Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

Thanks to bethanyyerinn for her wonderful beta work. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam/OC

Genre: Alternate Universe, Romance, Supernatural

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Pamela Barnes and, uh...Lilith? Sort of?

Rating: PG-13 for this chapter

Warnings: None for this chapter

The Renegade Angel

Chapter I

This story begins on a Thursday, somewhere in the Southern US, sometime during the 19th century.

For the meticulous readers who will demand more specifics, newspapers found in dusty archives will tell that this story began, precisely, on Thursday, August 4th, 1866, in a little town called Miracle Lake. Miracle Lake, as the name might imply, was settled at the edge of a lake, so the town was mostly inhabited by fishermen, unassuming and easy people. It was also one of the only places in New-Orleans that had somehow managed to stay untouched by the Civil War. Life in Miracle Lake was quiet and unsurprising.

Ironically, the first seeds of this legend were planted in a garden. The garden of a manor where lived a haughty Lady named Marianna Hillsmith, whose wealth was as enormous as it was mysterious. Rumor had it that it had been earned by shady business during the War. Nobody had much detail about it, however, and if the blacksmith farrier's wife's cousin had heard that Marianna's husband had died in suspect circumstances, nobody paid it much attention. After all, in a little town like Miracle Lake, tale tales weren't rare. They made people snicker quietly, but found themselves quickly buried under the boots of the Believers who rushed to Church on Sunday morning.

This night of Thursday, August 4th, 1866, there was a terrible thunderstorm. The sky, heavy and purplish blue, was spitting lightning without interruption. The atmosphere was buzzing with electricity. In her bedroom, Marianna Hillsmith awoke with a start, heart beating madly and hair plastered on her sweaty forehead. Her delicate fingers were clutching the soft linen of the sheets with such strength her knuckles had turned white. Thunder echoed once more, a grumbling sound that seemed to come from the bottom of the Earth rather than from the Skies. Fear burnt the back of her throat like bile. She opened her mouth and yelled Lola's name.

Mere seconds later, the door opened and Lola entered, brandishing a lit candle like she would have a weapon. Her black skin glistened with perspiration and her eyes seemed wide and shiny in the electric light of the lightning.

"Miss," she whispered in a frantic tone, "Miss, tell me, what can I do?"

"The curtains, draw the curtains and come here," Marianna rasped. Lola shuffled to the window and drew the heavy drapes. Even then, the lightning seemed to go through the thick material, illuminating the bedroom with a white, electric blaze.

"This ain't no natural storm, Miss," Lola said, her dark eyes wide with terror. Marianna shook her head and grabbed Marianna's wrist, pulling her close.

"No, Lola," she murmured, "it's not natural. Let me… let me hold you. I will protect you, I promise."

Lola slowly put the candlestick on the bedside table and sat on the bed. The mattress let out a creak as she curled next to Marianna, who simply took her hand, nuzzling into the nape of her neck. Both women flinched when a thunder clap echoed in the house with a low, menacing rumble. A flash of white light invaded the room, so bright Marianna felt her eyes fill with tears. In her arms, Lola let out a sob.

"Close your eyes," she whispered. "Close your eyes, I'm here."

The morning after, Lola found the statue in the garden, nestled among a cluster of rose bushes. The flowers were gorgeous, white and delicate.

Lola approached cautiously and brushed a rose with a trembling fingertip. She looked up at the statue and fell on her knees, praying to god and all the angels, thanking them for their gift.

She didn't see the silent despair in the sculpted eyes.

Dean Winchester knew a thing or two about motels. In his twenty-six years of existence, he had without any doubt seen more crappy rooms than the average Joe. So went the life of a hunter: thousands of miles on bumpy roads, the smell of gasoline and deep-fried chicken, and an endless string of shady motel rooms. He dealt with it, though. He dealt with sticky sheets and cold showers the same way he dealt with every other shitty thing that had happened to him in his life: with good humor, beer, and nameless women picked in bars. Dean Winchester wasn't unhappy. He didn't know anything else and, unlike Sam, didn't allow himself to think about how different his life would be had his father not been a hunter. It was easier to feel contented with what he had if he didn't spend his time thinking about what he was missing.

So, yeah, Dean Winchester knew a thing or two about motels, namely the fact that, sometimes, there were good surprises.

