Catch a Dream (single post)

[blualbino]

Now that he has no home, Castiel has taken a permanent residence on the material plane of Earth. Once he was light itself, weightless and timeless and free. Now he sleeps under a borrowed coat every night, curled on a makeshift bed that smells like soured human sweat and pain. A woman passing by lays a greenish blanket over him. The cloth adds less warmth than the act.

"Sleep tight, hun," she whispers.

"I will," Castiel assures her. He doesn't have a choice in the matter, as Jimmy's body would give out without rest. He can make it without sustenance, but he needs to sleep often.

She seems mollified by his words, and bustles off to another cot, stroking a man's hair. Surrounded by the weak and helpless is the only refuge for Castiel now. He'd stumbled upon it, a gleaming church with its tattered pilgrims waiting for a night's stay, rest and food. Once he'd have been able to help these people. He'd have healed their sicknesses and sent them to do their work and be happy, but he can't now.

Maybe it's for the better.

Every few nights he comes to this place and does what he can, his mere presence is enough to rid them of minor ills, but it's not much. Castiel stares at the peeling walls and wills sleep to come.

"Buddy, hey," Buster demands, dropping unceremoniously onto the cot next to Castiel's. "C'mon, man, it's game time. Sleep later."

"I should be sleeping now," Castiel tells him. "I'm tired."

"Buddy, you're my lucky charm! You know I can't play without you."

Buster is a gambler. From the moment Castiel saw him he knew that was his one true vice, the love of chances. If you asked him -- and Castiel had -- Buster lost everything he owned to the twin bitches of a casino and lady luck.

"I'm not lucky," Castiel says, closing his eyes.

"Yes you are. I won more than half my games with you sitting next to me last time," Buster insists, tugging Castiel's arm.

He did win more often with Castiel at his side, but not because of luck. Controlling plastic dice is easier than breathing to Castiel, and he'd wanted to give the old man some comfort, even if it was sinful.

"I'm tired," he repeats.

"Fuck, Buddy, you can sleep by the dice," Buster insists. Castiel allows himself to be pulled into a sitting position. " 'Atta boy. We're in the chapel tonight."

Buster cajoles Castiel into the chapel, alternately pulling him and muttering abuse he thinks Castiel can't hear under his breath. A small huddle of other men has already formed on a pew, dice cupped between their hands. Gambling is illegal in the shelter, but they hide it well.

"You playin' or what, Buster?" an unshaven redhead hisses as Buster crowds into the pew.

"I had to pick somethin' up," Buster hisses, indicating Castiel with a wave of his hand. "Meet my lucky charm."

"He don't look lucky to me," the red haired man retorts.

"I'm not lucky," Castiel insists. Buster pulls him into the pew alongside him, forcing his head down by his collar.

"Hush," Buster says, smacking Castiel's shoulder. "Just sit down and think about me winning. Or, better yet..." he holds out two scratched dice in his hand, one dark red and one white.

"You sure about that, old man? That boy don't look luckier than road kill," one of the men admonishes.

"Buddy, you know how this works?" Buster asks, pressing the dice into Castiel's palm. "They call, you roll."

"Seven," the red haired man calls. "Hard seven."

"That's a three and a four, Buddy, you think you can manage that?"

"What is he, stupid or something, Buster? Fucking roll already."

Castiel lets the dice slip from his palm, watches them tumble to the carpeted ground under the pew. It would be simple to force the hard seven, but he doesn't. The red die lands with the three face up. A white four follows, and Castiel didn't do a thing.

"Hard fucking seven!" Buster croons, collecting his dice. "Pay up, assholes, my Buddy is one lucky ess-oh-bee." Buster slaps the dice back into Castiel's hands to make room for the nickels thrust into his. "Roll again, Buddy."

"Twelve," the man at the opposite end of the pew bets.

"Double if he makes it," Buster insists.

"Done."

Buster elbows Castiel, making him drop the dice. Twelve evenly spaced dots stare up at them.

"I don't believe it," someone says.

"Told ya. Fucking lucky," Buster hisses, holding his dirty hands out for the money. Castiel picks up the dice himself this time, rolling a two on Buster's command. Then an eight. An eleven. A six. Nickels slip heavily from Buster's hands to his pockets, greasy greedy laughs slip from his lips. Five. Ten. Seven. Nine. Never does Castiel interfere, and yet he always wins.

"You're fucking cheating, Buster, no way that's happening," the red haired man accuses, barely keeping his voice level.

"Read 'em and weep, Mack. If they're loaded, how the fuck do different numbers keep comin' up?"

No one has an answer to that. One by one the men draw away, their money jangling in Buster's pockets. Only the redheaded man remains, stubbornly piling his coins in front of Buster.

"That lucky streak's gonna end sometime, boy. I'm winning my fucking money back," he hisses at Castiel.

"Some people just can't learn, eh, Buddy? Call it."

"Hard eight," Mack bets, staring through Castiel's hands to the dice as though threatening the lifeless game pieces.

"Easy eight, you mean," Buster chuckles. "Roll."

Two fours. Hard eight.

"Fuck!" Mack exclaims. "How the fuck is he doin' that?"

"He's lucky, asshole," Buster scowls. "Now get the fuck out of here, come back when you learn to play."

"I'm getting my money back later," Mack says ominously, sliding off the pew.

"Sore loser," Buster whispers to Castiel. "You didn't cheat, did you?"

"No," Castiel answers. Buster nods solemnly, holding his hand out to receive his dice.

"I didn't think so. You don't seem the type, Buddy. Get some sleep." Buster leaves Castiel, patting him on the shoulder. His pockets clank as he swaggers away.

People are strange.

Castiel examines his hands. There's nothing special about them, nothing to distinguish them from that of the other men. Ten fingers, twenty eight joints and two palms. No one looking at these hands would guess that the owner of them just rolled an impossible game. The elation he feels -- blood rushing in his ears, heart pounding in his thin human chest -- is a little like flying.

___

The next morning Buster abstains from eating at the shelter, instead taking Castiel to a local diner and treating him to pancakes drowning in syrup and clots of melting butter.

"The breakfast of champions," Buster proclaims. "Just hope no one spit in it."

And with that, Castiel takes the first bite of his first meal. The thick slab of pancake melts over his tongue, coating his mouth in batter and grit.

"Howzit?" Buster asks gruffly, more than a quarter into his own.

"It's... different," Castiel answers, unwilling to offend his host. "Interesting."

Buster guffaws, gently kicking Castiel's leg. "You say that like you ain't ever had pancakes before." Castiel takes another bite, chewing the tips of his fork as he tries to swallow the mass of food. "Oh shit, have you?"

"No," Castiel answers. "I don't eat."

"Damn, boy, I didn't know you were that far off," Buster whispers. "I thought you were just... down on your luck. Y'know, not like me, I'm a deadbeat. You don't look like a deadbeat, Buddy." Castiel nods, unsure of how to respond. "How'd it happen? You can tell me."

"How did what happen?" Castiel asks, swishing bitter coffee around his mouth. He likes the sharpness of it much better than the sticky-sweet pancakes.

Buster kicks his leg harder this time. "How did -- ow, holy shit are you made of steel? Fucking Christ. How did you end up, y'know, homeless?"

"My brothers thought I was no longer fit to be... home," Castiel answers. He swishes more coffee down his throat

"Shit," Buster exhales. "Kicked out by your own fucking family? That's tough, Bud. Did you try to get help from your folks?"

"Folks?" Castiel asks.

"Your parents, Buddy. I bet your dad could kick their asses into shape for ya," Buster adds, tipping back his coffee cup like a shot glass. "What did your old man do?"

"My father is dead," Castiel tells him. The inside of his mouth tastes bitter, he washes it down with more coffee.

"I'm sorry, Buddy," Buster says. He clicks the edge of his coffee cup against Castiel's. "How'd it happen?"

"I don't know. I thought he was still alive for a long time," Castiel answers. The waitress comes and refills their cups, taking Castiel's abandoned food away.

"And then your asshole brothers gave you the shaft? Fuckers. I'll kick their asses for ya."

The idea of this fragile human standing up to the fury of Michael and his army makes Castiel smile with it's absurdity, a fact that doesn't slip Buster's notice.

" 'Atta boy, Buddy. I'll beat 'em blue, don't think I can't."

Castiel drinks more coffee to avoid responding, accidentally inhaling hot liquid as Buster demonstrates his right hook and then claims to have broken his hand on Castiel's shoulder. "See, I got you good, didn't I?" Buster cackles as Castiel coughs. "How many brothers you got?"

"Many more than you could handle," Castiel answers.

"Spoilsport," Buster admonishes, mouth full of pancake.

"I'm aware," Castiel says dryly. Buster snorts. Castiel stares out the window Buster insisted on sitting near, and there's a man sitting on the pavement across the street with a bottle clutched loosely in his hand. Castiel might recognize him from the shelter if the man's cap wasn't pulled over his eyes. Buster's foot taps anxiously on the ground as he eats, allowing Castiel this moment of silence. He appreciates it.

It's snowing outside. Castiel feels the urge to catch the flakes in his hands, on his lips.

"I should take you to Vegas," Buster says, pointing his fork dramatically in Castiel's direction. "I bet we could fuckin' blow out a casino with your luck." Castiel sips his coffee and listens to Buster as he explains all the wonders of Las Vegas.

___

The snowball breaks on impact with the back of Dean's head. And by breaks, Sam means fucking explodes with the force of the throw, turning Dean's hair and the back of his jacket a patchy white where it sticks.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Dean screeches, hand flying up to dig melting snow out of the back of his shirt.

"Just fucking listen to me, Dean," Sam says. "He's not going to talk to me, just call him."

"Why?" Dean asks, kicking a flurry of snow in Sam's general direction. "We don't need Cas' help, we fucking got this."

Which is how it's been for the last two weeks straight. Dean gunning from case to case, barely stopping to sleep and eat -- yeah, really, Dean's not even fucking stopping to eat anymore -- all without actually doing anything to stop the pending apocalypse. Just going and going like the Energizer bunny, but with less of a point.

Bobby can't talk to him, he's been living in a bottle since two of his few remaining friends in the world died, not that Sam can blame him. There's no one else that Sam could even think of Dean listening to if Bobby's gruff voice of reason is out of the picture.

Until he remembered that they have another voice of reason. Sam's a little confused that he didn't think of Castiel earlier, because, hello, angel.

Angel that won't answer Sam's calls. Or the one time he called from Dean's phone, and he left voicemails every time. He wasn't even aware that Cas had voicemail before then, since he usually answered before the first ring. He'd tried to get Dean to call, but that was a bust.

And now he's throwing things at Dean's head to get him to just fucking stop and listen. Awesome.

"It's not like we're hot on Lucifer's trail, or anything, Dean. Take two seconds to talk to Cas," Sam spits.

Dean's snowball hits him square in the face, grinding into his nose and teeth. Sam's dazed for a second, and Dean's already back in the car by the time he gets his head back on straight. He's not sure what state they're in right now, but he hates it and all its snow. Angrily, he follows Dean's lead, sliding into the passenger seat.

"Why not?" he asks, trying to rub feeling back into his cheeks.

"Because I don't want to," Dean says, staring at the road. That's the stupidest reason Sam's ever heard, or at least one of them, because he did grow up with Dean, but he won't push it. He got Dean to pull into a diner and eat a half decent meal for the first time in a few days and that's a good accomplishment for right now.

"You ever think he might be hurting just as much as you?" Sam asks without really thinking, trying to see if his nose is bleeding.

Wow, bad time for an epiphany. Out loud.

"Shut up, Sam."

"No," Sam says, because he's got something here. "Castiel isn't on vacation, he's just as messed up as we are about all this. You know what he gave up to stop Lucifer."

"Yeah, and who's fault is that?" Dean says coldly.

"Ours. So Cas is our responsibility."

"He's not a baby, he can fucking take care of himself," Dean answers.

"Not always, Dean," Sam says. "The world's never ended before. How's he taking it?"

Dean glares at Sam, taking the curves of the road blind. "It's not just happening to him, Sam. Cas can get used to it."

It's like Dean reached over and smacked Sam in the face. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

"Whatever," Dean answers, cranking the radio. Sam knows he wouldn't have this sinking feeling in his gut if Dean had just called him a bitch.

___

"You're paying for breakfast next time, Buddy," Buster informs Castiel, elbowing him in the side with the same motion as he wipes the last traces of syrup and crumbs off his mouth. The sun shines through the silver in his beard and makes it glow a soft white. Castiel nods solemnly, walking at Buster's right. He lets the old man ramble on about seemingly whatever pops into his head, a cheerful static to occupy Castiel's ears.

"I tell ya, Bud, when I was young, it was never this fuckin' cold. S'always fucking cold around here," he babbles good naturedly. He leads Castiel down back road shortcut back to the shelter ("I was here before this building was in my way and I'll be damned if I have to walk two blocks around it.")

"Jesus Christ, when did this happen?" Buster asks. The alleyway is blocked by a chain fence, overgrown with dead brown branches of ivy. "Fuck, must be goin' senile or something, Buddy. We'll head back."

The metallic click of a switchblade opening rings in the small space.

"You ain't going anywhere with my money, old man."

Castiel automatically steps in front of Buster, no thought to the action. Mack from the game of dice stands in the mouth of the alley, silver switchblade in hand.

"Mack," Buster says softly, trying to move around Castiel as he pushes him back towards the fence. "Don't do anything you'll regret."

"You're gonna regret cheating, old man. No one is that lucky," Mack says, staggering towards Castiel.

"You're drunk, asshole, think about this," Buster pleads.

"Stay back," Castiel warns, to which man he's not sure.

"Shut the fuck up," Mack hisses. "This is all your fucking fault." He steps ever closer, a strange scent, sharp and sweet, coming off him that makes Castiel's eyes burn.

"Move it, Buddy," Buster says, smacking Castiel's shoulder. "Don't be a hero."

"Yeah, Buddy, don't be a fucking hero," Mack spits. He pushes the knife roughly in Castiel's direction -- slow and flashy, seeing if he'll flinch. Castiel doesn't move away from Buster, who's gone still behind him. The knife waves a silver streak in front of his chest, past his cheek. "Gonna piss yourself, Buddy?" Mack asks, trying to fake around Castiel's side to Buster.

Castiel's hand shoots out and grabs the knife by the blade, twisting it out of Mack's hand and the edge into his flesh. Mack gasps, jerking his hand away as if burned, leaving himself wide open for Castiel to land an open handed blow just below his chest, where his ribs meet his stomach, slamming him back and knocking the air out of him in a rush.

"Holy shit," Buster intones.

Castiel drags Mack up by his collar, his injured hand leaving smears of blood on Mack's shirt.

"You will not harm Buster," he growls.

"Yeah, fuck, whatever man! Just let me go!" Mack screeches, holding his arms up to protect his face.

"I will know if you do," Castiel informs him. He lets go of Mack's collar not a second later and walks back to his friend, spot checking him for injuries. Other than a slightly raspy hitch to his breath, he seems fine.

"Holy shit, Buddy," Buster repeats. "You're bleeding all over the place."

Castiel's hand is indeed bleeding a lot. The edge of his sleeve is stained reddish-brown. Dribbles of blood arc through the swirls of his fingertips in complicated patterns.

"Lemme take a look, Bud," Buster says, holding his hand out to receive Castiel's. "Looks pretty deep," he says, hesitantly pulling Castiel's sticky sleeve away from his skin. "I think you're gonna need stitches."

"I'll be fine."

"I don't think you will," Buster retorts, strangely hesitant. "Lemme take you up to the free clinic, it's not that far from here." Buster takes Castiel's injured arm by the elbow and leads him towards the mouth of the alley. "Buddy, we should go."

"I should go," Castiel agrees.

"Yeah, Bud, to the doctor. This looks really fucking deep," Buster repeats. The words don't seem to quite reach Castiel's ears intact, they're blurred and hazy.

"Buddy, you're shaking."

"I think it's time for me to go," Castiel says.

___

Dean's in the shower and his phone rings on his bedside table. Instead of the annoying bell-tone jingle, the Hallelujah Chorus plays. Sam checks the outer screen and, yeah, it's Cas.

"Cas, where the hell are you?" Sam hisses into the phone.

"Minnesota. Where are you?" Castiel returns.

"Washington," Sam tells him. "I'll text you the address." He puts the phone on speaker and talks at it while he types.

"What's going on, Cas?"

"I am injured," Castiel says, appearing at the edge of the bed, snapping his phone shut. His right sleeve is soaked in blood.

"Shit, what happened?" Sam says, taking Cas' arm by the elbow. His hand is dripping blood, down his fingers from a cut across his palm. "You grab a knife by the wrong end or something?"

"Yes."

Sam doesn't feel like dignifying that with a response. He pulls Cas' palm out at an angle to his body and tells him to keep it like that, then digs through his bag for a rag and alcohol. Both are near the top, even though he hasn't used them recently -- he'll worry about that later.

