Dean tossed his Remington 870 into the trunk of the Impala, slamming it closed. He slid into the driver's seat of the Impala and revved the engine.
It had been a long year. He had all but given up regular hunting, leaving that to Sam and Bobby, and instead focused his energy on making Raphael pay.
A year of trying to kill that winged S.O.B. A year away from Sam and Bobby. A year since he had salted and burned Castiel's body.
His cell-phone rang. Another call from Sam. He ignored it.
Hey Dean. It's Sam. Just calling to check in. No news about Raphael. Give us a call sometime – we want to see how you're doing. Take care of yourself, man. I miss you. Jerk.
000
Sam hung up the phone, turning to Bobby and shaking his head. "Voicemail. Again."
The old man huffed, adjusting his hat, and frowned, "Did you really expect him to answer and tell you where he was headed? Stanford didn't do you any favors, did it?"
Bitchface. "You know I just wanna make sure he's okay, Bobby. He ran off a year ago. A year! And, I mean, he's a big boy and can take care of himself – but we've gotten, what, four phone-calls from him this whole time?"
Bobby snapped, his patience worn thin from all the worry, "I know, Sam. I know! But, Dean's a smart fella – if he doesn't wanna be found, he knows how to do it." He rubbed his forehead, letting out a long sigh, "I'll make some calls, see what sort of leads I can pull up. Maybe if we can get some information, that idjit brother of yours'll call." He walked off, phone in hand, ready to pull out all the stops.
Sam plopped down at the table and pulled his laptop up. His fingers clacked away at the keys, pulling up site after site that specialized in Angelic lore. He huffed, not knowing what he expected to find. The trail had gone cold months ago – the last time he had heard from Dean.
It would be a miracle at this point if they found anything.
Sam never prayed so hard for a miracle before in his life.
000
Dean was speeding down the highway, blaring AC/DC like it was going out of style, when his heavenly visitor showed up in his rear-view mirror.
"Still wearing v-neck t-shirts?" The annoyance in Dean's voice was all too apparent.
The Angel in the back of his car was wearing his usual attire – slim-fit trousers and a v-neck t-shirt, a kind of neo-Mick Jagger look. The smooth voice chuckled, nestling into the leather seats.
"Still driving this piece of tin and listening to music older than you?" That accent was unmistakable.
Dean slammed the brakes, both of them lurching forward with inertia, and spun around in his seat, glaring at the intruder, "What do you want, Balthazar?"
The blond man in the backseat smirked, his head cocked in that self-sure way, "Oh? Can't I say hello to the man who got my dear brother and closest friend murdered?"
Dean's face went white, then grey, then a nauseous green. "What did you say?" his voice was shaky.
Silence from the backseat.
"What did you say?" Dean slammed the steering wheel, hard.
Balthazar bared his teeth, snaking up so that he and Dean were breathing each other's breath – glaring at each other like two caged pit bulls. "You! It was all you! You killed my brother, Dean. It's true what they say about you – you do destroy everything good that happens to you."
The hunter scowled, his otherwise handsome face marred by anger, "Get the Hell out of my car, you winged asshat! Get out now, or I'll pluck your feathers myself."
With the steady flaps of wing-beats, Balthazar disappeared.
"Douche."
000
Sam groaned, resting his forehead against the window of the Chevelle. This trip would surely be the death of him.
Bobby was no elderly Grandpa, but he was definitely going a good fifteen miles under the speed at which Sam was used to travelling. For cryin' out loud, it was basically going the speed limit!
But, thankfully, they reached their destination within moments of Sam contemplating jumping from the moving vehicle. Bobby parked in front of the house and the two hunters walked up to the front door.
It was a nice house – a cute little one-story home with a wrought iron fence and pinwheels in the lawn. Certainly not anything that one would expect to be in the yard of a seer.
The door opened before either man had the chance to knock. A petite young blonde stood in the doorway, wearing a paint-stained t-shirt and a pair of denim cut-offs. She smiled, her big brown eyes twinkling, "Bobby and Sam." She hugged them both, squeezing with surprising strength for her size, "Good to meet you. I'm Billie."
She led them inside, closing and locking the door while making sure her salt lines were not disrupted. Clapping her hands together excitedly, she bounced on the balls of her feet, "So, what can I do you for?"
Bobby and Sam eyed each other before Sam spoke, "We need an Angel summoning."