"Dude, there's a fruit basket."

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn't answer. Sam seemed awed, as if a fruit basket was the ultimate achievement of his life. He had to admit that, for once, the room they were in was quite pleasant, and he didn't want to ruin his brother's rare good mood. He threw himself on the bed, barely repressing a delighted moan. After fifteen hours of driving, his back ached like crazy and he wanted nothing more than to take a nap.

No such luck. He heard Sam open his laptop and sighed. Back to business, then.

Sam hummed and started typing. A comfortable silence fell on the room, barely disturbed by the distant purring of a car.

"So, Bobby told me it looked like a vengeful spirit," he said without opening his eyes.

"Well… I don't know about that, Dean, but two weeks ago, a woman named Pamela Barnes got… attacked. Her eyes got burnt out. She refused to talk to the police, claiming that she didn't see who –or what –did it."

Dean opened his eyes and rubbed them with his palms.

"burnt out?"

"Yeah, like… literally burnt out. There was nothing left. The police are at a loss to explain what happened."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I bet they are." He sat on the bed and cracked his knuckles. "That's weird, though. I've never seen a ghost burn out someone's eyes."

"According to this article, she was released from the hospital four days ago. We should go talk to her."

"You think she's still here?"

"I don't know. I don't even know what she does for a living." He scrolled down the page, shook his head, and started typing again. Dean watched him blink slowly, mouth falling open. "You've got to be kidding me…"

"What?" Dean asked.

"Pamela Barnes is a… psychic," Sam said, voice tinged with disbelief.

Dean groaned and fought the urge to get back on the bed and never, never get up again.

"Oh, come on. A psychic, really? What does that even mean?"

Sam shrugged. "Don't know, man. She even has a website and everything. Apparently, she can… communicate with spirits."

Dean put on his jacket. "So what, you're telling me she's some sort of ghost whisperer? That's bullshit."

"Hey, don't look at me like that, I'm just reading her presentation. But I've got her address."

"Well, let's go, then. I can't wait to see this psychic chick in action."

Sam laughed and shook his head. Despite himself, Dean felt his lips curl up in a smile. Sam didn't laugh very much lately. Not since… Dad's death, really. One of the many things they emphatically didn't talk about, like Sam's years in Stanford, like his ex-girlfriend Jess, like his broken dream of an 'Apple Pie Life'. Dean sighed and clutched the keys of the Impala in his hand.

It was going to be a long case, he was sure of it.

Pamela Barnes opened the door before Sam could even knock. He arched a brow in Dean's direction, but Dean just shrugged. He scrutinized the woman, surprised to find her in casual clothes –not the dark outfit and mysterious appearance he had envisioned. She was wearing a pair of opaque sunglasses.

"Ms. Barnes?" Sam asked, slipping into professional mode in a blink.

"In the flesh," the woman said with a friendly smile.

"Agent Tyler and Agent Perry, FBI," Dean said. He started reaching into his pocket for his badge, but Sam nudged him with his elbow and mouthed "blind" with a meaningful glance. Feeling stupid, he cleared his throat and went on. "We're here to take your statement as to what happened to you."

"Of course, come in." She stepped aside.

"Thank you, Ms. Barnes," Sam said when the door closed behind them. Pamela gestured for them to follow her, moving around with astonishing ease, barely guiding herself with her white stick. Her house was neat and sparsely decorated. The living room's walls were painted in a soft yellow. A huge brown cat was glaring at them from the sofa and Dean winced. Of course she would have a vicious cat. It was just their luck.

"Please, call me Pamela." She sat on an armchair without hesitation. After a beat, Dean and Sam sat on the sofa. Dean noticed that Sam tried to put as much distance as possible between the cat and him.

"Oh, sweetie, don't worry about Lilith. She's a real bitch, but I have a feeling that she likes you."

Dean heard his brother mutter something like "wonderful" and tried to control his impulse to laugh at his brother's misfortune.

"Okay," Pamela said in a no-nonsense tone. "First things first, boys. I have something to tell you. Something very important."

Dean leaned towards her, curiosity piqued.

"Go on."

"You don't bullshit a psychic," Pamela said bluntly.

Dean blinked and glanced at his brother, who seemed to have frozen on the spot.