"This is going to sting. What happened exactly, Cas? Someone come at you with a knife?" Sam asks, trying to distract Castiel while he disinfects the wound. Castiel breathes in harshly -- not as harsh as Dean does, but there's more emotion in that one sound than Sam's ever seen on Cas' face -- when the vodka touches down.

"I was attacked," Castiel confirms. Sam doesn't have the attention span right now to get more specific information out of him. With most of the blood washed away he can see the wound clearly now, and it's not pretty. There's a deep gash, stretching from the webbing between Cas' thumb and index finger to just before the jutting bone of his wrist.

"Shit," Sam breathes. "I'll have to stitch this up." He kicks the shower door loudly on the way back to his bag to get his sewing kit. Sam doesn't quite know if he should bring the painkillers or not, but decides to at the last second.

"What the fuck?" Dean asks loudly, stepping out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his waist and his hair in wet spikes. "Fuck, Cas, are you bleeding?"

"Hello, Dean," Castiel answers. His voice sounds a lot weaker than it did a second ago.

"Yes he is, I'll explain later," Sam says briskly. He shakes a few pills into his palm and holds them out to Cas. "Take these."

"No."

Dean's taking the pill bottle out of Sam's hand before he has enough time to blink. "You'll have to do this straight, Cas."

"Why?" Sam asks, dumbstruck. Dean just glares at him.

"Sit down and hold your hand out," Dean instructs, taking the sewing kit right out of Sam's fucking hands. Really? Yesterday he couldn't stand the guy and today he's first in line to fix him up? The apocalypse must've pushed Dean off the fucking deep end. Petulantly, Sam sits at Castiel's side, supporting Cas' injured arm at the elbow. Dean kneels in front of the angel, threading the needle like a pro.

Cas flinches the first time the needle goes in.

"You okay?" Dean asks him. Sam wants to point out that Cas is obviously not fucking okay and that Dean should just give him the pills, but Dean's face is enough to still his tongue. His eyes are sort of locked on to Castiel's, like there isn't anyone else in the room. Like it's just them, and Dean is going to make Cas stop hurting just by being near him.

"Yes. Continue," Cas says.

Sam's chest feels oddly tight.

Cas doesn't flinch again, even though he's watching the needle weaving in and out of his skin.

"What attacked you?" Dean asks calmly, tearing his eyes away from Castiel's long enough to concentrate on his stitching.

"A man. He thought I stole from him."

"Did you?" Dean asks casually. Cas shakes his head, looking offended. Sam nudges Dean's shin with the toe of his boot for asking. Dean ignores it.

The dark thread pulls Cas' flesh jaggedly together, the wound nothing but a thin red line under the stitching.

"Looks good," Sam comments.

"Should hold for a while," Dean says, trying it off. "If you go easy on it," he adds, glaring at Cas.

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel says seriously, folding his fingers inward over the wound. They only bend halfway as far as they normally would, much to Cas' apparent surprise.

"Don't thank me yet, I still gotta bandage it."

"I can do that," Sam interjects, tired of being ignored. He's still less than three feet away from Dean, yet Dean doesn't even seem to notice that he's there, and it's strange. It makes his throat feel full and his chest heavy, so it's hard to breathe.

"Go for it," Dean says, callously throwing an ace bandage at Sam's chest as he walks back into the bathroom. Sam scowls at the back of his bipolar head.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" Sam asks, winding the bandage around Cas' hand. He's going to look like a mummy from the wrist up by the time Sam's done, he can already tell, since he's not going to stop bandaging until he gets answers.

Castiel shrugs, a gesture Sam was pretty sure he didn't know before now. Where ever he's been, it's made him more human, and Sam's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. The shower starts back up in the bathroom, water slamming the porcelain bottom of the tub loud enough for Sam to hear when Dean steps back under the spray.

"Stay here tonight," Sam demands, and he's really glad Dean can't hear him and make implications, because if he has to stutter his way through another explanation of Dean's sense of humor he's going to shoot something. "So we can check on this in the morning." Castiel nods solemnly.

Fuck, if Dean wants to be an asshole about everything, Cas is sleeping in his bed.

___

Sleeping on the floor always makes Dean's back stiff and it pops worse than Rice Krispies when he tries to get up as the first rays of sunlight hit him through the window. Except Rice Krispies don't have to sleep on the floor because their brother gave their bed away.

Dean scowls at Cas' sleeping form, snuggled up warm in his blankets. Dean's blankets, that is. He steps closer, trying to see if there's any room next to the angel. He's double-bunked before, he can deal, especially if the alternative is being awake at the crack of dawn with a sore back. He looks at him for a whole minute -- curled inwards like he's protecting himself from something, hair sticking up where it touched the pillow, his feet in their weirdly small looking black socks hanging over the side of the bed -- before he remembers that this is the angel who wasn't there when two of Dean's best friends died for the cause. And that he hates stupid dick angels, even if he sort of likes this one -- or, did.

Whatever the fuck. Dean's even more tired now, and a bed is a bed is a bed. He positions himself on the side of the bed, grabs the nightstand for balance and sets his foot squarely on Castiel's back. Hopefully he's a heavy sleeper.

He's not.

"Dean?" Cas asks softly, turning his head to blink a bleary eye at him. Not something you'd expect from someone you're literally trying to kick out of bed.

"Uh. Morning," Dean says, frozen in place. Maybe he'll get lucky and think that he's doing some weird human greeting thing and go back to sleep. Right after giant flying pigs take off with the Impala.

"Have I made it difficult for you to sleep?" Cas says, sitting up -- Dean quickly retracts his foot, barely keeping his balance -- and rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his uninjured hand. "I should leave."

"No, I -" Dean says. That's about as far as his brain gets before it sticks, he can hear the transmission grinding in his head and backtracks.

"You guys are so loud," Sam groans. Dean kind of wants to sit on his head.

"My apologies, Sam," Castiel says formally. He appears to be looking for his shoes, which Dean's pretty sure he kicked under the bed while he was sleeping.

"Whatever, Cas. What time is it?" Sam asks.

"The ass-crack of dawn," Dean says helpfully. Sam sleepily backhands the part of Dean nearest to him, which happens to be his thigh. As if Sam hit a button, Dean's stomach rumbles loudly.

"Go eat," Sam says, stretching without getting up, like a cat. "Bring me back something."

"Bitch," Dean mutters, thunking the side of his fist into Sam's shoulder. Not that that's a bad idea, he's starving.

"Take Cas with you."

Dean scowls as he shoulders on his jacket, Sam raising a single eyebrow in reply. Cas sits in the middle, obviously lost.

"C'mon dude," Dean says, toeing one of Cas' shoes out from under the bed. "Breakfast time." Sam does this annoying smug smile thing, and Dean flips him off, tapping the beat that Cas should be putting his shoes on with a fingernail on the plastic casing of the cell phone in his pocket. Sam shakes his head in Dean's direction while slithering out from under the covers.

"Are you certain I should accompany you?" Castiel asks, fumbling with his laces. From where Dean's standing, they look like they've been fused into a giant clump of fiber.

"Yeah," Dean says. He stands and watches for a few more seconds while Cas messes with his mangled shoelaces -- how the fuck did he even get out of them anyway? -- before he gives up. He kneels in front of Castiel and pulls his foot forward, digging his nails into the shoelaces and prying them apart. It takes a while, but he's practically got a degree in shoe-wrangling after teaching Sam how to do it,. The laces tamed, Cas slips his foot into the shoe and Dean leans back just enough to makes sure Cas can see the way he twists the cord into a knot.

Then he hands Cas the other shoe, standing up just in time for Sam to come out of the bathroom and flop onto his bed.

"You guys going?" Sam asks, scratching at his hair.

"Hold your horses," Dean snaps.

"I'm ready," Castiel pronounces gravely. Dean looks down to confirm that his shoes are attached to his feet, gives a quick nod of approval, and heads out, tossing a quick, "see ya, asshole," over his shoulder at Sam.

___

A while ago, Sam would already be awake at this time. At one point his body woke up instinctively at dawn or just before, and then he'd work until Dean got up or he was hungry enough to leave. Now he just sleeps all the time.

The demon blood ran over his internal clock with a monster truck. Makes it kind of hard not to feel disoriented all the time. Sleeping helps, but Sam's not made to sleep all the time like Dean, who used to be able to pass out at the drop of a hat and wake up fifteen hours later no worse for wear, only now Dean can barely sleep a couple of hours, and he's always thrashing in his sleep.

They swapped, isn't that funny?

Sam's laying on his bed, there's a shocker, blankets folded halfway up his legs, trying to wake up enough to do something. Open his laptop and learn things about where they're going -- Washington, and the only thing Sam knows about it is that apparently their state bird is the rare Sparkly Mormon Vampire -- or maybe just stand up and change out of his dirty old sweatpants. It's sickeningly tempting to fall asleep though, his eyelids heavy and warm. The low off-white ceiling blurs in front of his eyes, turning into thick clouds.

Fuck. Not now. Angrily, Sam sits up, pushing his hair out of his face. He's not sure what he's angry at, but he will not sleep. Not when there's research to be done, because they have enough disadvantages without running into a case blind.

The last real news about it was an obituary last week. The body of a girl was found in the woods almost a month after she'd been declared missing. The coroner had pronounced the time of death to be only a few days before she was found. Meaning that she had been alive in the wilderness, in midwinter for weeks, with no visible signs of malnutrition, exertion, frostbite, or even so much as a freaking sunburn. Definitely weird.

Last year the same thing happened to a man during the same timeframe. And the year before that, and the year before that. The pattern is easier to find than Waldo. When Sam related the details to Dean he said something about molepeople that Sam ignored, until now, because he's so tapped out for ideas that he doesn't even have a clue where to start looking for answers.

He kind of wants to blame the demon blood for that too -- the loss of his instincts.

Bobby's the old standby, but he's otherwise occupied and probably will be for another couple of weeks. Sam's not sure who else he even can call, after the last time he ran into a group of hunters unprepared. He stands, finally, and digs a book out of his bag, it's binding hanging on by threads and duct tape, and sets it down on his bed ridge first. He skims the first page it falls open to, somewhere in the middle next to a deep crack in the binding. Something about monsters that live in the desert, the names of which he can't pronounce.

Sam sighs. It's not like he'd had his hopes up anyway, that's never worked before. He flips aimlessly, letting words and phrases catch his eye. He'll be one lucky bastard if he finds anything this way. Not that any Winchester could be described as lucky, ever. Sam stops flipping halfway through the book.

His eyes land on an entry halfway down the page. That could work.

Call him a lucky bastard.

___

There's next to nothing in the town they're in, tiny little place on the edge of a massive forest with a grand total of three tourists in the whole place -- guess who -- but even it still has a tiny diner, with red vinyl booths and waitresses in short one-color dresses. Cas walks in and looks around like it's a fucking museum, so Dean leaves him to it, claiming a corner booth two down from the only other customers, two old men with a chessboard set up between them. Black's winning.

"You gonna sit down, Sug?" a waitress asks Castiel, hand hovering helpfully near his elbow.

"Cas," Dean barks. He sinks down into his side of the booth, facing the door. Instead of the usual food smells of bread and grease, he's overwhelmed with the smell of apples. Castiel wanders over from where he's stalled, sliding gracefully into the booth across from Dean. The waitress follows and drops two menus in front of them.

"What do you want?" Dean asks, opening his laminated menu and peering at Cas over it.

"Whatever you do," Castiel replies, ignoring him to stare out the window.

Fine. Cas is getting a burger, and Dean is taking his fries. With that settled, he sets the menu down and props his feet up on the part of the opposite bench not occupied by Castiel's ass. He gives Cas his best annoying smile when he looks over. Cas doesn't react.

The waitress returns, slapping two burgers down on china plates in front of them and a separate plate piled with fries.

"I didn't order," Dean protests, stunned.

"I know your type, Sug," the waitress says with a not entirely benevolent smile. All the sudden Dean both wants everything in front of him and none of it. His stomach screams for the food, but his head won't let him reach for it.

"Cas?" Dean asks. All he can see is beef and bun, golden fries dripping with ketchup. He's salivating more then Pavlov's fucking dog. There's a tall glass of Coke, and, seriously, where the fuck did that come from? -- with crystal clear ice floating in it and little beads of moisture running down the sides. The most delicious looking thing Dean has ever seen, he can goddamn smell it, and it smells like cherries and beautiful life-giving sugar.

"Don't drink it," Castiel orders, the sound of his voice almost drowned out by Dean's stomach rumbling. Yeah, no fucking duh don't drink it, but that's a lot easier said than done, because Dean's biting the inside of his lip so hard he can taste his own metallic blood and wishing it would taste like cherry Coca-Cola.

"Fuck," Dean hisses. Quickly, before he can think too much about it, he sticks his hand in his mouth, his teeth settling between the first and second knuckles, and bites down hard. Pain shoots up his arm and brings him back to his senses, even though he can feel whatever snared him in the first place creeping up the sides of his consciousness like vines. "Get me out of here," he demands, throwing his hand over the table and into Cas' warm, dry grip.

Nothing.

"Dean," Cas answers, and there can't be anything good going on because Cas looks honest to God freaked, like he just stuck his finger in an electrical socket.

"Check the ceiling, Babe," the waitress hints, winking. Is it just Dean, or does she look different? Her cheekbones seem more pronounced, hips slimmer, eyes wider. Her name tag reads Al.

"Shitfuck," Dean hisses, staring at the ceiling. Carved into the plaster are the long grooves and sharp lines of a devil's trap, stretching across the entire diner. Angel proofing. The door they came in through is gone, smoothed into solid wall like it was never there. The old men playing chess have no eyes and vines curling up over their collars.

"Now that I have your attention," Al says, smoothing her skirt and leaning against the bar, "I should tell you, I'm only after one of you."

"Good to know," Dean snarls. Cas' hand slides out of his after one brief squeeze. It feels like a goodbye. "You're not going anywhere," Dean hisses at him, tapping Cas' shin with his boot.

"And, as he correctly guessed, that one is Castiel," Al adds, the corner of her mouth upturned in a smirk.

"You're not getting him," Dean argues.

"I already have," Al says, winking.

The sick thing is Dean knew before the words left his mouth. There's a flash in the corner of his eye, Cas moving so fast Dean can barely see it.

With the hand Dean sewed up last night, Castiel is tipping the glass of Coke into his mouth, gulping desperately, trickles of it running from the corners of his mouth to his chin. He gags, probably on a chip of ice, and bites down, the glass more than half empty. Finished, Cas smashes it on the floor, wiping his mouth with his other sleeve.

"Will that be enough?" he asks Al.

"More than enough, Sug," Al replies. Dean reaches out to grab Cas by his dumbass collar and shake some sense into him, but his hand hits faded red vinyl and leaves fingertip shaped dents in its surface.

The bench he's sitting on collapses beneath his weight, sending up a toxic cloud of dust that stings his nose and eyes. He rubs away the watery tears and looks around. He's in a dilapidated old building that vaguely resembles the diner he was just in, if it got hit by a bomb and was left to rust for a hundred years or so.

And he's alone.

___

Sam's phone rings just as he's speed dialing Dean, which never ends well for either of them.

"Dude, please tell me you have a lead," Dean says in lieu of hello. He can practically see Dean behind the front wheel, speeding back to him. He's using his driving voice.

"Yeah I do. What happened?"

"Some bitch just angel-napped Cas," Dean growls.

"Fuck. Did he eat or drink anything, Dean?" Sam asks. He has another book for this, he knows it. It's probably at the very bottom of his fucking bag, under all his clothes.

"Yeah," Dean says solemnly. Sam pauses his frantic searching for a second. Just a second.

"Dean?"

"What the fuck is it?" Dean asks gruffly.

"Fairies," Sam replies. He can hear Dean scowling into the phone.

"Fairies?"

"Fairies."

"Okay, I'll bite," Dean says angrily. "What the fuck do fairies want with Cas?"

"No idea," Sam answers helplessly.

"Get one," Dean demands. Sam grits his teeth and tries not to say anything nasty to him. Yes, Dean is a jackass, but he has reason to be right now, and Sam doesn't need another fucking fight after he just got Dean starting to act normal again.

"Working on it," Sam says. All he gets in reply is the rude click of the phone hanging up.

___

There's an audible snap and Castiel's somewhere else, disoriented, with the oversweet taste of cherries in his mouth. There' something about this that's wrong; not wrong, he should say, because all of this is wrong, but unexpected, and he can't quite pinpoint it. Until he does.

It's not winter where he is. The air doesn't sting with cold and the ground is soft and free of snow. This is not good.

"Do you like it, cousin?"

Castiel turns quickly, only to hear a soft laugh, a pretty laugh, there's no other word, from behind him.

"Who are you?" Castiel demands, setting his legs in a fighting stance. Not that it'll help much against something too fast for him to even see, but he's not going to let himself be teased like this.