000
Dean was sitting in a motel room somewhere in Nebraska, clicking through the missed calls on his phone. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Bobby. Sam. Sam. Bobby. Bobby.
Erase All Messages? OK.
He tossed his phone onto the bedside table and stretched out on the lumpy mattress. Folding his hands over his stomach, he stared up at the ceiling – hoping that sleep would elude him again. He did not want to face the nightmares, not again.
Castiel was leaning against his shoulder, shivering as the blood seeped from the wound in his stomach. His teeth were red with the blood that dribbled from his mouth. He choked out, "I want you to know that I Fell … I Fell because I love you, Dean."
Dean felt the tears stinging in his eyes and he sniffled, "I love you, too, Cas." He nuzzled his nose into the soft black hair, inhaling the scent, "You have no idea."
Castiel turned around, looking up at Dean – his eyes sad. "Really, Dean? Do you really love me? I mean, you're the reason I died. It was because of you that I Fell. It was because of you that I was so stupid that I let my guard down, let my own brother kill me."
Dean woke up, his shirt sticking to his chest in sweaty patches. His chest heaved and his heart drummed against his breastbone, the rhythm coursing throughout his body. His eyes darted around the room.
No one there.
His phone was blinking. Missed Call – Sam.
000
Sam sighed, rubbing his temples. God damn it, Dean.
The phone pressed to his ear beeped and he exhaled against the receiver of his cell-phone. "Dean. It's Sam. We're in Iowa – Bobby found a girl who can help us with the summoning. I'll text you the coordinates. Call me back. Jerk."
He walked back into the room where Billie – that was her name right? – was setting up for an Angelic summoning. The ring of holy oil was in place and Sam tilted his head, wondering where she found the rare oil.
Just as Billie opened her mouth to chant the incantation, the windowpanes began to rattle and wing-beats fluttered. There was a small clap of thunder – odd for a sunny afternoon – and the Angelic intruder stared at the three humans, looking at them like they were the biggest idiots to ever walk the earth.
Sam stammered, "B-Balthazar?"
It was Balthazar, Castiel's rogue brother, who stood in Billie's living room. He was dressed differently than usual – in an all-black suit. Almost like he was dressed for a funeral. His mouth was set in a displeased frown.
The blond man rolled his eyes, scoffing at Sam's fish-like gum-flapping, "Good boy, Sam. You remember names." Sam's mouth snapped shut, embarrassed, and Balthazar continued, sauntering around the room like he owned it, "Now, would you be so kind as to tell me what you're doing?"
Bobby grumbled, puffing his chest out a little, "We weren't inviting you over, that's for sure."
Balthazar rolled his eyes, taking a few steps towards Sam, "You won't learn anything, you know. Raphael is smart, he knows that he's being sought out and he's laying low. Any information you could gather would be what Raphael wants you to know, nothing more."
Sam opened his mouth but the Angel cut him off, drawing close and his voice becoming low and gravelly, "Sam. Leave this to me. I will take care of Raphael, Castiel was my brother and my friend. You have a brother to worry about – Dean is certainly not in the best of states. Who could blame him?"
With that, the snarky Angel took flight, leaving the three stunned and at a loss for what to do next.
000
Dean was sitting in that same motel room, disassembling and reassembling his guns and cleaning them over and over again. Not even a blink when Balthazar appeared in his room.
"Come back to blame me again, wonder-wings?"
Balthazar frowned, cocking his head to one side, "I have never blamed you. My brother's actions were out of his love for you, something I may not understand – you aren't exactly a nice guy. But I have never blamed you for his death."
Dean blinked, sticking the brush down the barrel of his M1911. Had he hallucinated that? Was that another of the many examples of how his life was spiraling out of control? He set down the gun. "What do you want, Balthazar?"
Balthazar crossed his arms over his vested chest, his voice level and deadly serious, "I want you to stop hunting Raphael. He knows you're gunning for him, Winchester."
The hunter scowled, slouching on the edge of the motel bed, his shoulders drooping. "Yeah? Good. I want that winged douche looking over his shoulder."
Overcome with bravado, Dean stood up – swaying uneasily on his somewhat tipsy bowlegs as he squared his shoulders and jutted out his jaw.
The Angel rolled his eyes and, barely touching Dean, sent the man sailing halfway across the shoddy little motel room. Dean looked up at the well-tailored suit, a little dazed, from his place on the floor by the bathroom, and scowled.
