- sometimes on Heaven's versions of his loved ones, sometimes on the sinners of Hell.

"Do you think that's the worst of it?" Zachariah says, dampening the flood again. "Do you really? The things that were done to you, the things you did- tell me, was it worse to beat Castiel bloody, knowing he wasn't real, or to flay a paedophile knowing he was?"

Dean's shaking, trembling uncontrollably. He retches but brings up only thin yellow acid, dribbling down his chin.

"Now, if Sam's detoxing from demon blood, he must be in a bad way- and something tells me that, right now, Castiel's not so hot either. Things are bad, Dean, but if you don't do as I ask then they will get worse, and I'm just telling you the facts here. Alastair's gone, but there are more than enough demons down in Hell hoping to try and fill his shoes- if I were to hand Sam over to them, I'm sure they'd thank me for the chance to refine their skills. And as for Castiel- well, they do say the guardian feels his ward's pain. Do you think Cas would like discipline? Raphael doesn't usually deal with humans, but I can persuade him to be flexible."

Zachariah lets everything slam into Dean at full force one more time, before drawing it away. "That's your ultimatum," he says. "What's it gona be?"

"I'll do it," Dean whispers into the stained carpet, tears stinging his eyes, bile burning his throat. "I'll open the door."

"Was that so hard?" Zachariah tuts, and he clicks his fingers.

Every memory slides away, each filed neatly back into its place. The tempest of emotion drains from Dean, leaving behind a painted shell with nothing inside. Now, he can't even pinpoint half the things that were pushing their way into his head; it's all one great big mass of grey.

Zachariah puts his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels as Dean tries to stand, managing it on his second attempt.

"I can't manifest while Sam's there," Dean says. "How the hell do I open the door?"

"If he's asleep, you'll be able to," Zachariah says. "If not? Try really, really hard. You might rupture something, sure, but it'll heal. Don't think about asking Castiel to open anything, I don't want him getting involved. Not yet. Are we clear?"

"Yes," Dean forces himself to say.

"There you go. Was that really so hard?"

"And me?" Dean asks. "After Sam goes, what am I supposed to do?"

"Bide your time, have faith. Stay with Castiel and Bobby-make sure they don't go chasing after Sam. We wouldn't want him to be interrupted, now, would we? I should warn you that if you so much as put a hair out of line, then what you just felt will come back, full-force. Castiel and Sam will be dealt with accordingly. I'll contact you if and when you're needed again."

"And Cas? Will he get better?"

"Would it make you feel better if I said yes?"

Before Dean can reply, Zachariah digs his nails into Dean's arm, and then Dean is standing back in Bobby's yard, alone. He's reassured when his wings pick up behind him and his ward's presence floods back into his mind, though Cas' fear is strong enough to make Dean physically recoil. Dean inhales, holds it, and exhales. He repeats the process until the breath he lets out does not shake.

It's time.

Dean hates himself with every step he takes back to the house, walking rather than teleporting to put it off that little bit longer. The key to Sam's cell is strung up by the door, the blind over the window pulled up. Sam's fast asleep; Dean supposes he ought to be grateful. It means that he can pick up the key and, hand trembling slightly, unlock the door by hand. That's not the end of it, though- Sam's still tied down.

Dean tiptoes into the room. He can see now that Sam's hands are bound with the kind of knot Dean's tied and untied hundreds of times before- this shouldn't take long. Dean moves forwards, barely daring to breathe. He's so close to Sam, and he's corporeal. They aren't separated by the veil, and this is no dream. Any other time, the thought of him and Sam actually existing in the same space would bring Dean comfort, or pain, or some strange mix of the two. Right now, though, he can't afford to think about anything other than the job at hand.

Dean picks at the bindings as carefully and quietly as possible. If Sam wakes, then Dean will spark out of visibility straightaway. He'll have to break the rope through willpower alone, and he knows that won't be easy. No, he has to do this right; he has to do it before Sam wakes up.

Dean gets the first knot undone completely, but the sudden slackening of the rope causes Sam to stir. Dean panics and hurries with the second, fumbling it, and he feels himself leave the physical plane a millisecond before Sam opens his eyes.

Sam looks at his freed hand in confusion, stretching it and holding it out in front of him.

"Hello?" Sam calls. He pulls at the other knot until it comes undone, and then he reaches down and undoes the bindings on his feet. He swings his legs off the bed and stands, bringing a hand to his head as he sways in place.

"Someone here?" Sam calls when the dizziness passes.

"Just go, damn you," Dean hisses. Sam looks around again and then leaves, frowning briefly at the sigils in the hallway but hurrying past. As soon as Dean can't see Sam anymore, he lets himself drop back down into existence. He closes the panic room door but hesitates, key in hand. Should he string it back up? Or should he hide it somewhere and make it seem like whatever busted Sam out did it the old-fashioned way? Does it really matter? Dean throws the key to the ground, disgusted at himself, and goes to find Sam.

He teleports outside to find Sam trying to jump-start a car, his hands slipping and his breathing unsteady. Dean glances around, half-convinced that Bobby or Cas are about to step out of the shadows and stop Sam in his tracks, but nobody comes. Dean leaves Sam to check inside the house and finds Bobby sat by Cas' side. Cas' head is in his hands, his knuckles curled against his closed eyes.

"Breathe," Bobby says.

"I am," Cas says, grinding his teeth together. He exhales, long and slow, and then his shoulders slump. "Sorry," he mutters.

"Boy, that's the ninth time you've said that in ten minutes," Bobby says. "Quit apologising and keep on breathing."

Dean teleports back outside in time to see the car drive away.

It's done. Sam's gone.

Dean feels heavy, like the blood from his veins has turned to cement. He has no way of knowing what he's condemned his little brother to- only that he might not have a little brother anymore by the time Sam's done. It was the right thing. If it was this or handing Sam and Cas over to Hell, then this was the right thing. The words offer no comfort. The words feel like lies.

Dean teleports back to Cas. It would be so much easier to not talk to anyone, but Dean figures he needs to keep on acting like nothing's changed. The longer it takes for them to work out that Sam's gone, the better.

Hey, Dean says, sitting down next to Cas. You okay?

No reply comes. Dean's wings stir uncomfortably behind him.

Cas? he asks again. Can you hear me?

Dean? Cas says after a beat. Dean breathes a sigh of relief, his wings settling back down.

How're you doing? he asks.

Again, Cas takes a moment to reply. Alive.

That bad, huh?

Cas stiffens again, his breath catching in his chest. Dean flinches as a wave of confusion and dread and sadness, tangled emotion with spiked edges, slams into him. Guess that answers my question.

"Breathe," Bobby urges again, and slowly, shakily, Cas does.

Dean stays by his side. With each spell Cas seems worse, his eyes glazing over and his lips moving soundlessly, answering questions that nobody asked. Dean doesn't know whether to worry more about Sam or Cas, and he settles the issue by deciding on 'both'.

"I gotta check on Sam," Bobby says apologetically, and Dean's stomach drops. It's been just over an hour. How far can Sam get in an hour? "You gonna be okay alone?"

"Fine," Cas grunts. "Go."

Sam or Cas? Both. Focus on the one you have here. Focus on the one you can still help.

Dean takes advantage of Bobby's brief absence to drop into reality. He slides an arm around Cas' shoulders and pulls him in to lean against his chest. Cas goes willingly, half-falling into place.

"I don't know what's happening to me," Cas says shakily.

"It's okay," Dean murmurs into Cas' hair, rubbing soothing circles against his back. "You're not going back to the hospital. It's okay."

Cas just twists Dean's t-shirt underneath his fingers, clinging on like Dean is crumbling rock and the wind is pulling him down. Less than a minute later, Dean hears footsteps pounding at the stairs. He barely has time to say "sorry" before he vanishes, and the apology is for more than just leaving.

"He's gone," Bobby announces, bursting in.

"Gone?" Cas says in alarm, sitting up.

"Completely. The door's still locked and shut, but there's no sign of him. How in the hell did he get out?"

"Demons? Ruby?"

"That'd be my guess."

"What do we do?"

"You don't do a damn thing," Bobby says. "No offence, kid, but you're not in a fit state to go anywhere. I can look for Sam, but I'll tell you now that when doesn't want to be found, he's damn near impossible to find."