"That's a dangerous question in these parts, little cousin," the voice says again, off to Castiel's right this time. He doesn't turn towards it.

"What do you want?"

Castiel gasps.

"You," says the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, appearing in front of him. It's woman shaped, but that's where the resemblance ends. She is tall and needle thin, with startlingly wide eyes. Her lips are a dark, rich red. Unable to speak, or move, or think, or breathe, he allows her to come closer, until they're sharing the same air. She reaches forward to run her fingers over his lips and they taste like dirt and apples.

"Such a pretty little cousin, Castiel," she murmurs. Castiel touches her arm to steady himself, half expecting to be shocked.

"Why do you call me that?"

"We're both forgotten by our families," she says, cupping his chin. "What else should I call you?"

Castiel doesn't bother replying when her lips touch his, pulling him in with heir taste, their feel. It's sour both inside her mouth and out, a taste he could get lost in. His arms wrap around her, holding her to him tight enough to crush a human.

She laughs.

___

"You're not going to like this," Sam says as Dean walks through the door. He already doesn't.

"What?" Dean snaps.

"Fairies kidnap talented or sensitive people and basically use them as toys until they die," Sam says, pouting. He's holding and old book in one arm, flipping pages.

Dean really does not fucking like this.

"How do we get him back?" Dean asks, sitting at the edge of his bed and resisting the urge to punch something.

"That's the thing," Sam says solemnly. "They shouldn't have been able to take him in the first place, because he's not technically a person. He should be able to get himself out."

"Assuming he can't, how the fuck do we get him back?"

"We'd have to go in after him," Sam says. The creases on his forehead illustrate just how fucking bad of an idea he thinks that is. Dean raises an eyebrow at him. "Fairies are tricky, Dean. If we go after him, we might never come back out."

"Yeah, that's never happened before," Dean huffs.

"If we eat or drink anything they give us we're stuck there forever, you do know that, right? Can you go however long this takes without eating?" Sam asks, gesturing with his free hand.

"Shit," Dean hisses. "They made Cas drink something."

Sam pales, his frustrated pout melting into shock. "Then they've got him."

"No, they don't, Sam. C'mon, yesterday you were trying everything to get me to call him, and now you just want me to leave him to die?" Dean protests, standing.

"Yesterday you needed his help," Sam hisses, chords in his neck standing out.

"And today he needs ours," Dean says.

They stare each other down for a few seconds, each waiting for even the slightest amount of give. Sam sighs, letting his breath out through his nose in a rush.

"How do we kill fairies?" Dean asks experimentally.

Sam rolls his eyes, snapping his book shut. "Iron. Bullets will work."

___

Sam hates cold and snow, and he hates them even more together. No, that didn't make any sense, but that is the depth of his hatred. He scratches under the edge of his scarf; an obnoxiously bright orange, there's another just like it around Dean's neck, and stares into the trees.

"S'not exactly hunting season, Sam," Dean says, waving the loose end of his scarf in Sam's direction. Sam doesn't comment, because Dean already knows why he's wearing it. He wants to be able to see Dean while they're there, and Dean needs to be able to see him too, for both their sanity's sake. And, short of tying them together, this is the best way.

If Dean doesn't like that, tough.

Not that he's going to be far enough away from Dean for them to need day-glo clothing, but he knows what happens when you just assume things are going to work out the way you plan. He's never met a fairy, but he already doesn't trust them as far as he can throw them.

"You know what to do?" Sam asks.

They're standing at the edge of the forest, not more than a few yard away from where Cas was taken, suited up for a rescue mission.

"I got it," Dean says seriously. Sam knows he does. On the way over he drilled the rules into Dean's head. Don't eat or drink anything you're offered. Don't tell anyone your name. And for God's sake don't be out of each other's sight.

"Can we move already?" Dean snaps. Sam sighs and nods at the same time, a skill he's perfected over the years. Shaking his head, Dean advances into the trees, gun cocked. Sam follows, feeling more than a little ridiculous.

Sam knows something he neglected to tell Dean.

That if the fairies don't want to be found, they're not going to. If they really want to keep Cas they're probably going to, and Sam is fine wandering in the cold and never meeting them because, as much as he likes Cas, he's not going to do something stupid and risk Dean's life.

Which brings the opposite thought. If they do find anyone (or anything), Castiel or not, it's going to be because they want to be found.

Sam's breath comes out in a visible rush. This is giving him a pretty serious case of the creeps. The whole forest is in shades of grey and white, like a painting. He and Dean are the only obviously living things he can see between the leafless trees.

He has a crazy feeling that if he looked back he wouldn't see their footprints, just clean unbroken snow and dead grey trees.

"Sammy," Dean barks suddenly. "You with me here?"

"Yeah," Sam says.

This is going to be harder than he thought.

___

Dean has to take his jacket off just before they see the first tufts of green grass sticking through the snow. He exchanges a glance with Sam -- is that good? Nope. -- and trudges forward, trying to enjoy the feeling of not having snow melting into his shoes for a while. Not that there isn't still water in his shoes from before, but he's trying to be positive and ignore the sinking feeling in his gut that usually signifies walking into a trap. Sam feels it too, if the way he's kicking what little snow's left means anything.

When he sees Cas he's gonna beat the shit out of him for getting his stupid ass kidnapped. Then he might just tie him to the back seat of he Impala so it doesn't happen again.

There's a tree at the edge of Dean's vision that has most of its leaves, all a bright, waxy green. A spring tree. Dean's footsteps hit uncovered ground with a thump.

"We're close," Sam says.

No duh, Dean thinks but doesn't say. He runs a finger over the butt of his gun, checking for the thousandth time that it's still loaded. It is.

"You hear that?" Sam asks, going still. Dean follows suit, practically holding his breath while he strains his ears, and, yeah, he hears it. Low chatter, music, laughter. The sounds of a crowd buried deep in fairy country.

"Yeah."

He feels Sam crowd in, covering his back as he creeps forward into the next stand of trees. It's empty, but the sinking feeling gets worse, so they've got to be closer. Dean feels something like a cobweb ghost down the back of his neck, making him shiver down to his frozen toes.

There's a lot of undergrowth now, bushes and roots hiding little dips in the terrain. Dean steps into one and nearly twists his ankle the wrong way, but gets by with just a popped knee. Swearing, he pushes undergrowth out of his way. It's gotten so hot that he has to take off his over shirt and tie it around his waist with his jacket. Behind him Sam taps a tree with the muzzle of his gun, experimentally.

Obviously he's gone nuts.

"Sam?" Dean asks, putting his free hand on his waist.

"It's hollow," Sam says, tapping the trunk of the tree with his knuckles.

"No shit?" Dean says. He hops over a bush, and, ow, don't do that again, pressing his ear to the bark. Sam knocks on it again and it is hollow.

"I think we're here," Sam says, scanning the area like a bunch of fairies are going to pop out and scream "gotcha!" Much to Dean's disappointment, none do. Just ahead of the tree there's a thick strip of moss hanging down like a gauzy curtain. Sam points to it and Dean nods. That's their place.

They stalk towards it, Sam reaching the moss first and Dean covering him. Sam holds up three fingers, drops down to two, and flings open the curtain at one.

Well, that's not what he expected.

Dean would be lying if he said he expected Tinkerbelle, but he'd be pretty close to the picture he had in his head; short girls in tiny dresses with wings, inspired by years of porn and sluttish Halloween costumes. He's faced with a small crowd, there's maybe twenty of them, tops, of strikingly beautiful men and women dancing.

Dean's not one to actually use the word beautiful, but that's the most accurate word for these tall, statuesque almost-but-not-quite-human things and their strangely liquid movements. A girl with long blonde hair catches his eye and smiles, all feral little teeth against luscious lips.

"Do you like what you see, pretty thing?" she says, stepping towards him. Dean digs his nails into his palm and focuses on the sudden change of his name to 'pretty thing' to stop himself from going to her, because he can see what she's doing. Long tendrils of something are reaching out towards Dean and trying to wrap around him.

"Back off," Dean barks. Her perfect smile draws back into a perfect scowl, and that suits her face a hell of a lot better. She crowds in closer, and Dean is in fear for his manhood, because gun or no gun, this bitch is fucking scary. He tips up the barrel of his shotgun to the level of her throat, staring her down. She sniffs the air, getting a whiff of iron, and stops, uttering a low growling scream.

All the revelry around them stops as the fairies turn to face them, in synch like fucking zombies. Really pretty catlike zombies who may outnumber the rounds Dean brought. Next to him, Sam cocks his gun.

"Fools," Blondie hisses. "Bringing weapons here."

"We just want our friend back, bitch. Fork him over and we're gone," Dean spits.

They all laugh, high and sweet like chimes. Dean wonders how many he could take out before the rest get him. Sam shoots him a look like he didn't already know that laughing is a Bad Sign. They wait it out until it subsides to creepy chuckles, there's all still smiling though, so Dean lets Sam do his diplomacy thing so he doesn't blow their chances by shooting the wrong person in the face.

"Where is he?" Sam asks, creeping forward.

"He is here," Blondie says. "Would you speak with him?"

"Don't fuck with us," Dean says.

"Dean?"

Dean's heart fucking stops.

"Fairies can't lie," Sam hisses at him. Cas steps out from the crowd, looking dazedly up at Dean.

No wonder Dean didn't recognize him. He's missing most of his clothing, including his shoes, and stands in just his white shirt, missing more and a few buttons; and his slacks, coated in dirt. His hair has few short, stumpy braids in it, like mini dreadlocks.

"Jesus, Cas, you couldn't have said something earlier?"

"Hello, Dean," Cas says. He looks confused and kind of wobbly. A fairy man reaches out to him, burying his hand in Cas' hair and pets him. Like a dog.

Cas leans into the hand, eyes sliding shut.

"What did you do to him?" Sam hisses.

"Nothing our little cousin didn't want," says a different fairy. At the sound of her voice the others fall into a respectful silence. The Head Bitch.

"Bullshit," Dean retorts.

"Truth," she answers.

"Cas," Dean barks, bypassing her and her crap. "C'mon, we're getting out of here." Instead of reacting, not like Dean was expecting more than a blink or a nod, Cas just stares at him blankly. Shit's getting creepy.

Head Bitch smiles at him, her pouting lips turning up at the far end.

"He will only do as I say," She tells him. Demonstrating her point, she beckons Cas with a finger and he comes to her, smiling a junkie's smile that looks too familiar on his face for Dean's hands not to shake a little. She grabs a fistful of his hair, seriously, what is up with fairies and Cas' hair, anyway; and pulls him into a rough kiss.

Dean is going to shoot her.

Once she's done molesting his angel's face she lets go, and Cas pulls his lips away from hers with a whimper.

"He is drunk with me," she says triumphantly.

"Too much information," Dean quips, even though it's pretty obvious she's right. Cas is staring at her adoringly, bringing more dog metaphors to Dean's mind than he cares to examine.

"What do you want for him?" Sam asks. Dean's eyebrows go up, but Sam stands tall and Dean takes it that he knows what he's doing.

"A trade?" Head Bitch says, holding the words in her mouth like she's tasting them. "What are you offering?"

"I'm offering sport," Sam says fast. Shit, Dean knows that voice. That's the voice Sam uses when his brain's just firing off answers to questions, even if they're not the best ones. "We play a game, we win and we get to keep him."

"And if you lose?" Head Bitch asks. Castiel sits next to her on the ground, resting his head on the side of her knee. One of her hands come down and absentmindedly unwinds one of his braids, letting his hair fan out like it's supposed to.

"We'll leave," Sam says. "You get the town and no hunters ever bother you again." It's a brave move, but it's not going to work. Head Bitch is out for blood.

"But hunters are such fine toys," she says. "What if I want them to come?"

"Then we'll send them to you in droves."

Head Bitch laughs.

"You can have me," Dean says. He sees Sam throw him a hurt look out of the corner of his eye, but all his attention is on Head Bitch, who looks like the cat the got the canary. "Hunters make good toys, right?"

"Very," she replies. She drags her tongue along her lower lip, looking Dean up and down. Dean scowls at her. Sam clenches the handle of his gun like he wants to beat Dean over the head with it, which is only to be expected.

"And me," Sam growls, glaring a dare you to stop me at Dean.

"Your trade is accepted," Head Bitch says. At her side, Cas stands, turns on his heel and runs from the clearing.

"Hey!" Dean shouts after him.

"Find your angel and you may keep him," Head Bitch says.

Dean hears Sam start at the same time he does, the two of them launching like rockets in the direction Cas went, guns held out to shoot any stupid fairies that might get in the way. None do, but all of them are laughing again, fucking creepy zombie laughs like bells and Dean's going to burn this fucking forest down as soon as he gets out. The trees thicken around him again as they leave the clearing behind them, and the only noise for a long time is the thud of feet hitting the ground and Sam's even breathing just behind him.

"Where the fuck did he go?" Dean asks, putting his hands on his knees to steady himself.

"I don-" Sam's cut off by a shout of Dean's name, far off to his right. Dean takes off without a second thought, ignoring the burn in his lungs and legs. "Dean!"

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean shouts over his shoulder.

They'd been on a relatively smooth path, a straightish line through the trees that was level, but not anymore. Dean runs a few steps before the ground takes a sudden, steep downwards incline that threatens to send Dean tumbling. He picks up speed at his new angle, his legs practically moving of their own accord, until one of his slow, stupid feet hooks onto the back of the other and Dean falls forward, holding his arms over his head to stop his brains from bashing into anything. He slams into a sapling at the bottom of the hill, bringing his roll to a painful halt.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean asks, sitting up.

That's when he realizes Sam isn't with him.
___

Sam takes off after Dean, who's running away from him like a bat out of hell, firmly in Sam's sight when he just drops like he's falling down a rabbit hole and he's gone. Just fucking disappears.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, hoping that Dean's just invisible or something annoying like that and not gone, because he could deal with an invisible Dean hovering around and playing pranks on him, but not a Dean that's just not there anymore.

No answer.

Sam runs up to where Dean vanished and there's nothing at all. No sinkholes or suspicious symbols or even one of Dean's goddamn footprints, like he was never there at all. Fuck.

After another dozen checks of the black hole Dean vanished into, Sam walks ahead. Dean had been running in this direction, and if he's still going he could theoretically be heading in this direction, right? Right. Sam starts at a fast jog but he's full tilt running in a few seconds, plowing through underbrush.

Sam's about to call Dean's name again when he sees something fluttering in out of the corner of his eye. He stops, panting, and waits for his tired eyes to focus on it.

It's a soft, white strip of fabric tied to the branch of a tree. Sam steps towards the tree and turns his back to it, gaze searching in the direction of the pointing branch.

Sure enough, there's another hanging from a different tree. Sam bets that if he looks from there he'll find yet another, and another and another. Breadcrumbs made from torn pieces of Cas' shirt.

And where Cas is, Dean has to be. He just has to.

Sam follows the breadcrumbs further and further along, passing lines torn from Castiel's sleeves and even one that looks suspiciously like his collar, and nearly loses the trail when they morph into harder to see black fabric from his slacks with smaller tufts of white shirt tied to the ends. Where ever he is, Cas is running out of clothes.

The woods are so thick that Sam has to hold his arms up to shield his face from all the little branches snapping at it. Bugs; tiny flies that look like dots even up close, rise from nowhere and swarm to the bare skin of Sam's arms. Fucking nature becomes his mantra. The next breadcrumb is easier to see, tied to a tree at the edge of a sudden clearing, and Sam all but sprints towards it. Two trees cross together with a wide gap between them like a doorway, Sam's breadcrumb hanging over the space.

It's kind of funny, but if Cas has been tearing the fabric from both legs, he's probably in shorts by now. Sam turns sideways to go through the doorway, lightly tugging the breadcrumb aside so it doesn't hit him in the face. The gap of a doorway is a little too small, so Sam has to hold his breath as he's going through, but he makes it. His foot snags on a root and he falls backwards into the clearing, landing on soft grass and springy ground.

The breadcrumb came off in his hand, shit, but he can retie it in a minute when he stops being dizzy. All the grass he crushed smells really good, and the few standing stalks lightly tickle the back of his neck and scalp. The bugs aren't even bothering him anymore, just swirling lazily above his head. Sam rolls his shoulders into the ground, working out kinks he hadn't known he'd gotten, and closes his eyes.

Shit.

He's under a glamour right now.

Sam rips his foot out of the root it's trapped in, ouch, pain, yes, that helps, and scrambles to his feet. This whole clearing was a giant trap and he almost fell for it, hook line and sinker.

Now that he's really looking the grass is dead and brown. Fucking fairy magic. Sam reaches the edge of the clearing and presses his back to a tree so hard the bark bites into his skin through his shirt.

If he squints at the gap he walked through it shimmers a little. There's the spell, the glamour, that nearly caught him.

