Author's Note: Welcome to the next "episode" of the Before the Fall series, co-written once again with Mrstserc! Hold on to your hats, guys and gals, this one's going to be another rollercoaster. If you haven't read the rest, this will still stand alone (more or less), but I'd recommend going back and reading the rest of the 'Verse as well for the continuity – it'll help! Now, on to the story. Please, please let us know what you think!

Before the Fall 'Verse: (Full "episodes" in italics.)

Before the Fall * Afterward * Incarceration * Some Sin For Nothing * Drive * Odds & Ends or Shave and a Haircut * Thunderstruck * Warm-Up * Snow Angel * Communication Breakdown * Fate's Warning

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...

Be it the Devil or be it Him
You can count on just one thing:
When the time is up you'll know
Not just one power runs the show.
Are we the lucky ones saved for another day
Or they the lucky ones who are taken away
Is it a hand on your shoulder from the Lord above
Or the Devil himself come to give you a shove.

- Iron Maiden, "Fate's Warning"

...

Within the abandoned warehouse wind finds hidden entrances, whistles and howls and whispers that strangely echo among fallen beams and debris-covered concrete. The air within the building smells of mildew and urine and blood, and over all of it lays the indefinable stink of brackish water that permeates the region.

Other sounds mingle: low, hopeless groans of pain and harsh panting breaths, just shy of hyperventilation, and after the screaming it seems almost quiet, almost peaceful.

"I told you. . . you're too late. The cage is closed, you . . . "A wet, racking cough interrupts the words, "you missed your c-chance."

It was the wrong answer; or rather it was answering the wrong question. The raised hand before him clenches into a fist again, and the man presses against the leather bonds of the chair, screaming again without being touched, begging for the pain to stop. It does, abruptly; the sweetness of sudden surcease of pain is a torture of its own.

"I know that, sweet-cheeks. And I told you, I was on that ride. If I were trying to pop Lucifer again, that'd be a problem for me and I'd get myself a face-full of insane angry archangel. So very not fun." Her words are a toneless sing-song, her bootsteps ring out on the concrete, bringing her closer, and each step makes him flinch. "You know what I want to hear."

"I don't know, I don't know, I can't help you. . ." The victim is sobbing, now, broken and useless, and her hands are almost gentle as they wend fingers through his hair, like a lover's caress.

"Shh. No, you can still help me." Leaning over to level herself with his flushed, anguished face, a smile stretches across the wholesome features of his torturer, a raven curl falling into her face to obscure one of her pitch-black eyes. "See. . . I need to make a call."

The slash of the knife across the hunter's throat and gush of blood into a silver bowl ends all pain.

…

Castiel had, from the very start, been a moody taciturn bastard in his way, though one didn't exactly tell a full blown angel of the lord that upfront. Well, no one sane did. Dean Winchester had relayed that exact fact to his face on more than one occasion in the days before his Fall, but no one (not even Dean) argued in favor of his sanity. As an unfathomable creature of Heaven, Castiel had been subjected to Dean's acerbic commentary on all of his less-than-social tendencies, his awkwardness, even his sulks. It wasn't until he was human that Dean began walking on pins and needles around him, as he has been for the past few days.

Now he's of half a mind to show his angel just how much he cares by socking him in the jaw and chaining him to a radiator somewhere for a few weeks if only just to keep from ever having to hear the words "I'm fine" flung at him with the vehemence and anger of a particularly menacing death threat. It's less than convincing, or reassuring.

Bloodshot blue eyes glare at him from across the table of the diner, and he knows Cas has his hands flattened against the Formica tabletop to keep them steady; he can tell because the tremors aren't just in his hands. Beneath the small table, Castiel's legs are practically jumping, twitching, and their silverware jingles, coffee in their cups rippling as if caught in a perpetual earthquake. Pale skin clammy, full lips chalky white, several days' worth of scruff shadowing his jaw, dark circles beneath his eyes making them startlingly indigo, Castiel looks like some warmed-over Anne Rice vampire wannabe.