Dean? Cas says, and Dean knows that he's screwed up. He should have been freaking out from the instant Bobby shared the news, cursing Ruby with every name under the sun. Cas is too clever and he knows Dean too well to not pick up on the lack of response.

I don't know, Cas, Dean says, hoping it's not too late to play the 'stunned silence' card. I don't. This is… it's too weird. What do you think?

Cas doesn't answer, and when Dean looks at him he knows he's lost again, the voices in his head drowning out everything else. Who needs help more, Sam or Cas? Both, and Dean can't help either.

Bobby rings Sam time and time again, but Sam doesn't pick up. After the twelfth call, Bobby gives up and leaves a final message.

"Just let me know if you're safe," Bobby says tiredly. Sam doesn't call back.

Every cell in Dean's body is screaming at him for not going to Sam's side, his mind a constant jumble of ringSamfindSamgetSamfindSamSamSamSam. Zachariah's threats and the memory of meat hooks are the only things keeping Dean away. Whatever Sam's going through right now, it can't be worse than Hell.

Dean spends most of the day talking to Castiel instead; focusing on keeping Cas anchored in reality has a way of grounding both of them. Cas hasn't even asked him to go after Sam- after all, Cas still thinks that every angel in the goddamn Host is waiting in the yard, eager to punish Dean for his crimes. As far as he knows, Dean's trapped here.

"Tell me about your family," Dean says. Cas is upstairs in his bedroom, so Dean can talk to him in person. It's getting harder and harder to contact him through their usual link- 'too noisy', is how Cas describes it.

"Why?" Cas asks.

"You got anything better to do?"

Cas glares suspiciously, but relents.

"My parents were good people," he begins. "Misguided, perhaps. They'd stopped believing they would ever have a child- they didn't know what to do with me. When I was young, things were fine, but when I got older… they found my condition very difficult to cope with, my mother especially. Looking back, I think she may have been mentally unstable herself. She would tell me that I was cursed or that I was a changeling- a demon's child swapped for her own."

"There's a word for that, and it ain't 'misguided'," Dean snorts.

"They loved me," Cas insists. "That much I know."

Dean doesn't like to speak ill of the dead, or of Cas' family, so he lets it go. His wings aren't as forgiving- the feathers behind him, agitated and angry. Trying to imagine how alone Cas must have felt- how many years he's spent believing he's rotting, infected with something that cannot be flushed out- is enough to make Dean hurt, a physical ache in his chest.

"What about that Balthazar guy?" Dean asks. "Where does he fit in?"

Cas told Dean about Balthazar- at least, about his knowledge of Balthazar- after they left the diner all that time ago. Dean had listened and said nothing. He sees no reason to tell Castiel that one of the few people to ever give a crap about him wasn't even from the same damn species.

"I'm not all that sure how we're related," Cas says. "He's a cousin of some description. He would come by once a year or so- ask how I was being treated, if I was okay."

Angels are watching over you, Dean remembers, his gut twisting. Angels were watching over Castiel long before Dean showed up, but why? After all, it sure as hell wasn't to make Cas' life better. Zachariah owes them both so many answers, but Dean doesn't see him paying his debts any time soon.

There's a knock at the door. Dean disappears.

"Come in," Cas calls, and Bobby walks in.

"I checked the house," he says with no prelude. "The salt lines, the sigils, all the demon-proofing we got. Nothin' broken, nothin' disturbed. It's all fine."

"What does that mean?" Cas asks.

"Means it can't have been demons," Bobby says grimly.

"It can't have been angels either," Cas says. "We have sigils."

"You know anything about these sigils?" Bobby says. "You used them before?"

"Well- no, not exactly-"

"Any chance you drew one wrong?"

Cas falters. "I…"

"Idjit," Bobby says in disgust, sweeping out and slamming the door.

It's not your fault, Dean tells him. I screwed up. Must have.

"So the sigils were wrong?" Cas says.

Maybe. I guess.

Dean's starting to lose track of the lies.

"Police found my car," Bobby says at midday, when he brings Cas a sandwich and glowers at him until he eats it. It looks like he's forgiven Cas for the sigil screw-up- after all, without Cas, Bobby wouldn't even have thought to put up angel warding. "Someone abandoned it in an alley in Jamestown, North Dakota."

He's switching up, Dean notes to Cas, though he doesn't know if Cas hears it. He's told Dean that since the voices started up again, they've never stopped- but at times they get do get lighter, quieter. This is not one of those times.

"Blue Honda Civic was stolen last night," Bobby notes, a few hours later. "That's Sam's kinda ride."

Bobby makes some enquiries, and by late evening he's uncovered a report that states the Civic's been found in a ditch by Elk River.

"There's a town not far from there called Cold Spring," Bobby tells Cas. "It's lighting up with demon signs."

Cas nods vaguely. Bobby stares into space.

"This woulda been Dean's territory," he mutters. "Ain't no one who can get through to Sam like that boy could."

Cas nods again, more firmly this time.

Well? he says to Dean. Cas is staring at the floorboards, trying as hard as he can to listen to Dean and nothing else.

What? Dean asks.

If the sigils aren't working, that means the angels can enter, and if the angels aren't here that means they're not hunting you. You could be in Cold Spring in under a minute.

Dean hesitates. Okay.

Dean, wait.

What?

What aren't you telling me?

Nothing.

Then why aren't you hunting Sam down? I would have thought you'd start tracking him down the moment we realised the sigils weren't working.

I tried, Dean says defensively, but I'm outta touch with how Sam works. I couldn't find him.

You heard Bobby: he's in Cold Spring.

I know. I said, I'll go. Maybe he will, maybe he won't- it's not like Cas will know either way. I don't see much point, that's all. Sam'll do what Sam'll do- nothing I can do to stop it.

You know something, don't you? Cas says. About how Sam got out. That's why you're acting so strange.

That's bull, Cas.

Is it? Dean, the man I met five months ago would have torn the world apart to find his brother. You won't even leave the house.

Bobby exhales, breaking away from his own train of thought. "I don't know if I could get there in time. Maybe, but… I'll try callin' again first." Bobby picks up the phone.

Dean, Cas stresses, and Dean snaps.

Fine, okay? he says. You're right.

Cas, being Cas, doesn't gloat or get angry. What's happening? he asks, and the calm question is somehow worse than any lecture.

Dean doesn't reply. Sam doesn't pick up. Bobby leaves another message, saying that he knows about Cold Spring and that if Sam doesn't call back within the hour, Bobby's driving up there himself.

"Will you?" Cas asks when Bobby hangs up.

"I don't know," Bobby sighs, rubbing a hand over his beard. "I know I said I wasn't happy keeping Sam locked up, but I don't like him busting out without us knowing how- or who. With any luck, he'll call, and we can figure out what the hell is going on."

Over his private link to Cas, Dean speaks. I let Sam out. Dean doesn't look to see Cas' reaction, but he still feels the wave of shock. I'm sorry, Dean thinks. It doesn't matter that nobody hears him, because he doesn't really know just who the apology is meant for.

Why? Cas says in confusion.

Zachariah gave orders.

Zachariah? So the angel-proofing  was  wrong?

No, works like a charm. I called  him . I went outside, told him I'd help, swore my loyalty to Heaven again.

There's stunned silence from the other end of the link. Dean, that can't have been a good idea.

You got a better one?

They hurt you, Cas growls. What if they do that again?

Dean declines to answer. It's better to let Cas think that Dean's doing this voluntarily than to tell him just what Zachariah is holding over his head.

What about Sam? Cas says. Is he going to drink demon blood again?

Yeah.

And we're supposed to stand by and watch? Dean, how could you let this happen?

Have you seen yourself? Dean lashes out. Did you see Sam? You're both sick, the world is ending, and I don't know how to fix any of it. So yeah, I went back to Heaven. Sue me.

If Bobby and I drive up to Cold Spring, if we try and stop Sam, what do you do? Do you have to stop us?

I don't know, and I really don't wanna find out. I'm telling you, Cas, don't get involved. Make Bobby hang back. I don't like this any more than you do, but I had to do it. I didn't have a choice.

No, Dean, you had a choice, Cas says. The question is whether or not you made the right one.

Dean knows that. He wants to tell Cas that it was for him and Sam, that everything he did was for the two of them, but that's not what comes out.

Screw you, Dean snarls. You don't get it, whatever, but don't give me that bullshit. I'm out of here.

Are you going to find Sam?

None of your damn business.