"Sam," someone growls next to his ear. Sam spins, accidentally thwacking his hand into the tree between him and his not-really attacker. Cas stares at him through a gap in the branches. He's shredded, his sleeves nothing more than tatters and one leg of his pants is almost gone up to the knee. His face and arms are covered in tiny scratches like Sam's. There's a leaf in his hair.

"Cas?" Sam asks incredulously.

"Follow me," Cas says. He holds a finger to his lips, commanding Sam's silence. Sam scowls at him, pushing himself back out through the trees.

"Where's Dean?" he hisses at Cas.

"I don't know," Cas replies. "Stop talking, Sam. Someone might hear you."

Sam sighs angrily, but listens. If there are people listening he's not going to help them out. Cas stares at him for a long second before turning and waving at Sam to walk with him.

Cas is eerie to walk behind. He doesn't flinch away from anything, letting all the trees scratch his bared arms. He also doesn't seem to attract as my bugs as Sam does, and Sam thinks it's because he might not sweat. Sam wants to ask about it, but also doesn't want to know that much. He files the question away in his mind for later.

Sam's also realized that if he's careful , he can walk through the Cas-shaped hole plowed through the underbrush, avoiding all but the worst of it. They walk for an indeterminable amount of time, anywhere between an hour and a week, by Sam's best reckoning. He's trying to get a look at the sun to try and tell time from that when Cas stops in front of him, looks around, and then speaks conspiratorially.

"I believe we are safe here."

"What the hell's going on, Cas?"

"I can't explain," he answers with a pained expression. "Go through those trees and see for yourself."

Just ahead of him is another arch of trees, a door made by twisted branches and vines. The trunks of the trees buckle out from the doorway, making an oval. There's no shimmer of magic on this one.

"You sure?" Sam asks.

Castiel nods. "I will be just behind you."

Sam takes a deep, steadying breath, approaching the trees with caution. Between them he can't see anything but more forest. He closes his eyes and steps through, closing his eyes at the last second.

"Sam. Look."

"Jesus, Cas, is that...?"

Castiel nods solemnly.

"The ocean."

___

Dean picks himself up, wiggling to get the leaves out of his collar, only succeeding in pushing them down to the small of his back, trapped under his shirt. They poke at his skin while he walks.

The route that makes the most sense is to climb back to the top of the hill and get Sam, the only problem with that being that there doesn't seem to be a hill anymore. Dean is standing in the middle of a flat clearing.

"Fucking fairies," Dean mutters, spitefully hoping they can hear him. He paces the clearing in a rough circle. He can't see any signs of anyone other than him coming through this way, not that he's more than passable at tracking in the woods, but as far as he can tell he's alone here.

"Sam!" Dean shouts. There's no response, not that he was really expecting one. "Cas!"

An arm wraps around Dean's waist from behind and a dirty hand covers his mouth. Instinctively he bites down, pinching flesh between his teeth as he backs into the body behind him, aiming for a tree, but he'll settle for unbalancing his attacker.

"Dean," his attacker hisses in his ear. "It's me. Don't speak."

Castiel removes his hand from Dean's mouth, backing away. Dean turns, slowly, looking over his shoulder so he can keep an eye on the angel. He's still disheveled and shoeless, only now he's dirty, with splatters of mud on his sleeves and in his hair, like he might have run through a swamp or two on his way here.

"Hey, Cas," Dean asks, ignoring Castiel's protesting glare. "When did your hand heal over?"

Castiel glances down at his palm fast; self-conscious, his fingers closing and opening over the wound that isn't there, and Dean hits him, hard, right in the jaw. Castiel crumples, landing on his ass on the ground. Fake Castiel growls, his lips pulling back over his teeth and he lunges for Dean, his arms wrapping around Dean's legs and bringing him down hard.

Not quite caught by surprise, Dean can still get the upper hand, even though Fake Cas plays dirty, going for Dean's face with his nails like a wild animal. Dean knees him in the groin, bringing a harsh cry of pain, and flips them over, pinning Fake Cas to the ground.

"Take off my friend's fucking face," he hisses. Fake Cas growls, deep in his throat, and vanishes.

"Fucking fairies," Dean mutters, again. He feels like it won't be the last time.

He pushes himself up yet again, and tries to figure out where the hell he is. He's more turned around than he can remember being while alive. The forest is just miles and miles of unending trees, grass and dirt.

He's probably the only unique thing in the whole damn forest, save one other human, a stupid angel, and a fuckload of fairies.

And since when do fairies make clones? Either Sam forgot that nugget of information -- not likely -- or something's not adding up.

Dean picks a direction and walks off. Hopefully if he walks the same way long enough, he'll make it out, and from out he can find Sam and the real Cas.

___

Sam's eyes sting from the salt on the wind, because he can't seem to blink anymore, since he just stumbled upon the Atlantic in the middle of fucking Washington State. Complete with a quaint little fishing village. Shacks, docks, kids running around barefoot on the beach and a strong smell of fish, you name it, they got it. He and Cas are standing on a high dune, not thirty yards away from a bunch of people who haven't batted an eye at the two strangers who just popped up in front of them.

"Where the hell are we?" Sam whispers. It's stupid, but he almost feels like the whole place will shatter if he talks to loud. It's so peaceful, he thinks he could break it.

"I'm not sure," Cas says. Sam raises an eyebrow at him. "But I believe this is where I will find God."

Sam gapes.

It's not all that hard to believe, though. Tranquility comes off this place in waves. If Sam were a deity on a break, this is where he'd be. It's hard even to be mad at God right now, even though Sam knows that particular chip on his shoulder is a doozy. It's hard to be mad at anyone for wanting to be here, and not dealing with all the other shit God would inevitably have to deal with.

"Really?" Sam asks. Castiel nods, the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

"I would go find him," Cas announces, quietly, like he's asking permission. It's Sam's turn to nod dumbly as he follows Cas off the dune and into town.

___

At first Dean thinks he's imagining it, but, no, that's a road. Two spaced wheel-tracks going in a straight line, crossing the path Dean's already following.

He taps it with the edge of his shoe. A puff of dirt comes up, but the road is still very much there, so Dean assumes it's real. About damn time too, because he feels like a pincushion between all the pointy plants and bugs munching on him. Dean takes a solid step onto the road, wincing while his knees adjust to the sudden lack of grass under his feet. It's not that much of a debate to go off his established path through the undergrowth. Dean's tired, and the tracks are easier walking. Besides, if Sam found it, he's probably walking it too.

The road doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon, it goes on into the distance as far as Dean can make out, and it goes back just as far, if not farther. The spaced wheel ruts don't look like they were made by any car Dean's ever seen, more like a hose-drawn wagon, but the tracks aren't deep or thin enough for that. If Dean had to guess, he'd say it was a bastard of the two.

At least the trees don't grow over it, or even that close to it. Dean doesn't think he sees anything but grass closer than ten feet to the trail, which fits uneasily with how unused looking it is.

The solid press of the road beneath his feet after a few miles of grass is playing hell with Dean's knees and hips, since when did he become and old fucking man? Dean squares his shoulders and keeps walking, silently hurling insults at the world around him.

The road keeps going long after Dean knees adjust or go numb, he can't really tell or care; never veering off a straight line. There's a thin strip of sky directly above Dean's head that shows an early afternoon sun, despite Dean's internal clock protesting that it's closer to nightfall. He has a feeling that this is one of those irritating places where time doesn't have much bearing.

Which means he could've been walking for hours or days before, magically, the trees begin to thin out, dissolving away from the line of road. At first Dean thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him, but, no, he really is reaching the end of the forest, with no Sam or Cas in sight.

Fuck.

___

Walking into town is as simple as stepping off the beach, and Sam feels a lot like he's in a fairytale, and, no, the irony is not lost on him; or dreaming, because things are never this easy. There's no way a Winchester could just stumble onto the answer to everyone's problems on a case, even if they've been looking for it. Especially if they've been looking for it.

Sam really wants to know what the catch is. Sure, he and Dean, and Cas, for that matter, are due for some good karma, but things just don't work like that. Not for him.

Castiel, on the other hand, seems almost beside himself with joy. In a Caslike way. The tiny smile that Sam spotted earlier hasn't gone away, and he's walking with less tension, letting his shoulders slump forward like he forgot to be uncomfortable with them.

"Guess this is it, huh, Cas?" Sam asks nervously.

"I believe so."

The first building they pass is a shack made of driftwood. A little boy, no more than three or four years old, peers out the window at them, his eyes wide and amused. Tentatively, Sam waves at him, testing the water. The little boy waves a chubby fist back at him before disappearing into the shack.

He pops back up a second later with a girl at his side who has the same nose. The boy and his sister cheerfully stick their tongues out at Sam, waving him down the street.

"This way," Cas says suddenly, breaking into a run.

___

The road stops. Just suddenly stops where it should continue, right in the middle of the goddamn woods, right where the trees start getting thick again. Stupid fucking fairies, and stupid fucking Dean for thinking it was going to be that easy.

At the edge of the road where it doesn't just peter off, but severs in a ragged line, are two posts that go to about as high as Dean's waist, like the edge of a pier. Indignantly, Dean walks between them.

___

Castiel comes to a halt at the other end of town, in front of the most rundown facsimile of a building Sam has ever seen.

"Here?" Sam asks.

"Yes," Castiel breathes. He approaches the shack -- hesitantly, worshipfully -- and pushes the door open. Sam expects the hinges to creak, but they glide open, smooth and silent. Eerie. Cas walks straight in, ignoring Sam's sudden discomfort. Sam follows, practically stepping on Cas' coattails.

The inside looks like one massive cobweb, strands of the stuff hanging from the walls and ceiling in curls. Sam's been in more than his fair share of disgusting houses, but this is creeping him out. Maybe he thought God would keep a cleaner shop, being next to cleanliness as He is.

Or maybe it's the underlying feeling in his gut that's telling him to turn around get the hell out.

"You should listen to that feeling, Sam."

___

The forest is gone, leaving a flat meadow. Dean can see the red side of a barn and a house not far off.

"What the fuck?" Dean's too tired to actually be surprised, but he's pretty damn close.

The grass is now up to his knees, scratching his legs through the material of his jeans. He looks over his shoulder and still isn't surprised to see endless grass waving back and forth in the breeze.

He's standing close enough to see the paint peeling off the side of the barn in long strips, and smoke curling out the house's chimney. It may be crazy, but at least there's nothing trying to eat him.

"Hey! You, boy!" a female voice yells from the house. "Come here!"

Dean's not sure where the hell else he's supposed to go, but he walks faster, all but jogging to the farmhouse. There's a girl, younger than Dean, and certainly not old enough to be calling him boy, hanging out the window, her curly blonde hair tied back and blowing in the breeze.

"You," Dean hisses coming to a stop.

"What was that?" she asks. Even though she was brunette the last time Dean saw her, he still recognizes Al, the freaky fairy waitress who kidnapped Cas in the first place and got them into this clusterfuck.

He grabs her arm, almost pulling her out of the window.

"Hey!" she hisses, giving him a quick, painful punch in the chest. Dean doesn't let go. "I don't know what the fuck you think I did, but I didn't, so let. Me. Go."

"You kidnapped my friend," Dean says, jogging her memory.

"Oh," she says. "Not by choice, asshole."

"Still not letting go," Dean points out, gripping harder.

"Ow, Jesus, is this how you treat girls?" Al hisses. "I was paid to bring the angel here, I don't know why."

"Who--" Dean spits out, right before her small fist connects with his nose, knocking him back. He lets go of her in shock.

"That's all you're getting, asshole," she shouts, closing the shutters. Dean can feel the blood trickling out of his nose as he stands up and pounds the shutters, not succeeding in doing anything but hurting his hand.

"Who are you?" Dean shouts.

"Alnilam. Look it up." There's a cracking noise, and the house is gone. Dean blinks, stepping back. There's not even a foundation left, like the farmhouse was never there in the first place.

The barn, however, is still there, in all it's aged glory. The only real thing in a vast sea of grass. Dean heads for it like a drowning man.

___

Sam literally stops breathing, dumbstruck by a voice that, so far, he's only heard in his dreams.

Lucifer.

"You can't be here," Cas growls, turning around.

"Says who?" Lucifer asks mildly.

"Get behind me, Sam," Cas tells him, and even if Sam wasn't frozen; in fear, shock, and maybe even... gratitude? -- he wouldn't, because Lucifer would tear Castiel apart.

"I have no reason to hurt Sam," Lucifer replies. "You, on the other hand..."

Run away, Cas, is stuck in Sam's throat as Cas launches himself at Lucifer, wrapping his arms around the devil and bringing him to the ground. With one arm, Lucifer throws him off, literally, and Cas goes flying, landing yards away.

"Don't test me," Lucifer tells him.

Castiel vanishes, without so much as a puff of smoke to prove he was there in the first place.

"What did you do to him?" Sam stammers.

"It was an apparition, Sam," Lucifer says, standing up. At his full height, he's still shorter than Sam, but he feels taller, more imposing. "You haven't found the real Castiel yet."

Lucifer steps forward and Sam backs away, his back hitting the wall with a comforting solidness. Lucifer stops, looking almost disappointed.

"How did you find me?" Sam asks.

"You're dreaming, Sam. Wake up."

___

The barn's stacked with bales of hay, and, conveniently, Cas happens to be sitting on one of them.

"Dean?" he asks, wearily.

"Is it you this time?" Dean asks, lingering by the door. It's a pointless question, but Dean can't help but ask it. He's leaning very far in the not Cas direction, because if this thing is him the whole fairy scheme is pretty damn anticlimactic.

Cas, if it is Cas, tilts his head to the side in confusion. If he is a fake, he's pretty convincing so far.

"What do you mean?" Cas is moving in a weirdly sluggish way, almost like he's stoned. Even so, Dean knows how strong he is and keeps his distance.

"I ran into a pretend you earlier. He wasn't friendly."

"Oh," Cas says, reinforcing Dean's theory of him being stoned. Which, if that is the real Cas, is a problem. Like, a huge fucking problem, because he's going to turn into a drug addict hippie sooner or later and Dean does not want to speed up the process.

"You stoned?" he asks, bluntly. Dean takes a cautious step forward.

"I'm not sure," Cas says, examining his hand like the answer's written on it. Dean can see dark stitching that he put there himself.

It's him, the real Cas.

"Jesus, what did they do to you?" Dean asks, stepping closer, slowly, and finally plopping down on the hay bale next to him. Cas stares at him, his pupils dilated. Shit. "You still in there, Cas?"

"Yes," Cas says simply.

In one slow, gracefully out of it motion, he presses his lips to Dean's. He tastes sweet and sour and stoned, pulling Dean closer with a hand splayed over the back of his neck. Dean should be pushing him away, but he can't bring himself to do it, because this is the first thing to happen for a while that makes perfect sense. Kissing Cas is easy, and he doesn't have to think, so he doesn't.

Cas slides closer to him, the hay making a hush sound and throwing up sweet smelling dust. Cas doesn't kiss like a shy virgin, he's slow and demanding, sweeping his tongue over Dean's lips until they open for him, exploring the inside of his mouth boldly. Dean's okay with letting Cas take the wheel on this one. He feels Castiel's lips curl into a smile, and the bottom drops out of his stomach.

There's no way this is his Cas. His Cas is an angel, the real fucking deal, and angels don't kiss people they've pulled out of hell. Wound or no wound, this isn't real.

Dean pulls away, hard and fast, Fake Cas' teeth scraping his lip.

"Dean?"

Oh God, he just... Made out with a hallucination? Does it even matter, because apparently he wants to make out with an angel. He wants to make out, and more, oh God, what's wrong with him; with Cas and there is no way that's right.

"You're not Cas," Dean hisses.

"I am," Fake Cas insists. Dean stands, patting down his pockets for some kind of weapon. He doesn't have anything but a cell phone and a lighter, fat lot of help those'll be. Maybe if he lights up the barn, he can get away. It'll light like kindling, old wood full of dry hay, and maybe Fake Cas will be distracted enough for him to get away.

"Back off," Dean says, putting space between him and Fake Cas. Fake Cas doesn't approach him, or try to stop him, or anything. He just stares, confused.

A lot like something Dean could imagine the real Cas doing. Before he can think to much about that, Dean turns tail and runs.

___

Sam wakes up with a gasp, inhaling a handful of dirt and most of a leaf. Hacking, he sits up, willing his throat to clear. He seems to be face-planted back in the woods, his feet still dangling in the space between the two trees of the door. Which means that Lucifer was right, he'd been asleep that whole time. Sam feels a Matrix panic attack coming on, but he pushes it back.

No Lucifer. No God or Castiel either, but the whole no Lucifer thing is a definite plus. Even if the devil seems to know a lot more about Sam's current situation than Sam himself does.

Which leaves Sam back at step one; lost and alone. The sky's turning a dark, hazy pink through the canopy of leaves. The sun's setting. It's going to be a hell of a lot harder to navigate in the dark.