"I… excuse me?"

"I know you're not Feds. I don't like being lied to, so either you tell me who you really are, or you clear off. And don't try and feed me another lie, I'll know."

Well, that's awkward, Dean thought in the stunned silence that followed. He rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous gesture and met Sam's shocked gaze with his own. They didn't exactly have a line of action for these kinds of situations.

"We –ah. We're…" Sam stuttered.

"We're hunters."

Ignoring Sam's hiss of "Dean", he watched Pamela's face, looking for a trace of surprise. When it didn't come, he wondered if she'd known all along. That thought didn't do anything to put him at ease. Apparently, psychics were a thing. Who knew?

"Hunters, uh? Nice to meet you…" She paused questioningly, waiting for a name to call them.

"I'm Dean. This is my brother Sam."

Pamela beamed at them and leaned against the armchair.

"What can I do for you?"

"We'd like, uh, the… truth about what happened to you."

If Dean hadn't been trained to notice things, he wouldn't have seen the sudden tension in Pamela's stance. As it were, he saw her jaw clench and her upper lip twitch. She pressed her palms together –probably in an effort to prevent her hands from shaking. When she talked, her voice was even, carefully so.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Anything that could help us find whatever did this to you."

There was a pregnant pause. Pamela sighed.

"It was nobody's fault but mine."

"What?" Dean and Sam asked at the same time. Sam had stopped glaring back at the cat to give Pamela his full attention.

"I've always known there was something in this town. I moved here ten years ago and I felt it the very first day. But it was hazy, diluted. I couldn't place it, but I knew it increased my psychic powers. I'm good, but not that good. But I think it really began one year ago. Something started to flow in the air, the power became thicker. An ancient power I didn't recognize. It reached a peak three weeks ago, so I decided to summon whatever it was."

"You what?" Dean choked. Pamela smiled sadly.

"You have to understand me. Power… power is like an addiction. As hunters, you probably know that. People who have access to this power always want more. I'm no exception."

Dean closed his eyes and thought about the witch they'd shot two weeks before. She'd barely been legal, in a thin line between childhood and adulthood. She'd killed seven people to try and conjure a demon that was supposed to give her immortality. He shuddered.

"Yeah, we know that. So, what was it? A ghost?"

Pamela shook her head. "It wasn't a spirit. I felt it. It was… powerful. Really powerful. It talked to me."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

"What did it say?" Sam asked.

"I asked its name. It said… it said something like "Castiel". And then… I asked it to show me its face. I should," her voice broke, "I should have listened. It tried to warn me against it but –I don't know, I didn't listen. I thought I could handle it. Next thing I know, I'm in a hospital bed, and the doctors tell me my eyes are gone." She took off her glasses. Dean cringed at the sight of two white eyes staring at him, unseeing.

"I thought… I thought they got burnt out?" he asked.

"They're artificial." She shrugged and smiled feebly. "That's good for business, though. People like them. Make the whole experience more… real."

"I don't like it," Sam said. It was the first words he'd uttered since they'd come back to the motel. Dean was staring at the sunset through the window. The lake seemed lit up from the inside, glowing with the last rays of light. It was peaceful, he thought idly. He felt more tired than he had in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, he'd manage a full night's sleep.

"What?"

"This case. It's… weird."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, because the other cases are so normal. We're hunters, Sam. Dealing with weird stuff is basically our job."

Sam sighed. "No, but Dean, have you ever heard of something like that?"

Dean frowned and made his way to the table. He sat heavily and looked up at his brother.

"Nah, but that doesn't mean anything. It's probably just a ghost, anyway."

"You heard Pamela. It's not a spirit. It doesn't look like a demon either. There's nothing in Dad's journal. I just don't like it."

Starting to feel irritated, Dean glared at Sam. "What do you suggest we do? We can't just leave. Who knows what kind of evil son of a bitch it is? It burnt her eyes, Sam."

"Maybe we need help!"

Dean slammed his fist on the table.

"Damn it, Sammy. Who could we possibly ask? Dad? Oh, no, I know, let's ask Bobby, he and his wheelchair would be happy to help us out!" he snarled. He saw Sam's face turn white as a sheet, but couldn't find it in himself to regret his words. Weeks of repressed frustration were slamming on him in full force, bitter with words left unsaid.