Withdrawal wasn't the best look for him. Or maybe Dean just hated those movies.

"Bullshit, Cas." Dean has heard his share of the 'love is patient, love is kind' crap over the years but now that he's found it, he knows the truth: love's a vicious animal that likes to rip your heart out every damn day and chew it up in front of your eyes and make you want it. It makes people crazy, and neither of them was all that sane to begin with. Ah, l'amour. "You haven't eaten in two days and your head's splitting."

Castiel doesn't attempt to deny either point, simply stares at Dean from across the table with a sort of stubborn defiance that does little to hide his pain, abruptly picks up his fork and knife, and spears his pancakes, each drag of the butter knife against the plate giving a grating sound, before he stabs the cut piece and shovels it into his mouth as if he is relishing causing it harm with each gnash of his teeth, before he spreads his hands, still holding fork and knife, as if to ask if the action will suffice.

Never has someone doing what he asked of them made Dean want to murder them more than Castiel rehabbing himself off of every narcotic, anti-depressant, opiate, anti-anxiety med, and whatever the hell else had been in the stash he'd given up. When they were snowed into a mountainside cabin for the two days after Christmas, it was okay. They'd just admitted their love for each other, just celebrated Christmas, Castiel had given Dean a promise, and they were solid. They both knewthat they were pretty much it for each other, and even this challenge was something they could get through. It was just them, a bed, and no interruptions, and Dean could think of a several ways to keep Castiel's mind off of . . . well, everything but Dean. Stuck in a car together, working a case together, researching, sitting at a diner table, that wasn't an option. And PG-13 rehab wasn't doing it for either of them.

Everything but the pain pills, and definitely any drug Dean couldn't identify by sight, was gone. They'd started by cutting back carefully, Dean keeping hold of the drugs for Castiel and only giving out the pain medications when he asked. Now Cas hasn't asked in two days, despite the headaches, the nausea, and despite the fact that they both knew it wasn't just the side-effects. His headaches have been getting worse, and his volume control on the 'angel radio' piping directly into his skull seems to have gone by the wayside.

Cas is not going to ask for the drugs. And Dean is not going to give Castiel drugs without him asking for it. The Winchesters were no strangers to painful cold-turkey, and Castiel has gotten it into his mind that Dean is "coddling" him by not subjecting him to the same treatment he'd given Sam, so like the stubborn assbutt he is, he's decided to impose it on himself.

And now they've reached a stalemate. Over pancakes.

"Thank you." The words grate out of Dean as he drags a hand down his face with a sigh, shaking his head slightly and reaching out to grab the Tabasco for his eggs. Castiel's fingers brush over the back of his hand, feather-light and fever-hot, drawing his eyes back up to his angel. There's an apology there in his eyes, a sense of helplessness, and a plea.

He was trying. Genuinely trying. And he didn't plan to bite Dean's head off.

Dean's just about to acknowledge the fact when the waitress comes by again and Castiel withdraws his hand, studiously obeying Dean's longstanding rules about public contact. "Everything alright? How're the pancakes. . ." Turning a look on Castiel, she pauses, her nicotine-stained smile slipping. "You okay, mister? You look. . ."

No human being alive or dead deserved the glare the fallen angel fixes on her. Hoards of hell ran from the sheer terror inspired by that gaze. Thank God (wherever he was) that Castiel couldn't actually kill her with a look any more.

"Cas." Dean warns quietly, and beneath the table he nudges Castiel's knee, drawing the glare back to himself. He could take it. The service industry. . . not so much. As if realizing it, Castiel presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, and draws in a slow, steadying breath, nodding once silently at Dean's silent admonition, and Dean turns the full wattage of his smile up at the shaken woman, bright and meaningless as a flashbulb.

"We're okay for now. Should have two more joining us any minute, though, if you want to get the coffee ready. . ." As if they've been summoned by his mention, the bell jingles as the door opens to admit Sam and then Bobby, and after a cursory examination of the restaurant that Dean knew from experience catalogued more than just where their party was seated, the two hunters ambled over to join them, both stepping aside briefly to let the waitress pass (flee) toward the kitchens.