___

Dean hits the ground running, and doesn't stop even after he knows that the Fake Castiel isn't after him. He doesn't stop until his legs feel like they're going to seize, and the stitch in his side feels a mile long, and then he keeps walking, intent on putting as much space between him and everything else as he can. Sweat runs into his eyes and he can't be bothered to wipe it away.

Not too far in front of him the sun is setting, squeezing under the horizon and painting the endless grass fiery.

So Dean knows he's facing southwest. That's as good a direction as any.

___

Trying to trace his steps back to where he was is useless, because Sam's so turned around he wouldn't be able to find his own ass if it wasn't attached. The ties of fabric that he followed here are gone, including the one Sam had tucked in his pocket.

He stumbles back onto the easiest path through the trees, and even that is still pretty difficult this deep in, and goes on. The best way to get through is to just ignore everything and focus on finding Dean, so Sam's going to ignore the fact that Lucifer's stalking him and there might be a bunch of Cas clones running around trying to fuck him up and that his stomach's rumbling and he can't eat anything in the whole fucking forest unless he wants to stay here forever.

Yep. He's just going to ignore all that.

A branch thwacks him in the forehead, bringing Sam back down to earth. He needs to pay attention to the slowly disappearing contours of the ground if he doesn't want to trip and break his neck. If the burn in his legs is any indication, he's going uphill now. He has to grab onto trees, the bark painfully marking his palms, to keep himself standing.

If he's not imagining it, something he can't really rule out here, the ground's leveling out under his feet. The underbrush is clearing.

Sam nearly trips when he takes a big step onto even, flat ground.

What he can see in the almost-light is a dirt path under his boots. Sam sighs in relief. The thin opening in the leaves illuminates the path in a jagged white line. It stops at the edge of a black biker boot.

Dean's. He's laying on the path.

___

Dean's almost about to collapse because he's been running for fucking hours and hasn't seen anything but grass, grass and more fucking grass.

And, for a while now, he's been hearing things. Nothing so blatant as voices, but sounds that can't be explained, which, right now, is anything other than the sound of wind and Dean's breathing. It sounds like someone's laughing at him, high and clear and creepy. Needless to say, he's a little on edge.

Dean feels an invisible hand grab his shoulder and grip tight, shaking him.

"Wake up," Sam's voice booms. "Dean, wake up."

___

Sam's chest hurts from where Dean punched him, and he rubs at the forming bruise. Dean watches him and winces.

"Thanks, man," Sam snaps.

"I was making sure you were you," Dean huffs. Sam scowls but can't argue with that logic.

"Whatever. So, what happened then?"

"I ran into the chick that kidnapped Cas," Dean spits. "Alnilam."

"Alnilam?" Sam repeats, moving the name around in his mouth. It sounds familiar, in a weird way.

"Yeah, Al says someone paid her to get him."

"Cas has a bounty on his head?"

"Apparently," Dean answers, rubbing a hand over his face. The scarf marking him out is covered in mud, splattered brown and useless. It may as well be, Sam lost his a while back. "This is so messed up."

Sam nods, sighing. "Why, though? Why would someone want to kidnap Cas?"

"Dunno," Dean says, shrugging. "Why the hell is Lucifer helping you out?"

Sam shrugs back. He hasn't really figured that one out either. Hell, if he were Lucifer, he'd have let himself go in there, maybe if he was in trouble he'd have said yes.

"And after Alnilam?" Sam asks.

"You woke me up," Dean says. He doesn't look at Sam when he says it. Sam gives Dean a long, thoughtful look just so he knows Sam isn't buying it.

"You think we could take this path back to the other end of the forest?"

"Doubt it," Dean answers. "but it's worth a shot."

"We still have to find Cas," Sam reminds him. "I don't think they'll let us leave without him."

Dean nods awkwardly, clenching his jaw. Sam doesn't ask.

___

"I am so fucking hungry," Dean bitches.

"Dude, stop," Sam pleads. Dean's trying, really, but even if he shuts up, his stomach's still going to make that noise that he knows both of them can hear, because Sam's is making the same exact noise. It's so dark he can't even see Sam anymore, just the vague outline of his head when it eclipses the moon. After walking into Dean's heels five or six times, Sam's just looped his fingers into the collar of Dean's jacket and judges the distance that way. Dean doesn't mention it.

"I can't. I'm fucking hungry."

"We're both fucking hungry," Sam says. "Don't eat anything."

Dean turns his head and glares witheringly in Sam's direction. It's good advice, but that doesn't mean it's not annoying. He's almost hoping something big and deadly will jump out in front of them to take his mind off it.

Instead there's a lot of dark and trees. Dean fucking hates trees.

"I fucking hate trees," Dean says.

"I think we should stop for the night," Sam suggests. Dean mutters agreeably. He knows from experience that passing out for a while can turn your stomach off, at least until you get so hungry you can't move, anyway. The tactic won't work for more than a day or two, less if they over-exert.

Sam pulls Dean over to the side of the path and onto the springy grass. It's not the worst place Dean's ever napped. He pulls his jacket closer around himself on his way to sleep.

___

The town is pieced together from thousands of idle thoughts, eked from the towns, from the people, that gather around the edges of the great forest, and it shimmers less and less the longer Castiel looks at it. A woman with baskets of fruit in front of her beckons Castiel closer, waving her wares at him.

"Boy, you look hungry," she cajoles. "Apples, berries, anything you want!"

Castiel eyes the fruit wearily. He can still feel the dregs of the last curse on him, and declines, walking away. The houses are made of stone, and people bustle around the narrow streets. There's a kind of market set up, and Castiel listens interestedly as the people argue over prices. A young boy runs by, brushing past Castiel's leg as he goes.

He feels something snag on the edge of his pocket as it pulls out. The only things Castiel carries with him are Jimmy's effects; a wallet, candy wrappers, and phone numbers scribbled on scrap pieces of paper; no great loss; and Dean's amulet.

Castiel's after the boy in an instant, relying on Jimmy's body to work for him, and it does, Castiel's urgency sparking adrenaline into action.

The boy looks over his shoulder and catches sight of Castiel, going from a calm pace to a run in an instant, expertly weaving through the crowd. People walk into Castiel from all sides, the tide of them pushing him back and away.

"You'll have to try harder, Castiel!" the boy singsongs, his voice sounding far away.

___

The ground becomes softer by increments, the grass prickling Sam's skin bends and goes limp. He could be laying on a bed.

"Lucifer," Sam sighs. His presence isn't hard to feel, it's like sitting near a fire, facing him is warm and bright, but you can't move away without being cold.

"You recognized me," the Morningstar replies, a pleased lilt to his voice.

Sam cracks an eye, staring blearily at Lucifer. "You're hard to miss," he deadpans.

Maybe it's the exhaustion or the starvation, but Sam seems to be bantering with Satan.

"I'm flattered," Lucifer says, the smallest smirk twisting his lips. Sam scowls, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Don't you have better things to do?"

"No, Sam," Lucifer says, staring at him like Sam's the most important thing, and, as a vessel, he probably is. Sam props himself up on his elbows and plays with a stalk of grass, watching the green strip as he twirls it through his fingers. He doesn't feel Lucifer's eyes leave him the whole time. It makes his skin prickle.

"What do you want?" Sam barks. "Besides the obvious."

"You need help," Lucifer says, shrugging.

"Not your help."

"Who else can free you from this, Sam?"

He has a point.

"I'll get myself out," Sam growls. Lucifer smiles wider, in a way that's more sad than mocking.

"Without food?" He asks. Sam snarls, snapping the blade of grass between his fingertips.

"You want me to be stuck here?" Sam huffs. "You know that'll happen if I eat, right?"

"I wouldn't let that happen to you. If it comes from me, it's safe." Sam raises an eyebrow at him. "Relatively," Lucifer amends, the hint of a chuckle in his voice.

Before Sam can retort, he reaches into his shirt and pulls out a peach.

"I thought you'd take offence at an apple."

Sam draws in a sharp breath through his nose, smelling the fruit, because he hasn't seen food all fucking day. It's soft and juicy looking, bruising around Lucifer's fingertips. His mouth is watering.

"I don't believe you," Sam hisses.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Sam. It's of me, and I will not harm you." Ignoring the total wrongness of that statement, Sam reaches for it, only for Lucifer to pull it away from his outstretched hand.

"What --"

"If you touch it, it won't be mine anymore," Lucifer says.

"How the fuck do I eat it, then?" Sam asks. Kneeling down, Lucifer holds the peach in front of Sam's mouth. "You're kidding me."

"No," Lucifer says. .

"Bastard," Sam mumbles. "Close your eyes." With an indulgent little huff of laughter, Lucifer slides his eyes shut. Sitting up, Sam takes hold of Lucifer's wrist for support. His skin feels paper thin. His vessel is still deteriorating. The sores on his face are still there, but healing. His hands are perfect, though.

Taking a deep breath, Sam bites into the peach, his teeth skimming the pit.

It's the best thing Sam's ever eaten. The juice slides down his throat, slaking the thirst he wasn't even aware of, honey-sweet and perfect. Sam eats down to Lucifer's fingertips so fast he barely tastes the fruit. Despite his protests, Lucifer is staring at him. A drip of clear juice travels down Lucifer's thumb, dribbling onto his palm where Sam plants his mouth, drinking the drop.

Lucifer hisses.

"What?" Sam asks.

"That's... interesting."

Sam chuckles, low and painful in his throat. "I need to get at the other half of this." Lucifer rotates the peach in his fingers, leaving the whole side facing Sam. He eats this half slower, more methodical, never dropping Lucifer's gaze.

He has something to prove, he's just not sure what.

Sam gets down to the pit and Lucifer's hand is dripping with juice, sticky and shining with it and Sam takes it all away, dragging his tongue in long strokes over the lines where it's trapped. He can hear Lucifer breathing, feel what little pulse he has.

"Are you done?" Lucifer asks, calmly. Whatever Sam just did, whatever power he just held, is gone, and he feels stupid. Really stupid.

"Yes," Sam says, laying back down.

___

Running is harder than Castiel thought it would be. A painful thread runs up his side, squeezing his lungs empty. He lost sight of the boy just after he heard him call, and now he doesn't have any hope of catching him. The traffic on the road is thinning and Castiel slouches against a building, waiting for his body to return to normal.

No one in the dwindling crowd pays him any attention, making it that much easier to scan the area. He appears to have reached the end of the market, and the stall closest to him is the last at the end of the line.

"You plannin' on buyin' something?" the woman merchant asks. Castiel shakes his head. "Oh well." Her stall is heaped with trinkets, glittering pieces of nothing.

There are no boys in the crowd. Castiel didn't get a good look, but there's no one even similar to who he's looking for.

"Giving up kind of easy, ain'tcha, Cas?"

Castiel starts, searching for the boy, because that is his voice, coming from somewhere.

"Take a right," the voice says, losing all traces of laughter. A few deep breaths to settle his warring muscles, Castiel pushes off the wall and follows his orders.

___

Dean feels wobbly and half dead. He needs Sam's help just to stand up, and it's an uphill battle from there, between his sore everything and empty stomach.

"Why the hell are you so perky?" Dean asks. Sam just pulled him to his feet without any of Dean's help, nearly popping his arm out of it's socket.

"Second wind, I guess," Sam huffs.

"Lucky," Dean growls. It's subtle, but Dean thinks Sam might just flinch at that.

"Yeah. We gotta get moving."

Sam tries to guide Dean by the elbow for a few minutes before Dean shakes him off, slapping him in the side. It's gotten to the point where he doesn't even feel his stomach (or most of his torso, for that matter) other than the hollowed out space in the middle of it that seem to reach from just under his ribs to his knees. He feels like a strong wind could blow him away.

"Which way?"

Sam points.

Awesome. They're going to be walking for hours, Dean can already tell.

___

The voice leads Castiel through a winding maze of streets, as the stone houses slowly become more and more decrepit, sweating moss. It's like being back in the forest, pressed in on all sides by green.

"The next left," it says. It's louder than before, and Castiel assumes he's getting closer.

Until he takes the next left and is faced with a dead end.

"What is this?" Castiel asks the voice.

"We need to talk," it says. Castiel waits for it's next announcement, and isn't disappointed. "Over here."

Castiel looks over his shoulder, and standing there is a boy, no taller than Castiel's chest.

"I know you," Castiel says.

"We're pretty close," the boy answers. Castiel is sure of a hidden meaning, but he doesn't quite know how to decipher it yet.

"I don't know what that means," he says, honestly.

"I figured you wouldn't," the boy answers, stepping closer. "But if you did, it would be funny."

"Give me what you stole," Castiel demands. The boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out Dean's amulet, twirling on the end of its string. Castiel holds his hand out expectantly.

"You have to listen first, Cas," the boy says. "Doesn't this look familiar?"

The wall behind Castiel turns into a chain link fence, the moss thickening into ropelike vines and turning a dead brown color. The walls around his shrink from rough stones to methodical bricks.

The stitches in Castiel's hand ache.

"All the way back here this was in motion, Cas," the boy says. In the opposite hand from Dean's amulet, he holds a silver switchblade. "They've been pulling you closer."

"I don't understand," Castiel repeats.

"You're not lucky" -- the boy gestures between them with the knife -- "we're not lucky. Whatever's behind this has been drawing us in since Death was freed, and I don't know why."

Castiel takes an involuntary step back, the links of the fence digging into his shoulder blades. The boy's blue eyes and dark hair are suddenly meaningful. "You're Jimmy."

"I am," Castiel's vessel answers.

"How are we speaking?"

Jimmy shrugs. "We're in your... my? Our, head. But that's not important. How the hell are we getting out of here?"

"I'm not sure," Castiel answers.

"Great," Jimmy replies. He drops into a sitting position on the ground. "I've been cooped up here forever."

"My apologies," Castiel says absently. Jimmy makes a gesture for Castiel to sit, but Castiel ignores it to inspect the fence. As far as he can tell, it's an exact replica of the one he was last cornered against, during the knife fight. After which he met with Dean and Sam, and then came here. If whatever influence was controlling him now stretched back that far, it had to be great. "How did you find this out?"

"I felt it," Jimmy says simply.

This time Castiel understands the unspoken meaning behind his words. To have felt anything Jimmy must have been awake, or close to it, and would only have been if Castiel was dwindling. He knew he was, cut off from heaven and vulnerable, but not to that degree.

"What did it feel like?"

"Sort of... big, and cold."

"Does that mean anything to you?" Castiel asks.

"Not really," Jimmy says. "It... well, it felt like the opposite of you. You're kind of fuzzy. It was sharp."

Castiel nods, trying to figure out anything that would relate to that and coming up empty handed.

"Oh, and Cas?" Jimmy says.

"Yes?"

"Next time you want to kiss Dean, please put me to sleep. And you need to wake up now."

___

They only walk for an hour, maybe two, along the path before Dean has to blink away the black spots that appear in his line of vision, sucking up his strength. Blinking doesn't always work, so he bites the inside of his lip until they leave, even though the world still has a dimmed-down quality after they go.

His hands are shaking so bad he has to put them in his pockets.

Luckily, Sam doesn't seem to feel the same way; and, honestly, Dean's had enough experience with food deprivation to know he shouldn't be this bad this soon, even with the exercise, nor does he notice the state Dean's in.

That is, until Dean sees the biggest black spot yet that leaves him with just the corners of his vision and almost no color but yellow and Dean stumbles over something, going down on one knee and staying there, waiting for the dizzying spot to go away.

"Shit, Dean," Sam says, the sound of his footsteps rushing towards him.

"M'okay, Sammy," Dean mumbles, but he really doesn't think he is. He' pretty sure if Sam hadn't laid a hand on his back he'd be toppling forward by now.

And what the fuck is going on, because Dean can feel himself shake like a phone on vibrate, and his stomach is numb with cramps. He should not be this hungry after only a day without food, especially when Sam is fine.

"You sure?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," Dean starts to say, but stops halfway through as something squeezes his brain and his belly at the same time, cutting him off. He doesn't even notice that he's falling until he hits the ground.

Sam's voice sounds fuzzy and faraway.

"Shit shit shit, why didn't you say something, Dean? Dean?"

"I'm alright, just catching my breath," Dean says.

"Yeah, sure," Sam huffs. Dean feels him grab his arm and wrap it around his shoulders. He can't even protest as Sam hauls him up, stretching Dean's arm in what is probably at bad angle and wrapping his own arm around Dean's waist.

"Asshole," Dean bitches.

"Shut up," Sam answers.

___

They haven't gone a mile when Dean's legs refuse to work at all, just dragging along the ground as Sam supports his upper half.

"Dude," Sam huffs, "Can you walk?" Dean tries to set his weight down and his knees shake until he nearly collapses, so no, he can't. It's more like he hasn't eaten in a goddamn week than a few hours.

"Sorry," Dean says, and his throat's so dry he feels like just that one word will tear it open. Sam glares at him and shifts his weight, so Dean's pretty much hanging off his back, and snaps up, grabbing Dean's legs at the knee.