Dean vanishes from the room, picking his destination at random. Cas doesn't talk again, and neither does he.

Dean has no idea what to do next. He could go to Cold Spring and track down Sam, but for what good? To watch Sam lick demon blood from his lips? I'll pass, thanks. Instead, he slips into a trance state- not to dream-walk, but to pass the time. When Dean resurfaces in the morning and finds the world is still there, he simply lets himself slip back under. The trance state is the closest thing he's found to the numbness of alcohol, the best way he has to stop thinking about things, and right now he really needs to stop thinking about things.

He cannot help Sam. He cannot help Castiel. All Dean can do is make things worse, so the best thing he can do is back away without touching anything. That's fine on paper, makes sense logically, but it's not his nature. Dean doesn't do staying away, or keeping his distance, or letting people work through things on their own. If Sam's in trouble and Dean can't stop it, then fuck it, he wants to be getting in trouble alongside him.

Dean is only loosely aware of his thoughts, but loosely is bad enough. In the light of day, his indignant rage from before seems significantly less justified; Dean never could handle a truth he didn't like. Cas is quiet all day, and whilst Dean goes to start a conversation with him about twenty times, he doesn't know what to say. He wants to know if Cas is okay, if his hallucinations are any worse, but he's too damn stubborn.

That night, over a full day since he let Sam loose, Dean tries to call down Inias. He figures that, if anyone's likely to tell him what's going on, it's the friendly neighbourhood messenger-angel. Dean shouts his name for two damn hours, but nobody turns up. He moves onto yelling Anna's and Uriel's, because so far Inias has responded to pretty much every name other than his own, but he doesn't have any luck with it.

Inias' words prowl across the edge of Dean's mind, but he doesn't want to think about them. Dean pushes himself back into the trance state and vows to try again the next morning. He does so, shouts for every angel he knows in alphabetical order, but nobody comes. It's only when Dean finally gives up, his voice hoarse, that he lets himself think about what Inias said.

"I sincerely hope that you will remember what you just said to me."

What was it Dean had said? 'Don't just roll over and lie at their feet,' he thinks it was. Which is, of course, exactly what Dean proceeded to do.

"Fuck this," Dean says, out loud, fierce. He can't keep floating in nothingness, pretending that there's nothing bad outside the blackness. He'll still keep to his orders and leave Sam alone- just because the memories of his time in Hell (fire licking the walls, fingernails scratching a ribcage from the inside) mean nothing to Dean doesn't mean that he'll condemn Cas or Sam to suffer through the same.

No, he'll go back to Castiel. With any luck, Cas will accept that Dean had good reasons for letting Sam go- and, if not, then at least Dean will have gotten the chance to see how his ward is doing. Sulking five states over when Cas is scared and sick is a crappy thing to do.

When Dean opens his eyes, though, he's not standing in Bobby's salvage yard. He has no idea where he is. The room is huge and lavish, decorated with gold and marble and statues Dean's afraid to touch in case they fall. Zachariah stands before him.

"Dean!" Zachariah beams, holding out his arms. "There you are."

"What, were you looking for me?"

"No, not really," Zachariah says breezily. Dean lets it go.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"Call it a green room," Zachariah says. "It makes a nice meeting place. Certainly better than that revolting scrapyard." Dean doesn't feel safe here, but he can still sense Cas and his wings are twitching behind him. His powers aren't blocked, which can only be a good thing.

"Things are going to plan," Zachariah divulges.

"Has Sam killed Lilith?" Dean says with a hard swallow, not sure what he wants the answer to be.

"Do you not think I would have mentioned that by now?" Zachariah rolls his eyes. "No, she's very much alive, but progress is being made. Sam knows where she is. He tracked down her personal chef last night, with help from that demon lady friend of his."

"Chef?" Dean says, determined to ignore any mention of Ruby. "Lilith eats?"

"In a sense," Zachariah says carefully. "Sam's primed for the big game. In less than twelve hours, Lilith will be dead, and it's all thanks to you."

"Yeah, well," Dean says, not knowing why that makes him so uncomfortable. "It needed doing."

"It did. But do you know why?"

"What do you mean?"

"You did as I asked, Dean; you let Sam go. That's more than I expected of you. You keep whining about not knowing the truth, and I feel you've earned it- that is, if you still want it."

"Of course I do," he says immediately. "What's going on?"

"Are you sure? Not tempted to bury your head in the sand? Because I'm telling you right now, no matter what you think of this next part, it's still happening."

"If you think I'm gonna beg, you can kiss my ass."

"And they say today's youth have no manners," Zachariah says dryly. "Since you asked so nicely, here goes: the final Seal will be broken."

"What?" Dean says in shock. "No, that's not true. Sam can stop it, he-" Dean cuts himself off as disgusting, long-overdue realisation dawns. He'd suspected- no, he'd known- that Heaven was involved in bad, dark things- but he'd never imagined anything like this.

"You don't want to stop it, do you?" Dean says.

"Ding ding ding! We have a winner. World's toast, kiddo."

"So you've been sending us on wild goose chases over Seals you wanted broken?" Dean demands. "Why?"

"Right, because you'd have sat back and twiddled your thumbs if you knew the truth," Zachariah snorts. "If we told every angel and guardian and cupid what was going on, the Host would have a full-scale rebellion on our hands. Trust me, sixty-five Seals wouldn't be gone unless I wanted sixty-five Seals gone."

"But why? Why do you want the world to end?"

"You mean you don't? There's really very little here worth saving- have you watched daytime television? When the Seals are broken and Lucifer rises, Heaven will fight Hell, and our side will win. After that, it's paradise on Earth, and what's not to like about that?"

"You could ask the millions of people you're going to slaughter."

"Collateral damage," Zachariah shrugs. "Would you complain if we were doing the same to spiders? No? Then why complain about this? That's all humans are to you now, Dean: spiders. Admittedly useful at times, but in general, they're pests."

"You want the Seals broken, the day of reckoning here, the human race gone," Dean says, trying to work something out. "So why let Sam go?"

"Let's not muddle our facts here- you let Sam go, not me," Zachariah says pointedly. "You broke the first Seal, and you'll help to break the last. You should get a medal."

"But Sam's going to kill her," Dean says. "Lilith's toast."

"Exactly. Lilith is the final Seal. Plot twist, huh?" he says, grinning at the look on Dean's face. "And it is written that the first demon shall be the last seal. You wanted the truth? Lilith's death is the last lock on Lucifer's cage, and you were kind enough to give us the key. That's the truth."

Zachariah looks away suddenly and frowns. "I'm gonna have to love- well, tolerate- you and leave you," he says. "Pressing business."

Dean's still staring at him, lost for words.

"Would you cheer up?" Zachariah says irritably. "Me telling you this isn't a punishment, it's a reward. You've finally stopped ordering off the kiddie menu- you're playing with the big boys now. I've been gracious enough to let you in on the trade secrets because if all goes to plan and Lilith dies, you'll make it out of this apocalypse in one piece. Sure, you'll be kind of redundant- a guardian with nothing to guard- but hey, eternal paradise is a pretty good consolation prize."

"Cas is going to die," Dean says weakly. "Sam too."

"Spiders," Zachariah stresses. "It's in your best interests to let this happen. If you don't… well, Dean, you either stand with Heaven, or you stand against us. I've made myself pretty clear about what happens if you choose option B. Toodles."

Zachariah disappears, leaving Dean staring at an ornate pillar. He teleports out, back to where he meant to go, to where he left Cas and Bobby behind.

Cas is in the bedroom, curled up on the chair. He's still mumbling to himself, and Dean realises with a stab of horror that the words aren't even in English. Cas' speech seems too regular, too defined to be nonsense, but it's certainly not any language Dean recognises.

Cas? he says. Cas doesn't move, still muttering to himself. Cas? Castiel!

No answer. I'm here, okay? Dean says. Gimme a sec.

He drops down into reality, and Cas drags his eyes up to look. "Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean says, relieved, "it's me. You okay?"

"Fine," Cas says distantly, and then his eyes glass over. He's not looking at Dean; he's looking through him.

"Bia," Cas breathes. "Bia, sald."

"Cas?"

"Dean," Cas says again, but it seems more of a reflex than anything else. Dean kneels in front of the chair, grabs Cas' wrists in his hands.

"Cas, whatever's going on up there, I need you to focus," he says, his voice low. "You were right, okay? I shouldn't have let Sam go."