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he spoke, his voice was harsh. "We don't have to handle all this by ourselves, that's all I'm saying."

"Yes, Sam, we do. It's our job. It's our life."

"You know I don't want this life, Dean. You know what I abandoned by coming with you to finish off the demon that killed Dad."

"Well, the demon's dead, now, congratulations. So, you wanna go back to your precious little life? Be my guest! I can hunt on my own. It wouldn't be the first time."

"No, you can't."

"And why's that?"

"Because Dad's dead!" Sam yelled, "Dad died because he didn't trust anybody but himself, and look where it got him? You're exactly like him, Dean! You think you're better on your own, you don't trust me, you order me around like I'm nothing but your fucking soldier. I'm tired of feeling like a chess piece waiting to be played. Dad's dead. He's dead, Dean. I don't need you to become him."

Dean closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten, forcing his adrenaline-fueled body to calm down. The urge to punch Sam was almost overwhelming.

"Dean, I-"

Dean raised his hand in warning and Sam fell silent.

"I'm going to take my car and go to the bar. Don't follow me. Don't wait for me."

"Dean-"

"I mean it, Sam," he snapped. Sam closed his mouth and nodded slowly, shoulders hunched sheepishly, but eyes bright with anger. An expression he had seen thousand times on his brother's face, but never directed at him. The realization hit him on full force, and he did what he did best when facing a situation that threatened to turn too emotional for him to handle.

He fled.

Dean slammed the door behind him, feeling like a frustrated teenager. He stomped through the corridor and into the silent hall.

In the driver's seat of the Impala, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to breathe. In, and out. In, and out. When he finally felt able to drive, he turned on the ignition and relished in the soft purring of the engine. As the first notes of Kashmir simmered through the air, he began humming softly along with the song.

He drove aimlessly for half an hour. Night had fallen and the town was quiet. It was difficult to imagine that danger lurked around the streets, but Dean knew better. He'd been seven years old when his father had sat next to him and told him that the monsters in the stories were real. He was twenty-six now, and nothing had changed.

At the moment, though, he found himself relaxing slightly, soothed by the peaceful atmosphere.

He parked his car and got out, strangely reassured by the feeling of a cool breeze on his skin. The lake seemed endless. The full moon was shining high in the sky, and the silence was barely troubled by the occasional song of a night bird.

"Sam's right, Dad," he whispered. "And I don't want to be like you. Not anymore. I owe him that much."

Hands fisted in his pockets, he started walking along the border of the lake. He felt his anger disappear, as if drained by the silence.

When he came back to the motel, Sam was already fast asleep, his head nestled on the pillow. Dean padded into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. His reflection in the mirror showed him exactly what he was feeling; eyes ringed with fatigue, mouth set in a thin, worried line. He sighed and shrugged off his jacket, too tired to do anything other than brush his teeth. He discarded his clothes on the floor and went back in the room. As he slipped between the cool sheets, he had this strange feeling that someone was watching him, sending a cold shiver along his spine. When he turned on the light, Sam was still snoring softly and the room was exactly the same. He shrugged it off as a trick played by exhaustion and went to sleep.

He was standing alone on the edge of the lake, eyes wide open. He had no idea how he'd got here. He had no idea why he was here at all.

I'm dreaming, he thought lazily, But this is a nice dream.

A fish broke the surface, the moonlight reflecting on its silvery scales like a thousand mirrors.

And suddenly, he wasn't alone anymore. There was someone behind him, and it wasn't Sam. A part of him wanted to turn around and confront whoever it was, but he simply looked up to watch the stars.

"Who are you?" he asked softly.

"Help me," was the answer. The voice was gravelly and strained, definitely male.

A black feather floated through the air, stopping right in front of his face. He tried to brush it with his fingertip, but found he couldn't approach it.

"The Grace is fleeing," said the man. "Your people are going to suffer. The psychic was only the first of a long list."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I am warning you. The Grace is fleeing," he repeated. After a pause, he added, "Something is wrong in Heaven. The Seal that maintains my Grace is growing weaker. My exile has turned into a death sentence. Something is wrong in Heaven. You have to help me, Dean Winchester."