"You owe me so big for this," Sam sighs, like Dean weighs nothing at all.

"Whatever," Dean croaks. "Get me out of here, I want a fucking cheeseburger."

___

"Hey," someone is telling Castiel, tugging his wrist until he sits upright. He's curled on the ground where he doesn't remember laying down, coming out of a dream. The sudden upheaval of what he thought was reality makes him dizzy.

"We don't have time for that," the woman repeats, earnestly. "We need to find the Winchesters."

That gets Castiel to his feet. "Who are you?"

"Rigel. Please, we must go," she insists, pulling him towards her with both tiny hands wrapped around his. Her hair falls over her face, obscuring her from his sight. Castiel takes a stunted half step towards her as he tires to figure out what she is, and why he should trust her.

Reading his mind, she moves her hand swiftly, lining their palms up. "I will do no harm to you or your boys, but we have to leave now." A spark of something brushes over Castiel's palm, and he accepts her word.

"Where are they?" Castiel asks. Rigel drags him into a run and he matches her pace, not as tired now that he's awake.

"Near the center of the great forest, they're heading into danger." Her hair bounces in a golden tumble behind her as she runs, shining between all the greens and browns of the trees and the white of her robes.

"What kind of danger?" Castiel asks, breathing easily between his paces. The lack of breath in his dream must have been a sense memory from Jimmy's body, because he doesn't feel anything like that now. What he does feel is the irritation of being the one without answers for once, of having to ask questions of someone he doesn't know, about things that aren't casual references that don't mean anything.

"No time," Rigel answers. "They'll be there soon, and Dean hasn't the strength to be tested."

___

Lulling against the back of Sam's neck, Dean swears he can feel something getting closer. Something big. This is how those Japanese people must've felt with Godzilla looming over them.

"Sam," Dean says, his voice not much more than a whisper. His throat feels coated with salt, he can taste it at the back of his tongue when he speaks.

"Dean?" Sam asks, totally oblivious. Dean can feel the ground shaking when Sam puts but feet down, he can feel the pre-fight tension in the air and if Sam can't there's something wrong.

"Something's coming," Dean says. Every syllable feels like it's tearing his throat, burning it's way out.

Like the words summoned it, Dean hears a hissing noise, closer to that of a roach than a snake.

"I hear it," Sam says quietly.

"No shit," Dean quips.

The hissing grows louder, making the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up and take notice, a single unwavering sound that says one thing: get the fuck out of my way or I will eat you, plain and simple. Too bad they don't know where it's coming from.

Sam lets go of Dean's legs and he climbs shakily to his feet, still half leaning on Sam and feeling for a weapon, but he doesn't have any. He knows he lost his shotgun when he fell down the hill, but he had knives and lighters in his pockets. Someone must have taken them while he was dreaming. Next to him, Sam's having the same problem, rustling through his pockets futilely.

They're fucked.

"Guess we're doing it the old fashioned way, eh, Sam?" Dean says, trying not to fall over.

"I guess so," Sam answers darkly, his hand on Dean's shoulder like a support beam. Dean shrugs it off. The hissing grows a companion sound, a low rattling-click. The scuttle of bug legs. Shit, it is going to be a sixty-foot roach, isn't it? Just Dean's luck. Nuclear bombs can't even kill those things.

Sam grabs Dean's shoulder again, twisting him around to look at the shiny, hard black claw pushing its way through the undergrowth.

"Any chance we're dreaming?" Dean hisses, already knowing the answer. Next to him, Sam takes a fighting stance, shuffling in front of Dean. Dean tries to push him aside, because he does not need to be fucking protected, but he's not even strong enough to do that.

The claw moves forward, bringing another and two forelegs out.

That's not a roach.

That's worse.

The scorpion -- eight feet from head to the tip of its tail, if Dean had to guess -- hisses and clacks towards them, its stinger dripping with yellowish venom. The thing is built like a tank, plates of exoskeletal armor overlapping with enough room for it to move fast.

Sam seems to abandon all heroic thoughts and grabs Dean's arm, pulling him into a run. Not that Dean's complaining.

Dean stumbles along behind Sam, unable to do much more than let his momentum keep him upright and hope he won't trip, again, because if he did it wouldn't just be him, Sam would fall too. The scorpion's at their heels, hissing and clicking and generally making Dean wish he could just step on the damn thing and squish it.

"Faster, Dean," Sam barks.

"Wish I could, Sammy."

That's probably the truest thing Dean's said in a very long time. The muscles in his legs are starting to give out, his chest and numb stomach heaving, and there's just no energy, no fuel for him to go on. He's running on vapors. And in a minute he's going to be a deadweight and probably get his brother killed, so, like in any situation where it's him or Sam, Dean does something stupid.

Using the last of his strength, Dean digs his thumb into the muscle of Sam's forearm, popping Sam's grip on him open enough for his wrist to slip out. Without a ballast Dean falls after a few more steps, thudding to his knees. He feels on the ground, looking for a stick.

"Dean!" Sam screams.

The clacking behind him is getting louder.

"Run, Sam," Dean hollers, almost absentmindedly as his hand wraps around a thick fallen branch, rough and heavy. There's next to no way Sam's going to listen to him, but at the very least Dean can buy him some time. He looks up just in time to see Sam turn and start back towards him, and feels the swish as one of those claws passes the back of his neck.

Swing and a miss, fuck face. Try harder next time.

Dean spins, thrashing the jagged, broken end of the branch out, hoping to hit something vital.

He doesn't miss.

The scorpion hisses louder, its weird jaw opening in a cry of pain, the other end of his only weapon lodged in a hole in the exoskeleton that he really, really fucking hopes is the thing's eye. The stinger lashes out blindly and Dean rolls to the side, into the range of its remaining eye. Fuck.

"Get out of here, Sam," Dean shouts, not looking to see if his order was heeded. He's running on adrenaline now, a little nitrous oxide covering up his empty tank. The scorpion lunges towards him -- clack clack clack -- and Dean jumps to the side, landing on his back just behind it.

He realizes his mistake a second too late, staring up at the coiled stinger. Instinctively he holds up his arms to protect his face, hearing Sam call his name and the whoosh of the stinger as it comes down, faster and deadlier than a guillotine.

A body (his size, warm, soft, human) grabs him from nowhere, pushing him out of the way and falling on top of him so they roll away in a tangled heap. The scorpion lets out a hiss of annoyance and Dean is trying to scramble to his feet, too mixed up in the other's limbs to pull it off.

Sam's the closest to the scorpion now, and it rages toward him, hissing. Sam backs up, searching for a weapon but it looks like Dean got the only good one, because he's coming up empty. Dean lifts himself up on his hands and knees and is about to jump back into the fight when the other person grabs him by the elbows and pulls him down.

"No, Dean."

Startled, he looks down and is eye to eye, hell, more like nose to nose, with Cas, who's back to himself and determined to keep Dean where he is.

He doesn't have any time to think before what appears to be Xena the blonde Warrior Princess is just there, stabbing the scorpion in the face with a long bronze dagger. It screams, a sound that's like a cross between a cockroach and a baby and makes Dean want to claw his own ears off. Xena ignores it, planting one dainty, sandaled foot on its head and stepping onto its back easier than climbing a stair. The stinger twitches towards her, fast and unseeing, and she neatly severs it, pulling another scream from the beast.

It collapses, jittering and pained, clacking and screaming. Just as neatly, as easily as everything else, Xena brings her dagger down again, putting it out of it's misery. Off to the side, Sam gapes, still in his fighting stance.

"I won't harm you boys," Xena says.

"You can trust her," Cas affirms from where he's pinned under Dean. Dean pokes him really hard in the chest to make sure he's the real one. Why a clone would've saved him in the first place he has no idea, but it never hurts to check, and his fingers feel kind of broken, so yeah, it's him.

Dean starts to disentangle himself, which shouldn't be any more awkward than anything else involving Castiel. Except, Dean's more aware of the angel's body than ever, since kissing the clone, and they're really close.

Too close, with his legs curled through Cas' and their stomachs pressed together. He can feel Cas breathing, deep steady breaths.

The leftover adrenaline is making Dean shaky and clumsy, but he manages. Castiel follows him up, looking about as bad as Dean feels, covered in little scratches and dirt. No one's in any immediate danger, so Dean can take a minute to look at him, really look. Cas looks back, a tired little curve of a smile on his lips.

Dean wants to hold onto him, just for a second, to make sure he's real. Instead he returns the smile, saying a quiet, "I'm glad we found you."

Just for a second, Cas' little smile gets a little wider.

___

Sam's still processing the whole giant bugs/Dean trying to get himself killed/random girl who looks a hell of a lot like another ass-kicking blonde Sam knew not too long ago situation when Dean buckles, falling forward onto Cas, who staggers a little under his sudden weight, but keeps him upright.

"Dean," Sam calls, again. Cas cradles him, more care in the motion than really needed to hold Dean.

"I'm good, Sammy," Dean says, waving Sam's hands away from where he's trying to get a grip on him. His hands have about as much strength as wet leaves, and he's shivering. Adrenaline crash.

"Are you well, Dean?" Cas asks. He's gripping Dean under the elbows while Dean's hands rest on his shoulders as he tries to support himself. Their faces are so close they just might be breathing the same air, and Sam's surprised and at the same time very not surprised when Dean doesn't go off on him.

"Fine," Dean grunts. "Just a little hungry."

Concern rumples across Cas' features, followed by irritation on Dean's, then they both smooth out, like Morse code flashed through a window. It all happens in a second. Sam's never seen Dean do that with anyone but Dad, and, he supposes, himself.

Shit just got weird.

"He hasn't eaten since yesterday," Sam says, putting an arm around Dean's back. Castiel's gaze snaps to him, like he just noticed he was there. "He's been like this since morning."

Cas studies Sam. "And you?"

"He's fine, I'm fine," Dean interrupts, saving Sam from answering. He's really damn grateful, because he can still taste the sweetness of the peach in the back of is throat, and he knows that's the only reason he's not as bad off as Dean.

Maybe Castiel would smell it on his breath.

Maybe he'd tell Dean.

The girl speaks, shaking Sam out of his thoughts.

"We have to keep moving," she says, and, god, she even sounds like Jo. He can tell from the way Dean stiffens, his face going a shade paler than it already was, that he's not the only one that hears it.

"And you are?" Dean grunts.

"Rigel," she answers. "We must go." Without another word she backs away, staking a slow path through the trees that they're obviously supposed to follow. Sam looks back and Dean and Cas are doing that weird blink-and-you-miss-it communication thing.

"We can trust her," Cas says, in lieu of nothing. Dean nods.

"You can't walk by yourself," Sam reminds his brother. Cas is still grimly holding onto his elbow and Sam slips an arm around his back, much to Dean's displeasure. They make an awkward six legged walk behind Rigel, twisting and turning to avoid obstacles.

"Where are we going?" Dean asks, barking at Rigel's back. She ignores him. Sam shrugs and keeps leading Dean after her. What other choice do they have?

Before long Sam's carrying Dean again. Cas offered, but Sam doesn't like that idea so much. Besides, he's pretty sure Dean just passed out with his face pressed into the back of Sam's neck, his breaths tickling him a little. He doesn't mind. Hell, he can't count the number of times he feel asleep on some part of Dean, going back as far as he remembers.

Cas keeps giving Sam these weird looks that Sam's pretending not to notice. Heavy concern, mixed with suspicion.

"How are you, Sam?" Castiel asks.

"Tired." He's not going to say anything about Lucifer until he gets out of here, until he can find out what it means. Cas might be a good source of information, but Sam's not willing to be trapped with an angry Dean all day just for something like that when he can just wait and do for himself. "But you've been out here the longest, I should be asking you that."

"I'm... also tired," Cas says, after a few moments of consideration. The weight of his voice saying it stops any other questions Sam might've asked.

___

"Dean," Castiel hisses, jostling Dean from an uneasy sleep. Dean shakes his head, trying to pump some blood into it, and opens his eyes to see Cas right up in his personal bubble, staring at him. And, yeah, with or without all that new shit concerning Cas that Dean's absolutely not thinking about, it's weird.

"Cas?" Dean asks groggily. He's leaned against a tree with Cas kneeling in front of him, Sam's a few yards away in a similar position. Dean guesses the trek's finally getting to him too.

Xena/Rigel, who is also one of those things Dean is not thinking about, is separate from them, obviously distancing herself from the group and staring worriedly in the direction Dean assumes they were going before they stopped.

"Eat this," Cas says conspiratorially. Dean's mouth waters at the mention of food, but he's a little disappointed when Cas holds up a single cracker. A Saltine that'll probably scrape Dean's dry throat to pieces.

"Gee, thanks, Cas," Dean says.

Cas gets that little irritated frown between his eyebrows and, sighing, Dean takes the cracker from him, his hand shaking so much that he can barely hold it between his fingers. He looks at it just long enough to get a whiff of that dry, bready smell before popping it in his mouth.

His mouth's so dry it's actually hard to chew at first, the saltiness making him gag, but it gets better. He can actually feel it as it hits his stomach, and instead of just whetting his appetite and making him hungrier like he expected it to, it feels solid.

Maybe he's not three course meal full, the top of his stomach still feels empty, but a hell of a lot better than he was.

"What was that, Cas?" Dean whispers.

"It will sustain you," he answers, his face totally closed off.

It occurs to Dean to ask Cas to so the same for Sam, but something tells him that would be a bad idea. Cas would do it if he asked, he has no doubt about that, but it might not end well, for one or all of them. This feels like a private thing.

"Okay," Dean says, letting it slide. For now.

Now that he's awake, some of the hunger-haze lifted off his brain, he's aware of just how stiff and bruised he is.

He totally just took on a giant scorpion. And almost died, then got his ass saved by a girl in a towel.

Like today could get any weirder.

Cas sits beside Dean wearily, their shoulders pressed together. That's weird enough without Cas leaning back and closing his eyes, but damn it all if that's not what he does.

"Tired?" Dean whispers.

"Very," Castiel agrees, his voice rough and worn out. If that's not a worrying prospect, then Dean doesn't know what is. He turns his head, and he's the creeper this time, no question.

Cas looks tired. His eyelashes are weirdly thick, fanned out over the tops of his cheekbones. His breaths are coming in short and sharp, jerking against Dean's side.

"You okay, man?" Dean asks.

Cas doesn't answer.

"Cas," Dean says, loud, right in his ear. He wraps a hand around Cas' wrist and tugs, trying to wake him.

Cas tips towards him, bonelessly, his head lolling onto Dean's shoulder.

___

"What did you just do?" Jimmy asks, seated at the opposite end of the alley. It seems that Castiel will continue to return here when he is unconscious.

"I gave him something to keep his strength," Castiel answers.

"And what was that?" Jimmy asks, pointedly. Castiel feels a blunt, disembodied pressure in his sides for a moment, unpleasant but not painful. Still, Castiel is reluctant to answer.

"Some of my own."

"... You fed him your grace?" Jimmy asks incredulously. Castiel nods. "That's kind of... gross."

There's a long silence.

"Did you kill me?" Jimmy asks.

Castiel sighs. "I miscalculated. I didn't know it would take such a toll on this body."

"Okay," Jimmy says. "Don't kill me. If you can help it."

The more time they spend speaking the more they seem to blend together, Castiel has noticed. Aside from Jimmy's unconscious ability to pressure Castiel, he can catch glimpses of what Jimmy's thinking. Flashes of his wife and daughter, are they safe? Do they miss him? Castiel feels overwhelmingly sad, and knows without a doubt that's from Jimmy too.

___

"Dude, tell me I was not this annoying to drag," Dean demands, helping Sam shuffle Cas' unconscious body through the trees. Rigel says they're nearly at their destination, so Sam ignores his brother.

What exactly their destination is, she has yet to mention.

Cas' eyes flicker under his lids, making Sam think he's probably more asleep than just unconscious, which is weird enough, considering. Especially since Dean still hasn't told him what they were talking about before Cas went all comatose on them.

"We're nearly there," Rigel says softly, almost like she doesn't want to be heard. Sam's pretty sure she's not human, but she saved their asses, so that's reason enough to trust her for now.

Dean stumbles a little, sending them all face forward, when a pair of strong hands grab Sam's shoulders and right him.

"We're here," Rigel says, the quietest yet. She would sound exactly like Jo if her voice wasn't so timid.

Sam looks around and they're surrounded by people just like Rigel, men and women with blonde hair, wearing short tunics and sandals, emerging from the trees like they're part of the very woods.

"What happened to the angel?" someone asks from behind Sam.

"You mean other than --"

"Don't fucking say the name, Saiph!"

There's the all too recognizable sound of someone being whapped upside the head.

"Show some manners," the largest of the men says, stepping forward. "Or you'll frighten away our guests."