"Morning." Dean greets his family, finally pulling the Tabasco over to himself.

"What, starting without us?" Sam teases, hooking a chair over for himself and stealing his brother's untouched glass of water.

"Got up early." Dean says with a shrug, because it was easier than explaining that Castiel's newfound insomnia had driven them out of the motel room. . . and Castiel's pride was bruised enough by the perception of himself as 'weak' without going into clinical details of withdrawal.

Sam's about to quip about it, when his eyes catch on Castiel, still pressing his hands over his eyes, still pale, still breathing in the slow metronome method of control. "Cas, are you. . .?"

Dean turns to his brother, shaking his head emphatically, waving his hands in a cutting gesture, but the word spills out before Sam catches on.

". . . okay?"

The third time being asked in less than five minutes seems to be the final straw. Castiel's chair scrapes the floor as he pushes himself out of it, growling something about getting some air, and Dean presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, eyes flicking back to Sam as he watches Castiel storm out.

"Rough morning?" Bobby's gruff question is rhetorical, sardonic, and Dean nods slightly to it.

"Gimme just a minute, guys. I'll be. . ."

"Go." Sam agrees, the portrait of sympathetic understanding and empathy, and yeah, for half a minute Dean could almost see how it'd be infuriating as hell to have that turned on you by everyone. Dropping his napkin onto the table, Dean rises to his feet and follows Castiel out into the chilly morning, and makes his way across the parking lot.

The Impala was home; it was the safe-zone for all of them and, whether by default or by agreement not to 'wander off' any more, where Castiel could almost always be found now when he bolted rather than struggle with emotions or weakness with an audience.

Cas wouldn't ever say it, but Dean knows he misses being able to disappear on a whim and with the whisper of wings that had burned away with his fall. That he has given up, just to be with Dean. Taking off from conversations. . . it doesn't happen often any more, but it brings with it a twinge of bitter familiarity every time that is worse than just turning around to find him gone.

Dean slides up onto the hood of his car beside his angel, and isn't surprised when Cas immediately leans into him, resting his head against Dean's shoulder. Dean doesn't attempt to push him away – Dean's coming to understand just how much comfort Castiel derives out of simple touch. Sliding his arm around Castiel's waist beneath the edge of his jacket, Dean rests his cheek against the top of his angel's head and tugs Cas against his side, offering him support. All this misery, that's on his head: from dragging Castiel down from Heaven to asking him to give up on the drugs he's used to cope with it, and they've come too far for a bit of public affection in an unfamiliar town to derail him from trying to help with the aftermath.

(The memory of San Antonio is still there, still sore, but Dean will be damned, again, before he lets some asshole tell him what he should and shouldn't feel.)

"I hate this." Castiel grumbles, voice low and graveled and pained, and Dean nods slightly, burying his nose in Castiel's hair, his words muffled there.

"I know."

"I don't want to go back in there." Castiel admits, as if he's declaring his own cowardice, and Dean brings his arm up beneath Castiel's jacket, palm rubbing slow circles into his knotted back. "I am. . . not fit to be around people right now."

"We all have days like that, Cas."

Silence answers him, and Dean sighs. Cas gets like this sometimes, too-quiet and too-still, as if it is a pointed answer just to illustrate that he isn't human, not really, that he wasn't meant for moodiness and off days and sleeplessness.

"Here. Go get some rest, Cas. I'll meet you back at the motel in just a bit." Reaching into his pocket, Dean plucks out the Impala's keys and turns Castiel's hand over on his knee, pressing the keys to the car into his palm, closing his fingers around them. The stillness takes on another quality, now, and only Castiel can be expressive in motionlessness, calling Dean's attention to the significance of what he is doing.