A menacing creak echoed through the air. A soft gasp, a rustle of feathers and Dean was left alone on the edge of the lake.

Dean awoke with a start, surprised to find himself lying in the motel bed. The first rays of dawn were bathing the room in a pale glow.

"Weird," he muttered, before closing his eyes and slipping back into unconsciousness.

When he woke again, he found a black feather clutched in his hand. He frowned at it for a long time, a weird feeling uncoiling in his stomach like a snake. He slipped it in his pocket, deciding he needed to get to the bottom of it.

After some mumbled and rather mortifying apologies, they'd decided never to mention the argument again. They'd celebrated their decision with a cheeseburger and a trip to the local library (Sam's unfortunate and nerdy idea of fun).

"Dean, listen to this. I think I found something."

Dean clasped his book closed with a relieved sigh. A puff of dust made him sneeze. Sam snorted with laughter.

"I'm listening," Dean snapped, glaring at the book like it had personally offended him.

"It's an article from the Daily Miracle." Dean rolled his eyes at the name, but Sam didn't pay him any attention. "It talks about a huge thunderstorm that happened here in 1866."

"… And?"

"And… there's a paragraph talking about Marianna Hillsmith. She was the owner of the Hillsmith Manor, you know, the huge house we saw when we drove into the town. It says here that the day after the storm, her maid found a statue in the garden. A statue that wasn't here before."

Dean frowned. "A statue? A statue of what?"

Sam shrugged. "The article doesn't mention it. It's time to pay this statue a visit, don't you think?"

The Hillsmith Manor –which now belonged to one Maggie Collins –had known better days. The garden was a mess of weeds and wild flowers, the walls of the façade were cracked. The whole place had a distressing atmosphere that Dean always associated with haunted houses, and an inherent sadness lurked in the dark corners. They crossed the alley silently, glancing around in the hope of seeing the infamous statue.

Dean knocked on the door. A minute went by, then two. Sam was squirming on the spot, visibly unnerved by the glum setting. "Dude, stop it, you look like you need to pee."

Sam scowled at him. "Shut up, jerk."

"Make me, bitch," Dean murmured back.

Sam ignored Dean's slight. "I don't think there's anyone here."

At the same instant, the door cracked open.

"Yeah?" asked a woman's voice.

"Maggie Collins?" Sam asked in an uncertain tone.

A second of silence, and then, "I don't need anything. And I have a dog. A big, angry dog. Thank you." She slammed the door to their face.

"Charming," Sam grumbled before raising his hand and knocking again. This time, the door opened wide and a disheveled-looking woman appeared. She had curly red hair, freckles, and looked less than impressed by their insistence.

"What?" she barked with a frown that matched Sam's most epic bitch-face.

"Miss Collins, we're not salesmen," Sam began, "we're journalists. I'm Sam Tyler and this is Dean Perry. We're writing an article about folklore and old legends, and we'd like to talk to you about Marianna Hillsmith. "

"Press cards," the woman said flatly.

Sam fumbled in his pocket and Dean resisted the urge to snicker at the sight of his brother –a grown-up hunter –being so flustered. Maggie Collins glared at him and his smirk slipped from his face. He promptly showed her his fake press card. Damn if this chick didn't look dangerous.

She studied their cards for so long Dean started to worry she would call them into question. But after a tense moment, her expression softened minutely and she motioned for them to come in.

"I'm sorry. I really hate it when people disturb me when I'm painting."

"You're an artist?"

The woman nodded and closed the door behind them.

"Yeah, I am," she sighed, wiping her hands on her jeans before digging into her pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Nah," Dean said. He looked around, curious to see if the inside of the house fared better than the outside. It did. Though the paint on the walls was cracked, the room they were in seemed more lively than the abandoned garden. The only pieces of furniture were a leather sofa and a bookcase in a corner. Maggie caught his gaze and shrugged a little self-consciously.

"It's not much," she said. "I wasn't supposed to stay here for so long. This manor has been in my family since its construction. I inherited it from my grandfather. My parents want me to sell it." She blew a cloud of grey smoke and made a vague motion with her other hand in the general direction of the room. "A huge house like this, it's expensive to maintain. I don't want them to sell it. I like it here. I've never been this inspired in my entire life." A flash of sadness passed through her hazel eyes and she cleared her throat. "But you're not here to listen to me rant about my family. How can I help you?"