Balthazar crossed the room in a timely manner and reached out, helping Dean back to his feet, "That wasn't even a nudge. Now, Raphael would kick your pretty little ass six ways from Sunday if he got the chance."
Dean grumbled, rubbing his sore shoulder and feeling all of the tenderness throbbing through his backside. "Well, I don't plan on backing away from this fight, if that's what you're getting at." He hobbled over to the bed and racked the slide on the Smith & Wesson 5906 he had just finished reassembling when his visitor showed up.
Balthazar tilted his head – not in a confused way, like Castiel had done, but in a way that expressed the pity he felt. He frowned and his eyebrows knitted together furiously, "He loved you – why would you destroy yourself like this?"
Dean turned away, making sure the M1911 and the 5906 had loaded clips at the ready.
There was a heavy sigh behind him and the flutter of wings told Dean that the Angel had left the building.
000
Sam found himself sitting on a futon in Billie's living room with a very tiny cup of tea in his massive hands. He just sat there, holding it – not even bothering to pretend to drink while he lost himself in his thoughts.
Billie walked into the room and noticed Bobby "resting his eyes" on her recliner, his baseball-cap pulled down over his eyes. It was the snoring that gave him away.
She sat down on the futon beside Sam and smiled; her eyes sad, "Sam? Sam, are you okay?"
He shook himself free of his daydreams and blinked himself into reality, "Whoa. Sorry, I was spaced out." He sat there for a moment in silence, staring at the cup of now-cold tea.
She laughed, trying to put him at ease, "It's okay. Do you want to talk about it?" She put her hand on his muscular forearm and waited.
He brushed her off, his Winchester "no-chick-flick-moments" gene kicking into gear. "No. Really, I mean – it's fine."
Sam's phone chirped in his pocket. He had a mild seizure and his long limbs flailed everywhere as he tried to bring the device to his ear. "Hello?"
"Hey, bitch."
That voice. God, it seemed like ages since he heard his brother's voice in a way that did not come from a voicemail recording. He felt the tears burning at the corners of his eyes and he let out a laugh, "Dean. Jerk. How are you?"
"You know, this would probably just be better if you opened the front door, Sammy."
Sam ran to Billie's front door, tearing through her small house like a bull in a china shop. He grabbed the doorknob and hesitated for a moment before he practically pulled the door off its hinges.
Dean was standing on the doorstep, his eyes apologetic and a crooked smile on his face. He let out a breathy laugh, "Hey, Sam."
The younger Winchester smiled; his eyes already glossy with happy tears, "Hey."
Dean cleared his throat and scratched his chin nervously, "Um. You can put your phone away. We're face-to-face now."
Sam blinked and realized the whole time he had been holding his cell-phone up to his ear still. His eyes went wide and he giggled, embarrassed, as he shoved the phone back in his pocket. "How you been holding up?" he inquired, clapping his hand down on Dean's shoulder.
Dean shrugged, his face attempting nonchalance while his weary eyes told of his tough time. "Yeah."
Both men stood there for a moment, just looking around, before Sam grabbed Dean. He drew his big brother close and almost crushed Dean to his chest. His voice tightened and he barely choked out, "It's good to see you, man."
Dean agreed, not realizing how much he had missed this sense of familiarity. He gave Sam a few pats on the back and chuckled, "Sasquatch, let go – you're killing me."
Bobby walked up behind them, having been woken up by Sam's eardrum-exploding rampage towards the front door. He looked up and saw the prodigal son had returned to them. "Dean."
000
Sam and Dean found themselves back on the road together about a week after their reunion at Billie Seer's house. Sam would never admit it out loud, but he had missed the cramped feel of the Impala's front seat, and Dean would never admit it out loud, but he had missed Sam's incessant complaining about his archaic music collection.
Bobby had pulled up a routine salt-and-burn for them in Poughkeepsie, New York. It was definitely below their capabilities, but both Winchesters knew this was a "get out of the house and go bond" hunt. Like the Woman in White in 2005 – a way of easing back into things.
For now though, they were checking into a sleazy motel in Sandusky, Ohio. Sam watched cautiously as Dean threw his bags down beside the bed and plopped down on the queen bed with floral linens. He rolled over and mumbled, "Gonna get a few. Night, Sammy."
Sam nodded, not saying anything and settled into his own equally floral-print bed. He sat there in the dark of their room for a while, just enjoying the fact that he was back on the road with Dean.
His eyelids grew heavy and he started to nod off when he heard something. It was like whining, whimpering sounds. Coming from Dean's bed.
