The day was hotter than he expected it to be, but that was part and parcel of hiding out in the deep South. Even in late January he was already sweating through his long sleeved shirt, his hunter's jacket thrown over the open door of the Impala while he struggled with her engine. A haircut was sorely needed, he knew that, but the strands falling into his eyes reminded him a little of Sam's stupid hair.

That thought was like a donkey kick to his chest. It was silly to have his hair long just because Sammy had been a girl. He shook his head and stripped his shirt off; used it to wipe the sweat from his face. People were surprised by how well muscled he was under all of his layers. When they asked if he worked out he always said yes. Hunting was tough work. Invariably they'd then ask if they could partner up with him. He'd smile apologetically and decline, his mind flitting briefly to "Team Free Will", before the freaking apocalypse.

He was the only member of the team left.

The damn Impala was fighting him today. He grunted as he turned the ratchet to tighten that one freaking bolt that refused to stay put. The top of the bolt gave suddenly, shearing. "God dammit!" he cursed as he fell into the engine. The car hadn't been running for over an hour now, so luckily none of the parts were hot, but they were still plenty solid. There would be a fantastic bruise along his right side by morning.

He let himself, for just a second, wish the more experienced "mechanic" was still around. It had been a long time since that trauma. So much was overshadowed by Armageddon, it was almost easy to lose track of everyone in his memories. He shouldn't lose track of his friends, his family, but madness painted the edges of his mind, and sometimes he would forget.

Forgetting was easier than thinking about all the deaths he couldn't avert, the people he couldn't save, the murders he'd perpetrated in the name of something bigger.

He stretched his back, the kinks were nothing new, and grabbed for a new bolt and an undone wire hanger. The hanger was to push what was left of the bolt through the hole, and allowing it to fall to the dusty floor of the barn-turned-garage. It was a lazy fix that could result in the kind of engine blockage that would ruin the car.

He'd kept her running by himself, even after Crowley had collected Bobby personally. They had been at Singer Salvage, desperately trying to find a way out of the contract. He'd tortured a demon they had captured, even attempting to bargain himself in Bobby's place. The creature had simply laughed and laughed, knowing he had nothing they wanted. Bobby had just sat down on the hood of the Impala when the King of Hell wandered up. He had punched the smug bastard, but Crowley knocked him to the dirt. Bobby didn't fight, to protect him, he's sure. "Idjit," was the last thing Bobby said before Crowley snatched him up.

Bobby, who was the last to leave him, who stayed even after-no. Those thoughts were only for special occasions when his masochistic streak flared up.

Like now, apparently. His arms were shaking, palms sweating, vision blurred. He feared he was going to pass out for a moment until he realized his blindness was caused by tears. The wetness trailed down his cheeks, cutting strange patterns through the oil and grease on his skin. His legs gave out and he ended up slumped on his knees next to Baby.

The familiar position mocked him. It was a constant whenever one of them was lost for good. Sam, Bobby…Dean. He reached out for his hunter's jacket and pulled it from the door. He rubbed his face in the fabric. It still smelled like sweat and motor oil, but now it wasn't Dean's sweat. Dean's unique blend of deodorant and whiskey had long since faded, but he pretended he could smell it still.

Dean had broken after the fight with Lucifer. There was nothing he and Bobby could do but watch the spiral of pain Dean had slipped into. Those muddy green eyes were constantly bloodshot and clouded, the hands that were once so sure never stopped shaking. He and Dean had fought that last night about how ashamed Sam would have been of his big brother; how John would have kicked his ass.

The cheap bottle of booze flew past his head and shattered against the wall behind him. The door slammed shut on Dean's, "Don't follow me."

And he had listened.

Dean's chest had been crushed by the steering wheel. He thought if his emotions could take physical form, he would look very similar; heart crushed. Dean's eyes were still open, but no flash of light winked from within. Blue and red lights flashed across the landscape, making everything less real. There was surprisingly little blood. He was expecting a far more gruesome scene, something more fitting for the death of Dean Winchester.

But, he thought, Dean Winchester died with his brother. His body just hadn't known until now.

A soft rustling noise, much like the one he used to make, brought him back to the barn. He hadn't heard angel wings in almost fifty years. His mojo had drained from him not long after the loss of the last Winchester. He had never been told why he was forced to occupy this vessel, and he had never cared. The only magic he still held was an inability to age. Death eluded him as well, an angel blade remaining the only weapon of use against him.

Though the empty hole where his grace used to be cried out for the touch of his brother, he remained hunched with his face buried in rough cloth. As a creature of neither Heaven nor Earth, he could never be called home.

"Castiel," his brother intoned. This true voice was foreign to him, he was sure. He knew each song of his superiors, this being was not one of them. Therefore, it could be ignored.

"Castiel!" the angel said again, this time more forcefully. The doors of the barn banged against the frame as if in a gale. He winced a little at the increased pitch.

"Cas…please," Dean said in his human voice. The madness that had been threatening all these years must have finally succeeded. It was the only explanation for this cruelty.

He lifted his head from its bent position, his blue eyes red-rimmed from his tears. "Oh, Cas…I am so sorry." Familiar hands cupped his face gently, fresh tears mixing with old. Dean touched his forehead against his friend's, adding his tears.

"Am I Cas?" he finally said. The usual deep tones were roughened further from disuse and his voice cracked on his name.

"Yes. You are the one who gripped me tight and raised me from perdition." Recognition twinged at the words. "And now it is my turn to save you. I'm sorry it took me so long, but it takes a long time to turn a soul into a soldier for the Lord."

Castiel nodded. It felt odd to acknowledge his identity. He knew a soul could not become an angel. They were different creations. It would appear that once again, Dean was an exception rather than a rule. "Come with me, Cas," Dean whispered when it became clear the ex-angel would not speak again.

"With you?" Castiel's heart ached.

"With me. Forever. Brothers in arms. Hell, just brothers. I need you, Cas." Dean placed a small, chaste kiss against the other's cheek. Weeks-old stubble scraped against his lips.

Castiel felt a twitch against his back. It was accompanied by a dry rustle. He stretched his newly rediscovered wings and felt his angelic powers slowly returning. Dean smiled at him. The loss of his powers appeared to be psychological, if the rate of their return was any indication.

"I just need to finish this bolt…"