"Was Marianna Hillsmith a member of your family?" Sam asked, staring at Maggie like she was the highlight of his day. Dean shook his head and smirked.

"Yeah, she was the second owner of this house. Something like my great-great-aunt, I don't know. You're here for the statue, aren't you?"

Dean blinked. "Yeah, how do you know that?"

Maggie laughed. "It's the only thing worth seeing here," she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "I love it. I don't believe the whole story with the thunderstorm and the Grace of God, though. In my opinion, this Marianna was a nutcase, but it's a beautiful work of art. Wanna see it?"

"Yeah," Sam said with a smile. "We'd like that."

Maggie crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. "Follow me."

They followed on her heels and Dean frowned when they got out of the house. The change in the atmosphere was obvious. The deeper they went into the garden, the colder he felt. A weeping willow's branches slowly moved at the pace of a soft summer breeze. In a pond, the stagnant water filled his nose with a smell of rotten mud. A shudder went through his spine, like a warning. He felt like he was stepping into unknown, dangerous territory. By his side, Sam hastened his pace to catch up with Maggie, hand tucked under his jacket, which was where he kept his gun hidden.

"People usually don't like to come here," Maggie said in hushed tones. "This place gives them the creeps. I find it… fascinating."

"Yeah," Dean answered, voice tight, "That's one way to say it."

"When I was a little girl, I always felt like there was someone here who wanted to talk to me. Like a- presence." She shook her head. "Forget it. That's stupid. I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Oh, believe me, it's far from stupid," Dean muttered.

"Here we are," Maggie whispered in a reverent tone. They stepped onto a clearing.

The first thing Dean saw was a rose. A milky, delicate flower, with petals so thin they were almost translucent. He looked up and muffled a stunned gasp.

A cloak of roses was covering every inch of the clearing, down to a path just large enough to allow the passage of one person. The green stems and the white flowers were entangled in thorny chaos. At the center of the clearing, perched on a pedestal, was…

"Is that an Angel?"

"Yes," Maggie answered, a dreamy smile on her face.

"Dude," Sam said, "that's beautiful."

Any other time, Dean would have mocked his brother for being such a girl but, for once, he found himself agreeing with him. The sight was breathtaking.

"Wanna get a better look?"

He nodded wordlessly. The statue was hidden in the shadows, and he could only see the outline of two majestic unfolded wings. He stepped forward, muscles tense.

"Oh, shit," Dean breathed once he got close enough to see every single detail of the statue. The body –the male body –was dressed in what looked like some kind of gladiator armor, incredibly precise, carved with symbols he'd never seen before. The angel's hands were clenched around the hilt of a short sword. It was on bended knee, head bowed in a submissive posture. However, its expression and the menacing position of its wings belied the passive stance. Dean's stare skimmed from the chiseled jaw to the slightly open mouth, the tiny drops on its forehead and its cheeks –tears, sweat, maybe both; and then, finally, to the angel's eyes. Not once in his life had Dean seen such an intense gaze. It didn't matter that it belonged to an effigy; he could see in these sculpted eyes a rage and a desperation that found no match in human emotions. He wondered idly what color they would be, had they not been engraved in gray stone. The whole scene exuded an aura of raw power entwined with anguish, like seeing a soldier fall on the battlefield. Dean felt an alien wetness on his cheek and raised a trembling hand to touch it.

"What the hell?" he muttered in disbelief when his fingers came back wet with tears. He took a step backwards, thankful that Sam couldn't see him, and quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

"Sammy, you should come and see this," he said, surprised by the roughness of his own voice.

He heard the telltale rustle of Sam walking through the bushes, a muttered curse, and then his brother was by his side.

"Holy shit."

Dean smiled and turned to his brother.

"Interesting choice of words, Sam."

Sam ignored him and peered at the angel's face. His expression was a mix of frightened and wary.

"Dean," he murmured, too low for Maggie to hear, "Dean, I'm not imagining things, am I? There's something wrong with this statue."

In Dean's mind, a strange, gravelly voice sighed "The Grace is fleeing," like a faraway echo of reality.

"Yeah," he said, "I think so, too. Now we just have to find out what."

TBC