"Sam," Cas says absently. "Sam…"

"My brother. Your friend. You know who I mean, Cas."

"Yes. I know Sam." Cas seems to focus a little. "You let him go."

"Thanks for the reminder," Dean mutters. He let himself be bullied into letting Sam loose, and now the world's going to pay the price- or at least, it will unless Dean can stop it. Zachariah as good as said that Sam and Cas would die- and, with those words, he relinquished any control he held over Dean. If his choices are between torture in Hell or paradise on Earth, then Dean will take Hell, any day of the week. At least he'll have fought. At least he'll have tried.

"I need your help," Dean says, tightening his grip on Cas' wrists. "I fucked up big time, but we can fix it, you and me together. You gotta work with me here, Cas."

"What do you need?" Cas voice is thin and reedy, but it's there.

"We have to get to Chuck's," Dean says. "I can take us, but you'll need to talk for me. We have to find out where Sam and Lilith are. We have to stop him."

"Stop him?"

"Lilith's not gonna break the Seal, she is the Seal. If she dies, Lucifer makes it topside and that's it- game over, Earth gone. And frankly, we have not had anywhere near enough sex for me to be okay with that, so I need you to keep it together long enough to talk to Chuck. Think you can handle it?"

"Yes," Cas says, voice stronger now. "Yes, I can. Let's go."

Dean stands up and offers Cas a hand, which Cas ignores, getting up by his own power. He goes to take Dean's arm, but stops.

"Wait," Cas says. "You're disobeying."

"Yeah," Dean confirms. "But it's okay. No rebellion-induced anxiety attacks, I swear. I'm fine." At least, I will be until Zachariah finds out what's going on.

Cas isn't done yet. "The sigils protect you from Zachariah in here, but out there? Are you safe?"

"No," Dean says bluntly, "but neither is anyone else. No reason why I should get special treatment."

Cas is clearly unhappy, but before he can ask anything else, Dean gets there first.

"When I got here, Cas, you were talking," he says, "and it wasn't in English."

"I know."

"Then what the hell is it?"

"I don't know. It's the same thing I'm hearing, I think- but the voices are louder now, and there's more of them, and I..." Cas closes his eyes in frustration. "We should go," he says when he opens them again.

"Right," Dean says. He swears a silent promise, then and there, that he will find out what's wrong with Cas if he has to rip apart every angel in Heaven to get his answer- but right now, they have other problems.

Dean takes Cas' hand and teleports them both to Chuck's doorstep. Dean lets himself lift back into incorporeality as Cas knocks on the door.

If anyone knows where Sam is, it'll be Chuck, Dean says, glancing around anxiously.

And if he refuses to tell us? Cas says, and Dean can tell that he's struggling to pick out Dean's voice from the countless others he's hearing. Dean wants to say sorry, to say thank you, to say anything to try and make it better- but before he can embarrass himself by trying, a harrowed-looking Chuck opens the door.

"You're not supposed to be here," Chuck protests as Cas barges inside.

"Where is Sam?" Cas asks, wasting no time.

"I mean it," Chuck insists. "I saw this, but this? This didn't happen. This isn't the story I wrote."

Well, call it fanfiction, Dean growls.

"I don't care," Cas tells Chuck.

"I- sorry, but aren't you…?" Chuck taps the side of his head.

"Yes," Cas snarls, "so I would appreciate you hurrying up and telling me where Sam Winchester is."

"St. Mary's," Chuck says immediately, backing away. "He's not there yet, but he will be tonight. It's a convent, it-"

Chuck's computer screen starts to flicker. The ground begins to shake and white light begins to build, and Dean knows too damn well what that means.

"Aw man, no!" Chuck wails. "Not again!"

Dean can't teleport Cas without becoming corporeal, and he can't become corporeal with Chuck still around. Get outside, he tells Cas. Run!

Cas turns to go, but the light's arrived so much faster than last time and Cas can't even see where the door is, and could Dean destroy an archangel if he had to? He doesn't know, doesn't want to find out, and all the while there's rumbling threatening to bring the building down, dust falling from the ceiling, and fuck it, Dean did not go through all of this to die in some shitty writer's piss-poor excuse for a house-

The light is gone. The house has vanished- or, more accurately, they have. They're not in Chuck's house anymore, they're standing in the green room.

"Dean," Zachariah sighs. "Will you ever get tired of letting people down?"

There's a thud, and when Dean looks around, Cas is on the floor. He's slumped against the junction between the wall and an expensive-looking sofa, and he isn't moving.

"Cas!" Dean shouts, Zachariah and Heaven and the apocalypse itself forgotten as he moves to Cas' side. "Hey, come on, wake up. Cas?"

Cas' eyes are open but unfocused, and his body is loose and limp. No amount of shaking and calling his name has any effect.

"What did you do to him?" Dean snarls at Zachariah, who's strolled to the other side of the room and is idly examining a painting.

"You never had a laptop overheat?" Zachariah says. "All those voices in his head, his body can't take it. I'm amazed he's stayed conscious for this long."

"You said you'd be straight with me," Dean says. He leaves Cas' side to cross the room and face Zachariah. "You said you'd tell me the truth."

"Yes, which you then threw back in my face!"

"So what, you kill my ward to make me pay?"

"He's not dying, you moron," Zachariah snaps. "He's hearing voices, sure, but that doesn't mean the voices aren't real. If he's tuned into the right frequency, he's hearing the same inane babble as every other member of the Host."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean demands.

"Sorry, angel radio's a little above your pay grade," Zachariah sneers. "But I suppose, if you really wanted, I could give you a sample. How would you like a thirty second free trial?"

Zachariah is on Dean in a heartbeat, clamping a sweaty hand against his head, and then Dean's world is flooded with noise. It's as if his link with Castiel has been opened, a thousand other voices flooding in to join them.

Merifi casog, niisa. Merifi adrpan, torzu. Merifi telocvovim, vgeg, the voices sing, all rolled syllables and grandeur.

"What the hell is that?" Dean gasps.

"It's Enochian, you philistine," Zachariah replies, his voice nearly lost amongst the chorus in Dean's head. Dean might have failed every Spanish class he ever took, but he thinks this must be what it's like to understand a foreign language; he knows that what he's hearing isn't English, but he also knows what it means.

(Angel on the earth, come away. Angel cast down, arise. Angel fallen, become strong.)

There are so very many voices singing throughout Dean's head, but he hears Cas' reply loud and clear. Bia, bia sald!

(Your voices, your voices of glory!)

Telocvovim bvtmon! the voices clamour excitedly.

(He that has fallen has opened his mouth!)

Esiasch faonts,Cas murmurs. Amgedpha. His voice swells with the foreign words, becoming ancient and imposing and somehow more than human.

(Brothers dwelling in the brightness. I begin anew.)

Abramg, Cas continues. Madriax, ozazm micalzo.

(I prepare for you. Heaven, make me mighty.)

Chirlan! Vlcinin gea, vlcinin, chirlan! Dean's head rings as the phrase bursts forth from a thousand different sources, like they're singing a round where everybody is too excited to wait their turn.

(Rejoice! We are happy, he is happy, rejoice!)

The voices are cut off mid-cry, and the silence of the room is deafening by comparison.

"Time's up," Zachariah says. Dean straightens up, aware that he's trembling but unable to stop. His wings are pulling upwards so hard it nearly hurts, the feathers reaching for something they can't grasp.

"That's what he's hearing?" Dean wheezes.

"You bet. At first, it would have been nothing but their muttering, but once he replied? He's probably had that conversation twenty times this hour. Angels sure can be loquacious when they're happy."

"Angel radio," Dean says numbly, the phrase from earlier given meaning.

"Think of it as an expansion of the guardian link- though Castiel's actually connected up to both right now. Tell me, did he get all flustered trying to figure out who said what?"

"Fallen," Dean says, ignoring the slight. "They kept calling him 'angel fallen'."

"You already know we can stuff grace into humans and sew them back up. Is it really such a shock to learn we can do the opposite?"

"He's an angel," Dean says numbly, looking at Cas' slumped form- dead to them, but very much alive in his own private world.

"Was," Zachariah corrects. "He can see your wings, right? Was that not a hint?"