Castiel was leaning against his shoulder, shivering as the blood seeped from the wound in his stomach. His teeth were red with the blood that dribbled from his mouth. He choked out, "I want you to know that I Fell … I Fell because I love you, Dean."
Dean felt the tears stinging in his eyes and he sniffled, "I know." He nuzzled his nose into the soft black hair, inhaling the scent, "I miss you, Cas. So much."
Castiel looked up at Dean, his eyes cold and emotionless. "Indeed. I can't believe you let me die, Dean. And I don't know why you're going off on this crazy crusade. You aren't John Winchester, you know… And Raphael is no Azazel."
Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders, shaking him from his nightmare. "Dean! Wake up!"
Dean looked up at his brother, his eyes still not totally in focus, and he sat up, "What? What's going on?"
Sam shook his head, eyeing Dean suspiciously – as if staring at him would help decipher what had him screaming like a child with a bad dream. "Are you okay? You were screaming and… crying?"
Dean scoffed, "Was not."
Bitchface. "Dude."
Dean let out a ragged breath, "It was a dream. About…" He stopped there.
Sam egged him on, "About?"
The older Winchester's patience was wearing thin, "About Cas!" This was the first time he had dared to speak that name out loud – even Sam had managed to keep himself from mentioning the name in Dean's presence. It hurt – a heavy, cold feeling in his chest.
He hung his head, "It was the night he-" he did not want to say that word – "he told me I let him die. He told me I let him die and that all I'm doing now is trying to be like Dad was after Mom."
Sam frowned. "How long have you been having these nightmares?"
Dean laughed, his laugh cold and hurt, "Every time I've gotten any sleep since he …" Still not going to say that word.
000
The brothers sat in the silence of the motel room – a pathetic facsimile of what they once had on their hunting trips. Sam gulped down more beer, looking across the room to Dean – who was sharpening his machete with robotic precision.
Dean had been unusually quiet ever since he had gone out for that walk while Sam was showering. Dean had thought Sam would not notice his absence, but the younger Winchester knew a thing or two about sneaking out of motel rooms in the middle of the night and – in his experience – it never ended well.
Dean's shoulders tensed and he stopped moving for a moment. His head lifted and he looked over at his brother. He looked like he was going to say something.
Sam sat there; waiting for his brother's latest pearl of wisdom.
"Uh." That was it. Nothing else.
So Sam badgered him, "What?"
He sighed and set down the blade on the comforter, "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. I mean, for cryin' out loud, I'm almost fo-…. I'm old."
Sam frowned. This was not the conversation he was hoping to have. He shook his head, "You're not old, Dean. I mean, you're no spr-"
Dean cut him off, his voice serious and his words clipped, "Please, Sam. I'm tired. Just – whatever happens – don't try to bring me back."
He could not be serious – could he?
"What're you talking about…"
He rubbed his tired eyes with the heels of his palms, his voice strained and tired-sounding, "I don't think I could do it, Sammy. Just – I dunno – go back to school, keep hunting, find a girlfriend, do whatever you want to do. I just want you to be happy." This sounded too much like a final farewell. And Sam was not ready to have that conversation with his brother – not again.
He shook his head, sipping from his beer, "I can't promise that, Dean. You know I can't promise that. If something were to happen to you, I'd want to bring you back. You know that."
Dean smiled; sadness in his eyes as he started tossing the weapons back into his duffel, "Yeah, I know. But you won't."
The conversation ended there, with Dean getting up and slinging the duffel over his shoulder. Sam watched his brother walk outside; hoping to whatever good was left in this universe that he was only going outside to put it in the Impala and not going out to do something incredibly stupid and more than likely suicidal.
Deep down, he knew that was a pipe-dream.
000
He found himself in a park in the middle of the night – yelling to the heavens, "Raphael! You feather-brained son-of-a-bitch! Get down here." He pulled at his jacket, opening it in a "come-and-get-me" manner. His breath came out in steamy puffs against the cool night air.
He heard the wings.
"Dean Winchester."
He gritted his teeth and turns to face the Angel he had been hunting for a year.
Raphael was still wearing Donnie Finnerman – or at least something that looked like him.
Dean sneered, "I've been waiting a year for this. I'm gonna fucking kill you."
Now the Angel let out a deep, hearty laugh, "You? Kill me? I'd love to see you try, you pathetic hairless ape." He reached out, pushing Dean forcefully to the floor and knocking the wind out of him, "Is this really all your pitiful one-track mind has been thinking of for a whole year?"