Dean flashes Sam his officially creeped out look and gooses his thumb into Cas' side, trying to wake him. Cas shifts between them, but doesn't react otherwise. Sam finds himself checking for escape routes, but they're pretty well boxed in with giant blondes on all sides and a deadweight caught in between them.

"They're looking a little flighty already," the big one says, smirking.

"Watch out for the shorter brother," a girl whispers. "He's scrappy."

Dean starts, just a little and Sam fists a hand in his sleeve, holding him back.

"Al," Dean growls.

Alnilam, Rigel, Saiph. A cog clicks into place in Sam's head.

"You're all named after stars?" Sam asks.

"Close, Winchester," the biggest says. "You're named after a gun, but we are stars."

___

Castiel wakes just as Dean settles him down, somewhat roughly, by a roaring fire. It's dark, and he smells food. Real, savory food. Meat. His stomach cries out for it, a feeling he's unaccustomed to, but seems to be happening more and more. He slits his eyes open.

"Hey, you 'wake, Cas?" Dean asks gently. Castiel nods and Dean smiles. Sam, hearing their voices, leans into Cas' field of vision.

"Have a good nap?" he chides. Both of them have a sleepy, well-fed look about them that worries Castiel even as it calms him.

"Did you eat?" he barks.

"Yeah," Dean says, "but it's okay. It wasn't bad food, we're still like, us." Sam nods helpfully.

"I think he needs a little more explanation than that," says the woman who brought Castiel to the forest. Dean tenses at the sound of her voice, but doesn't try to kill her, so Castiel can surmise their uneasy truce. He sits up and sees seven strangely dressed people, three men and four women, sitting at the opposite end of the fire. Al and Rigel blend in perfectly with what Castiel assumes are their brothers and sisters.

"What's going on?" Castiel asks, looking to Dean.

"Hell if I know. Sam gets it," Dean answers.

"They'll tell you," Sam says, gesturing at the group of siblings. There's a brief, muttered squabble before the tallest of the men moves forward and sits cross-legged in front of the fire.

"I am Betelgeuse, (Dean snorts and Sam elbows him in the ribs) the brightest star of the constellation Orion, made of myself and my siblings," he says gravely. "We've been brought to Earth for a purpose we know not, but we would request your help."

"You could've said it that way the first time," Dean mutters angrily.

"You are not an angel," Betelgeuse says in a way that reminds Castiel of Uriel, if more polite.

"What help?" Castiel asks.

"Help us defeat the one who brought all of us here, brother."

Castiel doesn't like Betelgeuse.

"It's not my help to give," he says, looking to Sam and Dean. Sam shrugs, and Dean sighs.

"Get us the hell out of here, and you've got a deal," Dean says, addressing Rigel instead of their leader. If Betelgeuse is annoyed he doesn't let it show.

"Of course," Betelgeuse answers. "But first, we must all rest."

___

This time when Sam becomes aware that he's dreaming, Lucifer is sitting close enough that his thigh is pressed against Sam's. If he sat up they'd be arm to arm.

"What do you want?" Sam groans, pressing his eyes tightly shut. The ridiculousness of shutting his eyes in a dream doesn't matter all that much when he's chatting it up with the devil.

Sam can feel him shrug. "You called me back here."

"Did not," Sam says, sliding his eyes open. Lucifer smirks, amused, but doesn't say anything. He's facing Sam with his legs folded, and the fire lights half his face, making Sam feel even more surreal about the whole thing.

"Why else would I be here?"

"I just asked you that," Sam spits, much to Lucifer's apparent amusement.

"Maybe I just wanted to see you," Lucifer suggests.

"Why?" Sam asks flatly.

"You didn't look so good last time we met. Maybe I was worried about you," Lucifer says quietly. Sam almost believes it, until he remembers who he's talking to.

"Yeah, wouldn't want your vessel starving to death," Sam deadpans. Lucifer sighs and the smile slips from his face.

"Did you bring me here to abuse me, Sam?" he asks wearily. Like Sam's the evil one.

"I didn't bring you here at all."

Lucifer just looks at him. He holds up one hand and pressed between his fingers is a single, ripe, red strawberry. "Still hungry, Sam?"

"Fuck you," Sam growls, pulling Lucifer's hand closer. He can feel Lucifer's eyes on him as he bites into it, and it's firm and sweet and perfect in his mouth and as soon as he tastes it he wants another.

"Really, Sam?" Lucifer says in Jess' voice. He's smiling Jess' smirk, with the red tip of a strawberry poking out from between Jess' lips.

"No. Be yourself."

Jess raises an eyebrow -- it makes Sam's chest ache -- but her face melts back into Lucifer's, and he reaches to take the berry out of his mouth just as Sam leans forward to take it, batting Lucifer's hand away. Lucifer's shoulders fill out under Sam's hands as their teeth clack together, swift and painful.

Lucifer makes a soft, startled noise as Sam backs away.

"Don't start what you can't finish," Sam says hoarsely.

___

Sam looks like he's having some fun dreams, so Dean actually enjoys waking him up a little more than he normally would have. Saiph, the youngest of the blondes, has been doing watch with him and that kid has way too much energy. He's too twitchy for night watch.

"Sa-am," Dean quietly singsongs, prodding his brother in the hip with the toe of his boot. "Your turn."

Sam grumbles and rolls over. Dean starts when he sees that Sam's mouth is smeared with blood.

"Jesus Christ," Dean says dropping to one knee. "What the hell happened?"

Sam wipes his hand across his mouth and winces. "I think I bit my lip." Dean tries to get a better look but Sam bats him away, holding the edge of his sleeve to the corner of his mouth. "I'm good."

"You sure?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, Dean. Go sleep," he says, walking towards the edge of the small camp they've made for themselves. Saiph, his freaky platinum hair practically glowing in the moonlight, fidgets as Sam comes closer. Dean sighs and lays down in Sam's place, where the grass is already tamped down. Cas is asleep on his other side, and Dean puts his back towards him to soak up a little extra warmth as he watches Sam.

"Dean?" Cas asks, relaxing into him.

"Did I wake you up?"

"Yes."

"Sorry."

Cas settles, his shoulders shifting against Dean's. Or maybe he's shrugging, if he's picked that up by now. Dean can never tell what Cas'll do next. He feels Cas shudder as he yawns. "I don't mind."

___

Castiel wakes in the morning with Dean's arm flung around his waist. They never did wake him for night watch. Betelgeuse and Alnilam are starting the fire back up from its embers and Castiel delicately removes Dean's arm to join them. Alnilam gives him a cheeky smile, but Betelgeuse ignores him.

"I need to speak with you," Castiel tells her, ignoring the chief star in turn. The grin slips from her face, but she follows Castiel to just outside the perimeter of the camp.

"You're going to ask why I brought you here," Alnilam says. Castiel nods. "We needed your help, Castiel. Heaven's angels have turned a blind eye to us, but you've already distanced yourself from them."

"I would have offered assistance if you'd asked," Castiel says icily.

"I'm sorry," she replies, "but we couldn't take that chance. We can't stay here for very long."

"I understand," Castiel says. He doesn't approve, but he understands, and now he has no choice but to help them. "Wake Dean and tell us what you need."

She makes a sour face but goes to do as he asked. The group's disdain for humans is starting to worry Castiel, but he pushes it to the back of his mind. Dean wakes groggily but fast and Sam comes from where he was sitting awake to join them in a large circle around the fire. Like last time Betelgeuse comes forward and addresses Castiel directly.

"What do you require from us?" Castiel asks, cutting him off.

"We need an angel to place us in the heavens."

Castiel frowns. "How?"

"There's a ritual, we only need you to be there for it. It will require no effort from you," Betelgeuse says, almost pleadingly. His brothers and sisters are all staring at Castiel with open need on their faces.

"I will help you," Castiel says and pauses while Saiph makes a happy whooping sound. His sister, Bellatrix, smacks him upside the head and mutters something in his ear. "If you deliver the three of us safely to the outside of the forest."

"Of course," Betelgeuse answers.

"There's no fucking way it's going to be that easy," Dean says bitterly from behind him.

"He's right," Alnilam pipes up. "There's a... problem."

"Problem?" Sam asks from Castiel's other side.

"Called it," Dean hisses.

"We were not brought here by chance," Betelgeuse says.

"So, whoever poofed you to Earth is still here?"

"Yes," Betelgeuse says gravely.

"Wonderful," Dean snaps.

"I would prefer speaking with you alone," Betelgeuse says to Castiel, glaring at Dean. Castiel doesn't respond.

___


It's about an hour of staring at trees later that Cas finally comes out of the pow-wow with a frown.

"We have a plan," he says, standing next to Dean, who's sprawled out on the ground. Dean pats Cas' leg and points to the ground beside him until Cas gets the idea and sits down.

"What is it?" Sam asks.

"Their placement in the sky was disturbed by a deity who's name is better not said. We're going to stop her."

"You know we're not in a western, right, Cas?" Dean says doubtfully.

"What Dean's saying is: how exactly are we going to do that?" Sam clarifies in the wake of Cas' head tilt.

"They have found a weapon that should help us," Cas says.

"So we just stand by and watch while they kill the bad guy?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't sound right," Sam says, scrunching his face into a confused frown. Dean wants to make fun of him for it, but he's right. That is way too easy.

"Not everything has to be difficult," Cas says serenely, but he's gone scrunchy too. Dean doesn't think he really believes what he's saying.

"So, we going now, or do we have to wait for Bete to get his panties unbunched?"

"After another meal," Cas says. "They want to be as strong as possible."

Dean pauses before saying, "does that creep anyone else out?"

Sam and Cas both nod.

___

The meal is just roasted meat from the packs Betelgeuse's crew carry around their waists, salty and tough, but good. Sam doesn't eat much, and neither does Dean. Cas doesn't eat any, but then again he rarely eats. The others all dig in like starving men, even though they have enough food to last all of them weeks, it unnerves Sam and steals his appetite. It tastes too sweet when he puts it in his mouth, but that might just be him. That might just be where his mouth's been.

He kissed Lucifer, because he is a logical person.

At least he can see his downhill slide this time, he can stop himself. No more of whatever the hell Lucifer has been feeding him, and seriously, what the hell has Lucifer been feeding him? It's not demon blood, because technically Lucifer's not a demon. It's probably not blood at all, he has no proof, but he feels like it's not.

"Sam," Dean snaps, waving his hand in front of Sam's face. "You in there?"

Sam blinks, and realizes that he's been staring at the ground. "Yeah, I'm good." Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head, much to Saiph's amusement. Bete and the others all seem pretty confused by how fast the little guy has taken to them, another reason why Sam's worried. Cas keeps staring at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

Sam should talk to Cas. That would be the smart thing to do. Hell, going back in time and telling Cas yesterday might be the smartest thing to do.

"It is time to go," Bete announces. Dean grumbles and Sam hits him in the arm, following the stars into the trees. They move so much lighter than he and Dean do, pivoting lightly on their toes and avoiding all the overgrowth. It makes Sam feel even bigger than usual as he crushes a path through the foliage.

"Where the hell are we going?" Dean grumbles.

"This way," Saiph chirps.

"Thanks," Dean grits out, just as a branch hits him in the face. Sam chuckles, squeezing his jaw shut so it's not too loud.

"We're close," Cas says ominously. Bete nods. They haven't been walking all that long, they must have been sleeping pretty close to whatever this thing is and not have seen it the whole night. The stars in front of them scatter, vanishing into the trees.

Only Bete remains, waving them forward. Sam and Dean fall into step with him, Cas hovering just behind them, all so quiet he's not sure if anyone besides him is breathing.

There's a quick, breathy thud as Cas is thrown to the side and Sam's half turned around to defend himself when cool hands wrap around him, pressing him to the ground and covering his mouth. The thin metallic smoothness of a blade is lowered across his neck.

"I'm sorry about this," Saiph whispers, holding the knife.

"Shut it," Bellatrix snaps at him.

Calmly, Betelgeuse turns to face his prisoners.

"Called it," Dean gloats, then is silenced with the meaty sound of a punch.

Ignoring the noise as Dean and Sam try to escape, and Sam can't hear a word from Cas, that is so not good, Betelgeuse begins to chant, prostrating himself on the ground as the sound raises, building itself up to a familiar buzz that floats through Sam's chest. His siblings join in, and the very trees shake with it.

Something very bad is about to happen.

"You called me?"

Sam bites into Bellatrix's hand, hard, and she pulls it away from his mouth with a sharp noise of pain. He tilts his head back, ignoring the sudden pain of the knife into his skin, and the slow trickle of blood that makes it's way down his throat. Lucifer stares back, upside down from Sam's vantage point and surveying him with a cool gaze.

"Lucifer," Betelgeuse says, still kneeling at the devil's feet. "Please, your coming pulled us down from the heavens. Restore us."

"Why would I do that?" Lucifer asks.

"We have an offering. A falling angel," Bete says quickly, gesturing in Cas' direction. Dean kicks savagely at Rigel.

"That's your offering?" Lucifer says coldly. "When that boy just harmed my vessel?"

Sam's breath catches in his throat at the growl in Lucifer's voice. Something very bad is about to happen.

But not to him.

Bete's eyes go wide and move over to Sam, to the thin trail of his blood on the edge of Saiph's knife.

"I didn't--" the star starts, spluttering.

"Sam," Lucifer says, patiently. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He's waiting.

Sam can taste something sweet.

"Waste them," Sam orders.

___

As soon as the words are out of Sam's mouth Rigel, Al and the other holding Dean down go flying out of his sight and slam into something hard from the sound of it. Dean rolls over, pushing himself up to his hands and knees. Lucifer's at a total advantage here, which is exactly what Bete wanted, now that Dean thinks about it, why the fuck did he let his guard fall so far -- but not even paying attention to Dean, thank God for small favors.

Lucifer takes a step towards Bete, who's kneeling on the ground in front of him, protecting his head with his arms.

"You fool," the devil says calmly. Dean shivers and looks away.

Sam is still laying where he was pinned and Dean crawls over to him, trying to keep himself out of Lucifer's strike zone. He ignores the sounds of Lucifer's wrath and tries as hard as he can not to identify them.

Sam's eyes are rolled up in the back of his head, and his mouth is moving rapidly, like a fish gasping for air. Dean grabs his shoulders and shakes him, hard and fast, but doesn't get any response.

"Sam," Dean hisses. "Sammy, wake up." No dice, Sam is still seizing or whatever and Dean gets his hands off him, because if it is a seizure he's just gonna fuck him up more by trying to hold him still. He needs Cas to get them the hell out of here, if he can.

"Cas?" Dean calls, looking around. He hears a weak groan in response and his head snaps up, trying to find his angel. Another groan sounds again, from farther back into the trees. Far enough that Dean would have to leave Sam to see if it's Cas or not. Walk away from comatose, fucked up Sam with Lucifer standing just over his shoulder. The whites of Sam's eyes seem to glare at him.

"Hold your horses," Dean mutters at him, looking over his shoulder. Lucifer is distracted, to say the least. Dean doesn't let his eyes focus on more then the back of Luci's head, turned away from them.

Clutching at the ground like a runner, Dean pushes himself up and takes two long, quick steps into the trees, and he still has his ass, so that went reasonably well.

Cas is sprawled out of the ground, his legs splayed at a very uncomfortable looking angle. There's a gash near his left temple, smearing the side of his face in red. Dean grabs Cas' by the wrist and hauls him up, and Cas' eyelids flicker, so Dean thinks he's just out of it, and not unconscious.

"C'mon, man, work with me here," Dean hisses, trying to get the angel's legs under him. "That's it, Cas, c'mon, gotta hurry." Cas lets out another soft groan and stands, leaning heavily on Dean. Good enough.

Pulling Cas along by and arm around his waist, Dean drags them both from their cover and out to Sam, who's still doing his twitchy, creeptacular thing on the ground. Cas' feet start to drag and his head lolls against Dean's shoulder. "You are not passing out on me again, dude," Dean huffs, shaking Cas' waist.

"Dean?" Cas asks groggily.

"Yeah, buddy, keep walking."

"That's not my name," Cas slurs. Dean unceremoniously plants him on his knees next to Sam.

"I know that's not your name, Cas --"

"That's not my name."

"-- Castiel, but you need to get us out of here," Dean says, trying to be patient. Lucifer's noise is getting quieter and quieter. "If you can."

"I can't," Cas says. His eyes are fluttering again, and Dean puts a steadying hand on his chest.

"Stay with me, here," he commands, pressing his nails in for just a second, Cas rewarding him with a little more focus in his eyes. "Can you help me get Sam away?"

"I don't think so," Cas says. Dean grabs Sam by the arm and hauls him up. He's not twitching anymore, so there's a plus. He lets go of Cas long enough to support Sam's weight and Cas is still standing. Cas is staring blankly at him, and the blood from his forehead has reached his chin. Cas doesn't move to wipe it off.

"You with me, Castiel?" Dean asks.