"I thought-"

"Clearly, you didn't," Zachariah says nastily. "I think it must be time for a story. Once upon a time, all was good in Heaven- well, that's a lie, but it was better than it was now, and it was certainly better than things are on Earth. This place is putrid, corrupted, vile. We wanted it gone, so my colleagues and I decided to make some planet-wide redundancies. The Seals would be broken, Lucifer would rise, Michael would defeat him and boom! Paradise.

"The problem was," Zachariah continues, "that I put my trust in the wrong people. I'd selected the most loyal soldiers we had, the most obedient, to help the whole operation run smoothly. Most were of seraph level, but there were a few lower-downs who showed great potential. Castiel was one of them.

"It wasn't my idea. If you ask me, Castiel had his doubts from the very start, but it was you that made him put his foot down."

"Me?" Dean says in confusion. "The hell did I do?"

"Nothing but exist- you see how that keeps causing problems? When we discovered that the promised child had been conceived, that's when Castiel snapped."

"What do you mean. 'promised'?"

"You're special, Dean, more so than you understand. Your birth was what really set things rolling- at least, it was supposed to. Instead, it created discord. Castiel came to me and suggested, quietly and apologetically, that perhaps we ought to reconsider. He said that he'd spent a great deal of time on Earth, and had come to see goodness in it that he was worried we had missed. He suggested we try and help rather than sit back and destroy."

"And you kicked him out of Heaven for it," Dean says in disgust.

"I would have had him killed," Zachariah says, "but I was overruled. For some reason, we were trying to do things by majority vote at the time, and it was decided Castiel was in need of 're-education'. Discipline seemed the obvious answer, but I didn't want him in Heaven, so we had to get creative. We tore his grace out, tossed him down, and sent him to live among the fleas. He spoke of the beauty of Earth, so we pushed him into its core, left him to sink in the squalor and see what beauty he could find there.

"But we left too much Castiel behind. He remembered. He was always nervous, always ranting about angels and demons and the end of the world. Luckily for him, nobody listened, but fourteen years later he still hadn't adjusted. We decided that his education had failed, stamped him with a big ol' 'F', and sent angels to destroy him and end the problem once and for all.

"Except, of course, it didn't. Call it dormant angelic powers, call it luck, but when our team got to Castiel he'd already slashed himself open and daubed a banishing sigil on the walls. He activated it, sent his would-be assassins far, far away, and got himself admitted to a psychiatric hospital for his 'suicide attempt'. I always found that ironic.

"That was the start of a four year mini civil-war. The majority of the Host adored Castiel, for reasons I can't even begin to fathom. Anna, Inias, Samandriel and Balthazar spearheaded a group urging us to let him live. Eventually, my side relented. Eighteen years had passed since Castiel fell, and to be blunt, I was getting sick of dealing with him. We came to an agreement- they'd fix Castiel's mind up, plaster it over with a thick sediment of denial and bullcrap. That way, if he was needed again, we could break him open and get our fallen angel back. Balthazar volunteered to do it, and we didn't see the bastard again until he cropped up last month."

"But you kept Cas in the hospital," Dean interrupts. "Why?"

"I'm not an idiot, that's why. I wanted an eye kept on him, and it was easy enough to… persuade the staff to keep him there. Half the time, they forgot he was even a patient. It seemed as good a holding pen as any.

"When you were dragged to Hell and Lilith's plan got out, there was uproar. The grunts were desperate to lay siege to Hell, to get you out before you broke the first Seal, and after Castiel's betrayal we knew better than to try and explain just why we were so against the idea. As for Castiel, there were angels demanding we brought him back, saying we needed all the manpower we could get.

"So we took those two nasty, nasty birdies, and picked up one sizeable stone. We told everybody that there was no need for fighting- there are ways to get someone out of Hell without shedding blood. We'd make a deal with Hell to let us take you, raise you, turn you into a guardian- and even better, we'd assign you to Castiel. The siege was called off and, well, if pulling you free took a little longer than envisioned, that's hardly our fault. These deals are notoriously tricky to cultivate."

"So you had Cas start hunting with Sam to stop the lower-downs from asking questions," Dean says bitterly. "They thought you were protecting Seals and bringing Castiel back to boot."

"Bringing together their long-lost brother with the righteous man and Sam Winchester, one of the few people with the potential to stop Lilith? It gave them hope. It kept them from questioning."

"But you never meant to bring Castiel back," Dean says. "Sure, you made them discharge him when Sam turned up, and sure, you've had me and Anna keep him alive- but you were never gonna let him get back into Heaven."

"Ahh, now you're getting it."

"Then why plug him back into the angel feed?"

Zachariah shrugs. "The world's ending, dumpling. We've got nothing to lose by pulling Castiel up and seeing if all the horror he's known, all that pain, has changed his mind on how valuable this stinking planet is. This is his final chance. Who knows? Maybe he'll have learned his lesson. Personally, I don't think he will have, but that just means I get the pleasure of killing him myself."

Dean snarls and steps forward. Zachariah smirks.

"You know, he tried so hard," Zachariah simpers. "We told him how he'd failed us, gave the order for his exile, and he begged us not to do it. He pleaded, over and over- 'brother, don't."

Brother, don't. The words ricocheting around Castiel's dreams, his world of pain and light and noise and loss. Please. Not just a dream, but a memory.

"And how about you, Dean?" Zachariah says. "Would you like to beg too?"

"The only thing I'm gonna be begging for," Dean says, his voice low, "is the chance to shove a sword through your throat, you sadistic, spiteful son of a bitch. You can brag and boast all you want, but at the end of the day, the only thing to pick you out from any other monster I've hunted is one giant-ass superiority complex, and that won't stop you dying bloody."

Zachariah isn't smiling now. "I've had enough of you," he says, and the mocking, jibing tone is gone from his voice, replaced with cold steel and power. Dean goes to answer back, but Zachariah leans forward and clamps his hand down hard on Dean's shoulder.

Nothing happens.

"What, you forget your Weetabix this morning?" Dean jeers.

Zachariah doesn't reply, just stands and regards Dean with harsh, narrowed eyes. Dean shifts uncomfortably.

"What?" he says. He's waiting for an explosion of pain, for the overused blinding light, for something. Nothing comes.

"Would you rather I sliced off your head in one go, or hacked at it for hours with a penknife?" Zachariah says.

"What, so now you're back to threats?"

"No, it's an honest question. See, grace becomes a part of an angel- even for a revolting half-breed like yourself- and getting rid of it isn't easy. It hurts. For those who choose to fall or those who are thrown, we rip it out in one go. I'm told it's agonising. But you, Dean, have managed to piss me off even more than Castiel did, and believe me when I say that's no easy task. Your grace will be torn from you, slowly, over the next hour, until nothing is left inside to keep your pathetic heart beating. When your time is up, you'll be dragged back to Hell, where you will suffer and burn until we have use of you again."

"Use of me?" Dean snaps. "What the fuck does that mean?"

Zachariah taps the side of his nose. "Classified. All I can tell you is that you will be offered another deal, one to which you will say 'yes'. Until then, enjoy your last hour on Earth. I'd appreciate it if you and Castiel stayed put."

"My powers aren't blocked," Dean retaliates.

"I have five angels surrounding this room. Uriel in particular would welcome the chance to rip out something vital."

"Uriel's a-" Dean begins, determined to undermine Zachariah in any way he can.

"Traitor?" Zachariah interrupts. "Yawn. Old news. Once Lucifer's out, I'll slit Uriel's throat like the worthless bastard pup he is, but until then? We want the same thing, and that's the Cage opened and you out of our way."

"I'm fast," Dean says.

"They're faster. Sorry, kiddo, but you and Castiel are stuck here."

Cas. Dean's been so wrapped up in Zachariah that he'd almost forgotten Cas' condition. Dean looks over to where Cas fell, but the sofa's blocking him from view. Turning away from Zachariah, Dean crosses the cavernous space to check on his ward.

"Make the most of it!" Zachariah calls. "When your hour is up, you'll never see him again."

Cas comes into view. He's leaning against the wall, but his eyes are focused when they meet Dean's. He shifts slightly, not breaking Dean's gaze, and Dean notices that Cas has his wrist pressed hard against his trenchcoat. Behind Cas's lower back, off to his right, is a small, carefully drawn blood sigil.

Cas' lips curl into a small smile. Dean's do the same.

"What are you so happy about?" Zachariah frowns, starting to stride over towards them.