He pulled out his Angelic blade, looking down at Dean and shaking his head, "You know, Winchester, you've been nothing but a thorn in my side this whole time – messing with my vessel, killing my brothers, imprisoning Michael, and now this. I should have smote you the moment Castiel raised you from Perdition."
He twirled the blade in his hands, admiring the way the tiny bits of light gleamed off of its edges, "You know, this is all rather poetic. I killed the one you loved with this very blade." He chuckled, "And now – I'm going to kill you with it."
The blade came barreling down at Dean and – just when he thought his plan had failed – another Angelic blade burst through Raphael's windpipe. The Angel collapsed on top of him, the outline of wings fanning out on either side of them.
Dean managed to push off the dead man and grabbed the hand stretched out to help him. "Thanks."
Balthazar nodded, slipping his blade back into his coat, "Thank you, Dean. I know how much you wanted to be the one to kill him…"
Dean chuckled and his legs started to give way beneath him, "Not a problem – besides, I really don't think that I would have been up for any Angel killing today." He removed the hand that he had clamped against his ribs and showed Balthazar the bloody gash there.
Balthazar lunged forward, grabbing the wounded man and holding him up, "Dean!"
The hunter pulled at the Angel's coat and said, "Get me to Sammy."
000
In the split second that it took to fly, Dean's mind was racing with thoughts of how much this had not gone according to plan.
"So, the plan is that I give Raphael a ring on the Soul-Phone, he gets down here, you shank his self-righteous ass, and we call it a day… okay?"
Balthazar's voice trembled with uncertainty as he agreed, "I hope your plan works, Winchester. For all of our sakes."
000
Sam sat at Dean's bedside; his hands clasped together tightly in prayer and his head bowed reverently. Dean could hear his brother's pleas to whatever Higher Power there was in this world – but it was not pleas to save the hurt man's life and that was what surprised Dean.
"Please, just let him have this. Let him have this one thing."
When Dean opened his eyes, he saw an unexpected but not unwelcome visitor on his bed.
Tessa, the Reaper, was sitting on the edge of his bed. And Death was standing at her side, his skeletal fingers resting almost lovingly on her shoulder as they looked at Dean.
Death took a step closer, "Hello, Dean."
There were no words. No questions. No pleas for more time.
Dean simply nodded his head and there was a light touch of cold fingers on his forehead.
He blinked – once, twice. Tessa was there still – an almost annoyed smile on her face. She nudged his legs with her hip, rousing him, "Come on, lazy-ass. I've got places to go and people to see. And you…" There she paused. Almost as if for dramatic effect. Whatever theatrics she had built up were swept away by a happy giggle, "You have an appointment, Mr. Winchester."
000
Dean followed Tessa, through the wall, and found himself in the Roadhouse. He smiled at the familiar location, thankful that it was still a major part of his Heaven.
Ash was tending bar, serving tequila shots to Pamela – who was tossing them back like the pro she always was. The mullet-man looked up at Dean and smirked, waving him over, "Hey, man. Good to see you!"
He approached the bar, where Ash had a beer waiting for him. He chuckled, sipping the beer before he set it back down on the bar, "I could get used to this."
Pamela slid off the barstool and attacked Dean with a warm hug, wrapping tightly around him like a boa constrictor. She whispered into his ear, "It really is nice to see you, D. We heard how bad it was for you."
He smiled sadly at her words. But she pulled away from his chest and winked at him, calling over her shoulder, "Hey, sweetie! You've got a visitor!"
Dean tried to look over her shoulder, towards the backroom of the Roadhouse – where Ash used to run his computer-techie-stuff from. He heard the door swing open and heard the soft footsteps.
He turned around.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean gulped, "Cas."
It was true. Castiel was standing there – whole and perfect and just like Dean remembered. Still wearing that trenchcoat and suit.
He rushed to Castiel's side – grabbing him and pulling him into a rough, desperate kiss. Teeth hit together. Lips and tongues were slobbery. Stubble scraped stubble. Castiel's hand found Dean's shoulder, lining up perfectly with the mark he had made years ago. Dean's hand reached up, pulling at the Angel's dark hair.
Dean pulled back, breathing heavily against Castiel's neck as he rested his forehead on the other man's shoulder. "I missed you."
Sam quit praying when he realized Dean had stopped breathing.