Cas doesn't answer. Dean is so fucked. He grabs Cas hand and pulls him closer, and Cas hesitates for a second, then walks. The motion is enough to make Sam's head turn the other way, towards Dean, so Sam's mouth is practically touching his ear, and Dean hears Sam chanting, low and only vaguely human sounding, almost a buzz. "Snap out of it, Sammy."

"Don't bother him," Lucifer says coolly, turning his attention on Dean. He wonders if Luci was ever really preoccupied. "He has better things to do right now."

"What did you do to my brother, you sonofabitch?" Dean growls, tightening his arm around Sam's waist. The hell if he's going to let this go down without a fight.

"Nothing he wasn't meant to do."

And now he has Lucifer's total attention, the devil walking towards him with slow, easy steps. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and his hands smudged red.

At least Dean doesn't have to worry about Bete and his friends anymore.

"Fuck you," Dean says.

"I'm sure neither of us would enjoy that," Lucifer says, grinning a little. Of course the only angel who can make a half decent joke is the devil, that's just Dean's life. He still has Cas' hand in his and he squeezes, hard, and feels Cas start a little. Good, he's coming back to his senses.

"Cute," Dean quips. "Do you do birthday parties?"

"I'm repressing him," Lucifer gestures at Castiel, "he can't help you."

"A good maniacal laugh would really round that sentence out."

"I'm not evil, Dean," Lucifer sighs, taking another weary step towards him. Dean takes two steps back, dragging Sam and Cas with him.

"Sure, and I'm the Easter bunny," Dean snaps. His arm is starting to ache from holding Sam up, he doesn't know how much longer he can do it.

"I didn't bring you here. Another trying to win my favor did," Lucifer says. He holds his hands out at his sides, open palmed. "I'll send you home, no harm done."

"You call this no harm?" Dean says, tugging Cas even closer. Sam's buzzing chant against Dean's neck grows faster the closer Lucifer gets.

"They'll be healed."

Lucifer's close enough to touch now.

"I don't believe you."

Lucifer smiles, a soft, pained and far too human smile. "I don't lie, Dean. I don't have to."

"Bull," Dean snarls, even though he is absolutely certain Lucifer just told the truth.

"If you won't believe that, believe this. I'm sending a message."

"A message?" Dean asks. Sam is sagging hard against his side, and Dean can't feel the tips of his fingers anymore.

"No one touches what's mine," Lucifer says, and taps his fingers to Dean's forehead.

___

Sam snaps to sudden attention, sitting straight up in his bed.

That's not right, he wasn't sleeping.

"Took you long enough," Dean says tiredly. He's sitting between the two beds on a folding chair, shotgun propped up on his knees. From the bed head sticking out over the edge of the blanket, Cas is sleeping in Dean's bed.

"What happened?" Sam asks. "I remember Betelgeuse attacking us, then Lucifer showed up, then what?"

Dean's eyebrows go up. "I had a chat with the devil, then he sent us here."

"What?"

"I dunno either, man," Dean says. He grabs a cup of coffee off the ground and takes a long drink from it. "You've been out for a day."

"Have you slept since then?" Sam asks, eyeing the shadows under his eyes.

"Me an' Cas are taking it in shifts," Dean says sullenly, scrubbing at his face. Sam takes that to mean Cas forced him to sleep until Dean got up and did the same thing to him. "There was a forest fire yesterday."

"Shit," Sam says.

"Yeah, Luci wasn't too happy about you being kidnapped."

"Guess not," Sam says. "And the fairies?"

"I think they were in on it," Dean answers. "Or Cas does, anyway. He thinks they must've been sacrificing those people to Lucifer until Bete came along and had a better idea."

"So, Lucifer just... let us go? And took care of the case for us?" Sam asks.

"Fucking weird, man," Dean says, downing the rest of his coffee.

"It doesn't make sense," Sam amends.

"What the hell does anymore?" Dean asks neutrally. The way he says it kills Sam a little, resigned and just a step away from defeated. "And at least we're actually here this time. I checked."

"Checked?"

Dean winces. "Punched Cas in the shoulder. I think I broke my hand."

Sam's too tired to manage an actual laugh, but he gives it a decent try. Dean smirks at him, wry, and rubs at his fist.

"I am so hungry," Sam says. "Do we have any food?"

"I'll get you some," Dean says, stiffly. Sam takes it to mean Dean bought him food, then ate it while he was out.

"Nah," Sam answers, standing up. He has a few seconds of head rush, dizzy blackness swirling around his vision, but he's okay. Actually, he feels great. "I need to stretch my legs."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says, shrugging on a jacket. He's still wearing the same clothes he left in, but his pants aren't muddy and his shirt isn't torn. It's kind of freaky, like the whole thing never even happened. Like he dreamed it. He grabs the keys to the car out of Dean's waiting hand and tries to shake off the sense of weirdness creeping over his brain.

It's chilly outside and it clears his head a little. He thinks that he's going to drive to the next town over, hit up a Wendy's, and eat his body weight in whatever's cheapest on the menu. He's going to go into toxic shock or something, skipping from just fruit and dried meat for a few days straight to junk food, but Sam doesn't really care.

He pulls out of the parking lot, thinking of all the two dollar hamburgers he can eat in an hour or so. It's a little weird, he hates fast food, but greasy burgers sound perfect right now.

___

It seems like a really good time for a nap, now that Sam's gone and Dean doesn't really have an excuse to keep watch. Hell, he couldn't even get up enough energy to sit in the car and let Sam go through a drive thru.

Flopping down on Sam's bed feels uncomfortable though, because he's so far from the door. Having Cas between him and the only point of entry, guarding him, feels kind of wrong. It's supposed to be the other way around.

Theoretically, Dean knows that Cas is this badass superhuman being that could break him, and most demons, in half, but he's also Dean's friend with a recent head injury. He can just see the edges of the three stitches on Cas' forehead, the thread matching that of the ones that used to be in his palm, before they fell out somewhere in the forest, leaving only a thin white line.

Dean sighs. He's going all girly again. He slams his face into the pillow and wonders if it counts as a nap if it's caused by oxygen deprivation.

"Dean?" Cas asks, the second half of his name trailing off into a soft yawn.

"Yeah," Dean says into Sam's pillow. It sounds like 'mmmph'.

"I need to apologize."

"What for?" Dean asks, propping himself up on his elbows so Cas can get the full force of his raised eyebrows.

"I acted inappropriately," Cas says.

"You saved our asses," Dean says. "Unless you're talking about in the diner, when you got yourself nabbed in the first place. Don't ever do something like that again, Cas."

"Not that," Cas says, the stubborn crease appearing between his eyes.

"What then?" Dean snaps.

"Kissing you. It was done without your permission and I apologize."

"What?" Dean asks again, feeling like a really stupid record skipping a track. Cas stares at him, silently. So he did hear that right. "That was you?"

Cas nods, slowly, like Dean might be even more of a dumb human than he thought. He slings his legs over the side of the bed, and Cas blinks, startled at his weird interest in this. And Dean is so fucking fucked, if he made an angel do all sorts of un-angelic shit that both of them are probably going to get smote for.

"Dean," Cas says seriously. "I can go."

"No," Dean spits, unthinking.

Cas' head tilts to the side, something he hasn't done in a while. He's getting more and more clued in, more human, every day, and he doesn't need Dean to explain to him that normal people don't make that kind of head movement.

Cas pulls his legs out from under Dean's blanket. His clothes are all back to normal, even though his hair kind of always looks like people have been running their fingers through it. He stands and takes a cautious step towards Dean.

"Do you forgive me?" he asks, his voice husky. He's crossed the space between them, they're toe-to-toe, Dean booted and Cas in his socks. Dean has to crane his neck to look Cas in the eye, so he settles for staring at his lips. Cas darts his tongue out, quick, and licks them, something he's never seen the angel do but recognizes, Dean does that, before he's leaning down, slow enough so Dean could push him away if he wanted.

Dean doesn't.

Their lips meet in a surprisingly gentle way. If Dean had ever imagined kissing a dude, which, now that he actually is, isn't quite as hard to admit to, it wouldn't be this, soft and hesitant, like Cas thinks he's going to run away. Smirking, Dean pulls at Cas leg until the angel's knee gives and bends forward, depositing him in Dean's lap while Dean's other hand is wrapping around the back of Cas' neck, holding him there. Cas tips forward slightly, tapping their foreheads together in reproach.

He kisses like Dean remembers, when the hesitation fades away, demanding, like Dean's mouth already belongs to him.

Cas is heavy in Dean's lap, his weight sprawled awkwardly across Dean's thighs, and Dean's hands go to his hips, pulling him closer. Cas gasps into Dean's mouth when his hips come flush against Dean's and he rocks forward, Dean feeling Cas' dick rubbing over his stomach.

"I--" Cas starts, his eyes wide and blown.

Dean scowls and pulls them back together, dragging his teeth over the curve of Cas' lip, whispering, "feel good?"

Cas gets with the program and mumbles his answer against Dean's lips, slinging his arm around Dean's shoulders. Dean takes it as permission to grind Cas' hips forward, shocking another gasp out of him. His own cock is getting hard, starting to strain against his zipper.

"Dean," Cas groans. Dean shushes him, dragging his fingers through Cas' hair.

"Just do what feels good."

Sighing, Cas rocks into him, grinding with just enough pressure to drive Dean fucking crazy, but it's not about him. He thinks Cas might just need this.

He comes with a shudder, slumping in Dean's arms.

"Thank you," Cas says.

"That's a freaky thing to say right after sex," Dean tells him. The corner of Cas' mouth turns up in a tired smile.

___

There's no Wendy's in this freaking state or something, so Sam ends up at some steak house. Anything that didn't come from a cow is not even an option on the menu and the closest thing they have to vegetables are the buckets of peanuts on every table, but Sam's ordering a giant rare steak before he has time to even think about what he wants.

It sounds really good though.

The waiter brings him a slab of meat that's almost bigger than the plate it's served on, along with a knife the size of a machete and a pitchfork. Sam tucks in. The knife doesn't quite cut it right, so Sam pulls it apart with his fingers, folding long strips of meat into his mouth. The juice runs down over his chin when he bites down and it stains his sleeve a muddy red when he wipes it off.

"Dude," the waiter says, passing by. "It's not going to run away."

Sam gulps down half his glass of water. "Yeah, sorry. Hungry."

"Got that. Don't gross out the other customers."

Sam has the feeling that if the waiter doesn't leave soon, Sam's going to stab him. Slit his throat and eat him in warm chunks of bloody meat and thick, salty blood.


___

Castiel's mostly asleep, curled around Dean, when Dean's phone goes off in his pocket. Dean curses, and Castiel, still feeling heavy and sated, laughs at him, very quietly. They're close enough for Dean to hear anyway and he scowls, the glint in his eye telling Cas that he's not actually mad. Dean's always been a lot easier to read than other humans, maybe because Cas is the one who molded him into the shape he is now.

"This had better be important," Dean says, theatrically mad, into the phone. Then he frowns. "How is that any different than normal? Ew."

"What's happening?" Castiel asks. Dean holds up a hand to silence him, his frown deepening.

"Yeah, we'll be right there, Sam," he says. "Hang tight."

"What's wrong with Sam?" Castiel asks.

"Something weird," Dean answers. "He's in town, I'll drive."

"I could simply take us there," Castiel says. Truthfully he's sure he would fall asleep in the car, and Sam needs him awake if he's in trouble.

"No, I got it," Dean says distractedly, shrugging his jacket on. "You can stay here."

Castiel is already in the car by the time Dean is at the door, waiting to see if Dean will try to refuse him.

___

When Dean and Castiel kick down the door they smell like sex. That's the first thing Sam notices, they smell like they just fucked.

He watches Dean survey the restaurant, empty save for Sam, and spot him in his back booth. His eyes do that twitch, he's alarmed and trying not to show it, that Sam should not be able to see from this far back in dim, red tinted lighting. Dean and Castiel's steps crunch towards him, breaking the peanut shells that litter the floor.

"Sammy?" Dean says cautiously.

"Took you long enough," Sam growls through a mouthful of steak.

"You really can't stop eating, can you?" Dean asks, creeping closer. The balls of his feet seem to land on the few cleared parts of the floor and his steps are quieter, like the noise might startle Sam.

"I told you," Sam answers. "I scared everyone off."

"How," Dean asks flatly, it's not even a question any more.

"I waved the steak knife at them. "

"Too bad that doesn't work on poltergeists."

"Dean, I thought I was just going to kill them all," Sam says, horrified. He tears a long strip from the steak in his hands, red and uncooked. "I wanted to kill them and..." He pushes the meat into his mouth, letting Dean figure the rest out for himself. Dean steps closer, Cas' graceless crunchy footfalls right behind him, and that mouthwatering sex smell almost makes Sam want to cry.

"Sam," Cas says softly, calmly, with a tight undercurrent of alarm hidden under it. "What have you been exposing yourself to?"

"Lucifer," Sam says instantly.

"What?" Dean hisses.

"He started coming to me in the forest, and he gave me food," Sam says in a rush. Between bites. Even breathing is becoming secondary to eating, and his stomach's full to bursting and he just wants it to stop.

Cas takes a sharp breath. "He gave you his grace."

It's not a question.

"Why?" Dean asks. Sam can't answer.

"It would make him easier to control," Cas supplies.

"Can you get it out of him?" Dean asks.

"Possibly."

And Cas is right up in Sam's face, pressing him down with hands on his shoulders and knocking the steak from his hands. Sam grabs him by the elbows and pushes the both of them out of the booth, pinning Cas to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Sam says, snapping at Cas' exposed neck.

He's never tasted angel blood before. Castiel smells like sex.

Thick, callused hands pull him away, someone screams in his ear, Cas' hand touches his face.

___

Sam slumps in Dean's arm, going from clawing and biting to out cold in about half a second. Cas' hand pulls away from him, closed into a fist. Shafts of light shine out from between his fingers.

"It's a smaller about than I had anticipated," Cas says, squeezing his fist and crushing the light. It was so bright Dean still has sqiggly green afterimages on his eyes.

"Good," Dean says, hoisting his deadweight brother into the booth.

"He couldn't have known what he was doing, Dean," Cas says, his fingers brushing Dean's wrist, just where sleeve meets skin.

"Yeah," Dean agrees. He doesn't quite believe it. "What now?"

"He'll need to recover."

Dean eyes the steak bones littering Sam's table. "He'll be puking for a week."

"Understandably," Cas says.

"... Was that a joke?"

Cas just stares back at him, stoic. That was totally a joke. Dean pats Cas' shoulder for trying.

"Grab our stuff from the motel. I have the feeling we're not so welcome in town anymore," he says, hauling Sam into a sitting position. Cas nods and disappears.

Sam doesn't wake up, or help, while Dean drags his stupid ass to the car and lays him out in the back seat, barely holding up under his weight and watching just in case police show up, because, hello, man with knife threatens steakhouse with cannibalism. He can see the headline already.

"What am I going to do with you?" Dean chastises Sam, pushing and pulling his limbs into recovery position. He grabbed one of the peanut buckets from inside and dumps them out in the street, sliding the bucket onto the floor near Sam's face. "Do not puke on my upholstery."

Sam groans in his sleep and twitches towards the bucket. Dean takes that as agreement.

"The bags are in the trunk," Cas says, reappearing next to Dean.

"You riding shotgun?" Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head. "I'll meet you there."

"Fine," Dean says, climbing into his seat.

"He'll be okay," Cas says again.

"Sure, Cas," Dean answers, starting the car. Quickly, Cas leans in through the door, holding it open one handed, and presses a kiss to Dean's temple. He's gone before Dean can protest.

"Cheater," he mutters.

___

"Holy shit, Buddy, you're alive," Buster stammers, looking up from his card game. The other players crowded in the alley stare at Castiel, and he recognizes some of them from the game of dice.

"Yes," Castiel agrees. Buster stands, setting his cards on the ground.

"You forfeiting?" someone asks angrily.

"Get stuffed," Buster tells the man. "I'm talking here." He puts an arm around Castiel's shoulders, leading him to the mouth of the alley. "Lets get away from these rude little bastards, Bud, so you can tell me where the hell you've been."

"My name is Castiel," he says, and the words feel awkward in his mouth.

"Weird ass name you got there, Castiel," Buster chuckles, sitting them down on a bench. He pulls a battered package of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers one to Castiel, who declines. "Your hand any better?"

Castiel shows him the smooth white scar across his palm.

"That --" Buster stammers, "how the fuck did that heal so fast?"

"I'm not human," Castiel says.

Buster takes a long, slow blink. "Care to run that by me again?"

"I'm an angel of the lord," Castiel tells him, closing his hand.

"What the hell have you been smoking?" Buster asks flatly.

"You don't believe me?"

"Nope, Bud, but what the hell," Buster says, pushing the cigarette between his withered lips. "There's got to be a damned good story behind this." Castiel shrugs.

"Tell me what you've been up to, Castiel," Buster demands, a good natured smile on his face.

~

Masterpost.