"I'd tell you," Dean says, as Cas pulls his hand back and slams it onto the sigil, "but it's kinda above my pay grade."

Zachariah's furious scream is music to Dean's ears. When the light clears, Cas is already on his feet and gripping Dean's arm.

"Where'd you send him?" Dean says, whipping his head from the empty space Zachariah had occupied back to Cas.

"Away," Cas says grimly. "We need to go."

"Your-"

"Now, Dean."

Dean teleports them out of the beautiful room, taking them back to the sanctuary of the sigil-protected bedroom. When they land, Cas turns towards Dean. He's no longer slumped or trembling- his expression is determined, fierce.

"How much did you hear?" Dean asks.

"Only parts," Cas says, "but it doesn't matter. I remember."

"You remember?"

"Yes," Cas says. "Doubting, questioning, falling… I remember all of it."

"Damn, Cas," Dean breathes, because what can you say to something like that? "Damn. And the voices? The… radio?"

"Still there," Cas confirms. "Now that I know what they are- now that I remember what I am- they don't cause me any bother." Dean guesses that if you've been hearing a chorus of angels from the moment you were brought into creation, you learn to cope with it.

"So what, you're an angel now?" Dean says, his thoughts thick and muddled and sliding into each other.

"No," Cas says. "Being an angel requires grace, and mine was ripped from me. If I could get it back… until then, I'm just some strange amalgam."

"Like a guardian," Dean says with some bitterness. Cas has always looked at Dean like he's the most important thing in all creation, treated him like he's worth so much more than he is, and the idea of Cas viewing Dean as lesser is too much to bear. "Lucky for you, I won't be hanging around much longer."

The words have barely left Dean's mouth when lips crash against his, rough hands gripping his arms and yanking him close. When Cas drags his lips away he doesn't loosen his grip, holding Dean in place to scowl at him.

"Zachariah is not taking you," Cas says, his tone absolute. "You will not go to Hell, Dean, because I will not allow it."

"Right," Dean laughs humourlessly. "Thing is, you're not the first person to say that to me."

"Was the last person an angel?" Cas growls. "I won't allow it," he repeats, and then he lets Dean go.

Cas hasn't got a snowball's chance- but Dean has fifty-eight minutes left on Earth, and he doesn't want to waste them arguing. "We need to get to that chapel," he says instead.

"The moment we leave this house, we're exposed," Cas warns.

"Then we'd better be quick," Dean says, his mouth setting in a grim line. Cas regards him and nods.

"What's our plan?"

"Stop Sam," Dean says bluntly. "Any way you can. Break his damn legs if you have to."

"If Zachariah finds us?"

"I'll hold him off."

"And other angels?"

"I'll hold them all off."

"Try not to get killed," Cas says bluntly.

"Aww, why not?" Dean says sarcastically.

"As you said, we have things to do," Cas says. "There are certain experiences which require repeating. Multiple times." He makes it sound way nicer than Dean did, and several hundred times more hot.

"Even when you're all angel'd up, and I'm dirt on your shoes?" Dean says, unable to let it go.

"Angel or man or somewhere in-between, you remain the best thing to have happened to me in my incredibly long existence," Cas says, without any hesitation or doubt. Dean chokes on his answer, can only stare. Cas breathes out and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "Thank you, Dean. For everything."

It's not the first time Cas has come out with that kind of thing, but considering the context, it feels less like an inappropriately timed intimacy and more like a goodbye.

Dean's never been great with goodbyes. "Save it," he says. "We got a demon to gank."

Cas holds out his hand and Dean takes it. He closes his eyes and thinks St. Mary's chapel.

Landing takes the breath out of Dean. Usually teleportation is effortless, nothing more than a blink and a thought, but this journey seemed to take longer than usual. Dean's head aches slightly, like he's been concentrating on a difficult problem for too long, and he thinks with a knot of dread that it's starting. His grace is beginning to fade.

"You think she's there yet?" Dean says. They're standing in the cemetery, alone, the night sky inky black above them. Cas checks his phone.

"It's nearly midnight," he says. "We need to hurry."

"Right," Dean says, and he lets himself shift back into incorporeality. He feels a slight pang of disappointment from Cas, a fleeting brush of loss, and he realises that there's a chance Cas will never see Dean's face again, that Dean has already touched Cas for the final time. Neither of them acknowledge it.

They approach the chapel quickly, sacrificing stealth for speed. Dean's arms and legs are starting to tingle like he has pins and needles, a niggling pain that won't go away. He scans for angels or demons or anything else that might try and interfere as they approach the entrance. The front door is slowly swinging to a close.

They're here, Dean says to Cas.

"So are we," Cas growls, and when he kicks the door open with his dagger gripped in his hand, Dean finally understands what he's seeing. Cas isn't a pistol-whipped doormat or a sneering sadist- Dean is seeing someone brave, someone loyal to those they believe in, someone who isn't going down without a fight. He's seeing an angel, as they're supposed to be.

They hurry through the narrow corridors until they round a corner and find what they're looking for. There's a woman in a white dress spread across the altar, with the most disgusting face Dean's ever seen pinned to her vessel's front. Lilith. Sam is facing her, his back to the door and Castiel, and standing to the side is Ruby.

Ruby catches Cas' eye and her lips curve into a smile. At first, Dean doesn't understand why she looks so happy, but then the pieces all fall into place. This is why Ruby's been so damn helpful, why she's saved Sam life again and again. She's been making sure Sam doesn't break a leg before the opening night, keeping him safe and sound for the final showdown, when Lilith falls and Lucifer rises.

Dean suddenly remembers the first time Ruby heard of the Seals being broken, the smile he had explained away as a grimace. I should've guessed. Ruby's known what's going on from day one, and they've been playing straight into her hands.

Ruby raises a hand and the heavy doors slam closed. Cas twists at the handle, but the doors won't budge. I should've guessed, Dean thinks again. I should've goddamn known.

"Sam!" Cas shouts, banging on the door. "Sam!"

Dean concentrates on the lock. Break. There's more than metal holding the door closed, though- this is a demon's will versus an angel's. Dean can hear blood rushing in his ears, can see white spots breaking up his vision, but he grits his teeth and keeps focusing on the lock. Just friggin' break, would you?

Suddenly, Dean finds himself being flung through the air. He hits the wall so hard it makes his teeth rattle. His arms and legs still hurt, but now they won't even move, pinned to the wall by an invisible force.

"You really are determined to make me the laughing stock of Heaven, aren't you?" Zachariah hisses as he advances towards Dean. "Well, no more."

He's not listening! Cas shouts in frustration. He's still banging on the door, Zachariah and Dean both invisible and imperceptible to his still-human eyes. Dean is going to die inches away from Cas, and Cas isn't going to know until he calls Dean's name and doesn't get a reply. Maybe it's better that way.

It's okay, Dean says, because he's damned if he's using his dying breath to make Cas feel like a failure. You tried. It's okay.

Dean? Cas says.

You did good, Cas.

Zachariah pauses, and a malicious leer takes over his face. He shoots Dean a sharp look and Dean feels himself drop into visibility.

"I thought he'd want to see this," Zachariah explains, with a nod of his head towards Castiel. Cas pulls back from the door and snaps his head around wildly, but Zachariah ignores him. There's something in Zachariah's hand- a blade Dean's never seen before, long and glistening silver.

Cas has turned away from the door, his focus falling on Zachariah.

"Let him go," Castiel warns, his voice low. Zachariah doesn't even look at him.

Forget it! Dean urges Cas. Focus on Sam!

"Can you hear something?" Dean hears his brother say from inside the room. Zachariah hasn't cloaked himself and by forcing Castiel to hear, he's letting Sam listen in.

"It's only Castiel," Ruby snaps.

"No, there's some-"

"Does it matter?" Ruby shouts. "Kill her!"

"Take your best shot," Dean hears Lilith challenge.

Zachariah smirks, then focuses. "A slow revenge would have been more satisfying, but we can't always get what we want," he says. "Enjoy Hell, Dean."

Zachariah raises the blade behind him, preparing to bring it down. Dean keeps his eyes on Zachariah's, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing Dean afraid. I'll save a spot on the rack for you.

The cold bite of metal never comes, though, and Zachariah howls in anger and pain. Dean is sprayed with something warm and wet, and when he looks down he sees that Zachariah's fingers are half severed, blood gushing from the ugly knots of muscle and bone. Zachariah keeps Dean pinned against the wall but turns around to face Castiel, who's darted away again.

"What the hell was that?" Dean hears Sam yelp.

"Sam, kill her!" Ruby screams, near-hysterical.

Castiel's own freshly-bloodied knife lies on the floor. He holds Zachariah's in front of him, wielding it with both hands like a sword.

"You child," Zachariah snarls at Castiel. "You know, I never did like you."

"The feeling is mutual," Cas replies.

"You picked the wrong time to develop a sense of humour," Zachariah warns. His fingers are already healing, skin and bone knitting together and nails pushing from their beds.

"In my defence, you're incredibly easy to laugh at," Castiel retorts. Sam's objections have stopped; there is no sound coming from the room at all. Dean still can't move, can only listen and watch as Sam welcomes in the apocalypse and Zachariah and Castiel face off.

"You really want to talk to me like that?" Zachariah demands of Castiel. "You? Didn't you learn your lesson before?"

"I learned how pathetic you are," Castiel spits. "How insignificant, how feeble. I'm not afraid of you, Zachariah- nobody is. You give us no reason to be."

"I'll give you reason," Zachariah snarls, and then he attacks. He slams Castiel up against the wall, pushing an arm hard against his throat. Zachariah effortlessly yanks the blade from Castiel's hands and raises it high in the air, ready to kill the brother he's wanted dead for so very long.

Overwhelming, instinctive rage floods Dean, rage and wrath and power. In the split second before he moves, he allows himself to smile, because pride was always going to be Zachariah's downfall, and antagonising assholes is a skill Cas learned from the best.

Breaking free from the hold is effortless, nearly as easy as sending the blade spinning from Zachariah's hand. Zachariah turns and Dean sends him hurtling backwards, slamming into the heavy wooden doors that Ruby had locked. Dean throws a hand out and they fly open. Lilith is writhing in agony on the dais, but when the door bursts open Sam releases her and whirls around.

Dean focuses on Zachariah, grabbing hold of the seraph's mind and wrenching, and Zachariah's back arches as he screams. Ruby flies at Cas and Dean knocks her back without even thinking about it. Lilith's eyes flash pure white, and the power that's been building inside of Dean finally reaches its peak. The room fills with light, the air singing with white noise, and Dean's wings flare out behind him as he snarls.

Killing Ruby is easy, like snuffing out a flame. She doesn't even have time to scream before she's crumpling to the ground. It goes against every instinct and drive Dean has not to kill Lilith, but he manages it; he takes hold and drags her down below the point of consciousness, leaves her trapped under the ice.

Dean's still falling, falling faster than ever, and handling the demons has taken its toll on him. He doesn't have the power to ignite Zachariah's grace and watch it burn, so instead he forces sharpened hate down Zachariah's throat and shreds what he finds inside, tearing at the angel's grace and the vessel's flesh over and over and over until he can't anymore, until he falls to his knees and lets Zachariah go.

The entire process, from Lilith's eyes changing colour to the light beginning to fade away, takes less than two seconds.

Ruby's vessel lies on the ground. With her arms curled in front of her and her face turned into the ground, she could be sleeping. Lilith is comatose and Zachariah is awake, moaning in pain. Sam and Cas are the only ones left standing; Cas framed in the doorway, Sam's face drained of all colour.

"You need to exorcise Lilith," Cas says, stumbling forwards to plant his hands on Sam's shoulders. Sam tears his eyes away from Ruby's body, searching Cas' face in confusion.

"You mean kill her?"

"No. Exorcise her."

"But the final Seal-"

"- is broken with her death."

Zachariah is still whimpering, and Sam glances over at him uncertainly. Dean doesn't know how long it will take Lilith to claw her way back to consciousness, and he'd rather not find out. Every part of him hurts- not just his body, but his mind, his wings.

Sam swallows, hard. "I saw- I thought I saw…"

"Sam, we don't have time," Cas says. "Please."

For a moment, for a long, long moment, Dean thinks Sam's going to ignore him. He thinks that Sam's still a broken little boy in a weaponised shell, ready to sacrifice the entire world if it gets him one step closer to seeing his big brother again.

Sam turns away from Cas and holds out a trembling hand. A single tear runs down Sam's cheek as black smoke dribbles from Lilith's nose, from her mouth, a flaming hole opening in the ground and sucking her back down to Hell. Dean watches as Lilith's true face melts from the vessel like wax dripping from a candle, leaving behind nothing but an unfortunate dental hygienist from Indiana.

"Thank you," Cas says with exhausted, intense gratitude. Sam rubs a hand across his face.

"Ruby…" Sam begins.

"I don't know," Cas says. Dean tries to reach out and tell him that she's gone, but he finds that there's nothing to grab hold of. He thinks the words at Cas as hard as he can, but Cas shows no sign of having heard them. Suddenly, Cas' presence doesn't feel so strong in Dean's head, the weight slipping from the fishing line.

"Put her in a Devil's trap," Cas advises. "That way, if she does wake up, you'll be able to question her in safety."

Dean thinks that Cas is worried, but he's reading that from the lines of Cas' face and the look in his eyes; no matter how hard he concentrates, the only feelings in his head are his own. A memory- a simple recollection of Alastair's blade slicing through his calf- wanders almost absently into Dean's mind. He's sped up the process of falling, and the blocks Heaven put in place are crumbling along with everything else.

Sam breathes out a cascade of curse words. "Fine," he says tightly, slipping a hand into his pocket to retrieve one of the miniature cans of spray paint that he and Cas buy in bulk.

The pain is growing stronger, and Dean feels oddly strained. It reminds him of when he and Sam used to see how long they could squat for with their backs against the wall, holding out until their legs burned and forced them to abandon their invisible seats. Dean's teetering on the edge of corporeality, unable to control which way he's going to drop.

"Take her outside," Cas says suddenly.

"What?"

"The chapel has many rooms- take her into one. Somebody should stay with Lilith's vessel in case she wakes, and I'm guessing you'll want to speak with Ruby alone."

Sam looks like he's about to argue, but then his eyes flicker back down to where Ruby's dark hair is fanned out across the floor. He nods.

"You have so damn much to explain," Sam says to Cas. He sounds confused, hurt- and tired, so very tired.

"I will," Cas swears. Sam picks Ruby up carefully, cradling her to his chest, and carries her out. As soon as Sam is gone, Cas slams the doors shut again, sliding the lock into place.

I really don't want to be interrupted. The words are thorns, sharp in Dean's head.

"Dean?" Cas calls softly- and honestly, it's a relief to fall into corporeality. Dean's slumped on his knees, head hanging low because he's struggling to find the energy to lift it. The pins and needles have turned to knives, hundreds of invisible blades plunging into his flesh. There's unease building inside him too, the precursor to the all-consuming guilt and horror he knows is to come. This is it, kids. This is how Dean Winchester goes out. It's not really what he'd hoped for.

Cas is with him in moments. His hands are on Dean's face, thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones.

"Hey," Dean says, looking up at Cas groggily.

"Why can't I hear you in my head?" Cas says, clearly troubled. "Has the link gone?"

"Sure looks that way," Dean says. Red-hot heat and pressure shoots across his back, like something latching on and pulling hard, and Dean realises with dulled surprise that his wings are being wrenched off. They've been useless, eerie things, but he thinks he's going to miss them all the same- that is, if he can still miss things once he's back on the rack. As far as Dean remembers- and he does remember, can remember more clearly with each second that passes- cognitive processes get kinda stunted when you're under that much torture.

"Zachariah said you'd have an hour," Cas says agitatedly as Dean's face contorts with pain.

"Yeah," Zachariah wheezes. Dean had nearly forgotten he was there, lying wrecked in the corner. Dean starts to wonder how quickly the seraph will heal, but a wave of ice-cold fear smashes into him and sucks his thoughts away.

"Lover boy… had an hour… but he wasted it… on you," Zachariah slurs between gasps for air. "He went… drag racing on … an empty tank. I should… thank you. You helped me… kill him… quicker."

"Shut up," Dean rasps.

"What?" Zachariah says, voice still shaking from pain. "Is your little… interspecies love fest… a secret now? I mean… lying with a… worthless mutt… like Dean? You've always been strange... Castiel… but you've never been… sordid."

Cas stands up, and Dean misses the warmth of his fingers, the closeness of his body. Cas turns and strides forward, bending to snatch up Zachariah's blade without breaking stride. Dean watches the metal glisten in the candlelight, finding he cannot persuade his body to move, as Cas closes the gap between him and Zachariah.

"No," Zachariah wheezes, trying to scoot backwards as Cas looms over him. "You can't… please, Castiel… brother, don't."

"I think it's a little late for that, don't you?" Castiel snarls, and he drives the blade into Zachariah's chest. Zachariah jerks, white fire pouring from his eyes and mouth and splintering out around the blade. Cas yanks the knife back out and light explodes into the room. To Dean's amazement, charcoal-black wings are blasted across the wall, radiating out from where Zachariah lies dead. Dean's own wings are still being ripped from his flesh, and Cas drops the blade and returns to Dean's side.

"Dude," Dean says approvingly, wincing as a bolt of pain passes through him. "That was badass."

Cas' image splits suddenly, duplicating like Dean is seeing it through a kaleidoscope. One pleads on its knees, another screaming as blood begins to trickle down its face, and the third looks at Dean with sorrow, reaches out a hand to touch his face.

"It's hallucination station over here," Dean says weakly. The third Cas' eyes flicker to Dean's chest suddenly, and then all three snap back into one, stumbling backwards.

"Cas?" Dean says, and he stifles a cry as the pain is dialled up another notch. Memories from Heaven and Hell bustle against each other as they push to the surface of his mind, self-hate and sadness growing all the while.

Cas turns away slightly and presses his hands to his head. He slams a fist against the ground in sudden frustration, but composes himself and focuses again. His lips move slightly but he stays silent, and then Dean hears the unmistakable flutter of wings.

Dean lolls his head to look. Fire licks at the corner of Dean's vision, but he's pretty sure it's a hallucination. The existence of the angel standing in front of Castiel is less clear.

"Cas!" Balthazar says, sounding pleased. "I heard that Zachariah was thinking of pulling you back up, but I didn't-"

"I need your help," Cas cuts him off. Balthazar is obviously taken aback, but when his eyes fall on Dean, they soften.

"Oh, Cassie," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry."

"I don't need your sympathy, I need your help," Cas says. The fire Dean can see is catching and growing, and he keeps thinking that he can see Sam and Cas burning in it. He can hear their screams. You watched them die, in Heaven, you watched and you did nothing.

"With what?" Balthazar says.

"Gathering reagents," Cas says. "Even if I knew where to find them, I don't have the time."

"Maybe you forgot how things work in your stint as a glorified bonobo, but I'm not your bloody errand boy," Balthazar says in disbelief. "If you want a messenger, try Inias."

"I did. He's busy, Anna's not responding, Samandriel's too inexperienced- I've tried everyone, Balthazar, and nobody's answering."

"Can you blame them? From what I hear, the final Seal is minutes from being broken. We're a little busy to play cosmic Supermarket Sweep."

"The Seal is safe," Cas snaps. "We saved it. Dean saved it, and now he's dying, and if you aren't going to help then tell me who will, because I've wasted enough time already."

Dean catches the material of his jacket between his teeth and bites down hard. The pain's gotten so bad that he thinks he is probably going to start screaming soon.

"Balthazar, please," Cas says.

"Ahh, the magic word," Balthazar murmurs. He looks over at Dean and sighs. "Tell me what you need."

"Blood of calf, fossilised bark, angelica root-"

Balthazar disappears. Cas starts to curse, but Balthazar reappears and pushes a wooden bowl into Cas' hands. He vanishes again, and Cas falls to his knees and begins to murmur something over the bowl, running his finger around the rim. Dean can hear the grinding of stones, the roaring of flames, the sound of whips lashing and children crying.

"Sand," Dean hears Cas order over the clamour. "Silver."

"What are you doing?" Balthazar says, but Cas doesn't reply. Dean digs his nails into his palms and tenses his muscles as a spasm of agony rips through him. He cries around the material wadded in his mouth as someone takes a red hot blade to his wing joint, curves his back in a futile attempt to get away from something he can't escape.

Balthazar transfers a handful of powder to Cas, who dumps it straight into the bowl. Balthazar is starting to look uneasy.

"You're not…"

"Silver?" Cas says. Balthazar throws over a broken bracelet, which Cas catches and drops into the bowl. "Taipan venom," Cas says, the next item on the list.

"You are!" Balthazar accuses. "Are you mad? It won't work."

"Not without venom, no."

Balthazar disappears and reappears a few seconds later, a tiny vial between his fingers. Dean lets his eyes fall closed as pain wracks his body, and tries not to sob. He just wants it to end. Except it'll never end, it'll only ever get worse and worse. That's Hell, that's the point.

"I mean it, Cas," Balthazar says. "You know what you are to me, but I'm not raiding Heaven's private pantry for you- well, not for him."

"I'm not asking you to," Cas says, and then his voice slips away.

I killed you, Dean thinks, I'm the reason you died so many times over. You and Sammy both. The memories are coming thick and fast, the grief nearly as fierce as the pain shredding his body. Dean thinks that, now, he is probably screaming. It's hard to know.

"Dean?" someone asks, someone keeps on asking. DeanDeanDeanDeanDean. Just let me die.

"Keep your eyes open," Cas demands. "Keep them on me."

Dean can't, he won't, he doesn't want to. He hurt Cas and he watched Cas gets hurt and it's all he can think of, all he can see when he looks anywhere, at anything. Why won't he hurry up and die?

"On me," Cas says again, and this time Dean obeys. He knows that doesn't deserve it, but he wants to see Cas' eyes, just more time.

In the dingy chapel, they shine as brightly as the candles, somehow clearer than everything else. That was the one thing Heaven got wrong, Dean thinks. They'd recreated Castiel a hundred times over, a new Cas for each new punishment, and they'd all been carbon copies of the man himself- except for the eyes. They were never bright enough, never blue enough.

Balthazar reappears (he left?) with various reagents clutched in his arms, but Dean pays him little attention. A memory of Cas' dead body, his throat torn out, attempts to invade Dean's head. Dean manages to keep it at bay, his eyes still fixed on Cas'. Those eyes are real, this Cas is real, this is real.

"You do know this won't work," Balthazar says as Castiel works.

"It's nearly complete," Cas says, ignoring him. "I need-"

"Cherry blossom, I know, and cypress. But you know what else you need for this, and you know that you don't have it."

"I do," Cas says curtly, and that makes Balthazar shut up.

"You-"

"Balthazar, go!"

"The thanks I get," Balthazar mutters, but he does as he's asked. The pain ripping into Dean is vicious, but it's real, and so he clings onto it. He's not in Hell yet, he's never going to Heaven again- right now, he's here, on Earth.

"What're you doing?" Dean tries to ask, but it comes out as slurred nonsense. Balthazar appears, drops a handful of coloured petals into Cas' bowl, and looks over at where Zachariah's dead body lies with mild interest.

"Has he been there this whole time?" Balthazar asks.

"Yes," Castiel says, swirling the mixture together with his fingers and then shaking them dry.

"How awkward. What happened to him?"

"Me," Cas growls.

"You shouldn't queue-jump," Balthazar scolds. Cas picks up the silver dagger by his feet and, without hesitating for a second, cuts a neat line across his own wrist.

"Whose is it?" Balthazar asks. Castiel ignores him, intently watching his blood drip into the bowl.

"Cas!" Balthazar shouts. Sam'll hear, Dean thinks, but the words have ceased to hold meaning. Dean can't feel his wings anymore, and the pain is so intense that it almost doesn't hurt, pushing at the edges of euphoria. This is it; he's about to die. Thank you, thank you, oh God, thank you.

"What?" Cas says distractedly, blood dribbling down his arm as he picks up and swirls the bowl.

"Answer the question!"

Cas reaches towards Dean, but rather than cupping his face, his hand darts lower. Cas grabs hold, yanks, and the chain around Dean's neck snaps. Dean went fifteen years without taking off Sam's amulet; it was easy to forget Anna's necklace was even there. He'd dismissed as something beyond his understanding, to be worn without question. Cas moves backwards, holding the vial that's been hanging from Dean's neck ever since Zachariah pulled him from Hell.

"Castiel, whose grace are you using?" Balthazar demands. Castiel cracks the glass vial against the inside of the bowl and light blasts out, first in slivers and then in one huge, all-consuming beam.

"Mine," Cas snarls, and then the world is gone.