He just unhesitatingly passed Baby over to Castiel to drive on his own. Their home, everything they have, and he is handing it over to Castiel without hesitation. When he raises his cheek away from Castiel's hair, Cas sits up again, meeting his eyes with an intensity that used to make him nervous, as if he is reading every thought running through Dean's head. Now it is just. . . Cas, and his ability to give his focused, undivided attention.

Okay. Maybe there is more to love than getting your heart ripped out. The lines in Castiel's face unknit slightly, corners of his mouth softening, blue eyes bright and intent and warm, and in so many ways it's even more than if he'd smiled for Dean. That look was his, one that he just hasn't wanted to admit he knew what it was for all the years Cas has been offering it. Cas still looks exhausted and ill and pain-wracked, but there's tenderness to his expression that makes it all worth the mess of fighting through this together. Bringing his hand up between them, Dean runs his fingertips lightly over the scruff on Cas's cheek, thumb touching the corner of his mouth, and lets the moment go unremarked because it doesn't need it. "Should get rid of the peach fuzz, too, in case we have to go play cops."

Castiel hums his agreement, and presses a light kiss to Dean's thumb as if he can't quite help the motion, before sliding off the hood, and there's an apology to his words. "You shouldn't keep Sam and Bobby waiting."

"Eh. They'll just assume I popped out for a quickie." Dean waggles his eyebrows at Castiel, and is rewarded with a quiet huff of amusement and a hand wrapped around his shoulder, directly over the scarred matching impression of it, pulling him off the car and against Castiel's chest.

"I don't want a quickie." Castiel's voice has dropped a register, and Dean responds to it with a grin.

"Later." He promises.

All in the name of getting Cas better. Of course.

…

The waitress was fawning over Sam and flirting with Bobby, when Dean slides back into his seat at the diner. He offers her a smile and asks if she'll take his now cold cup of coffee and bring him some fresh and hot, and could she warm his food back up, please? Without the pressure of trying to get Cas to eat, Dean is able to charm her quickly with a smile, but she stops before actually leaving. "Is your friend going to be okay? He looks sick."

"My friend will be awesome," Dean offers with a grin. She smiles back and takes away the cold eggs and coffee, promising she'll be right back.

"How are you sitting here, flirting with a waitress? Seriously, Dean…."

"Flirting, Sam? I'm not flirting. I'm just being my charming self. Not my fault that I'm adorable…"

"Here's your hot coffee and warmed eggs, Mr. Adorable." The waitress slides Dean's breakfast on the table and a carafe of coffee for their refills. "And I'm with Adorable here. We weren't flirting. No offense, boys," she says, shooting a significant glance at Bobby who chokes on his mouthful of coffee. "Enjoy." She walks away, throwing an extra sway in her hips . . . and it wasn't for the benefit of the boys.

Sam and Dean turn measuring gazes on Bobby, then look at each other. "We don't wanna know."

"You idjits," Bobby growls. "Can we get to work now and stow all the flirty lovey-dovey stuff?"

Sam informs Dean that he has been tracking what he believes are signs of demonic activity in Salt Lake City, and now here in the southwestern part of Utah. "Pretty classic signs going on here, along with an interesting history of this place getting downright crazy on occasion." Sam finishes his last bite of a spinach and feta cheese egg white omelet and reaches for his orange juice.

While Bobby and Dean finish up their somewhat less health-conscience meals, Sam breaks down recent signs of activity. People acting "out of character" in violent ways, hoards of toads in December, a strange taste on the air that makes the locals say it was kind of like the problem they had when there was nuclear fallout in the air and everything tasted metallic. "Only now, more people are saying sulphuric."

"Tell'im the history," Bobby interjects, pouring himself a refill from the carafe on the table.

Sam explains that St. George is the site of one of the most inexplicable massacres of U.S. history. The Mormon militia from this town – a town that boasts the oldest Latter-Day Saints Temple in the states – attacked a wagon train of people from Arkansas who were just passing through on their way to California. "In 1857, these militia members besieged those pioneers for five days, killing more than 120 people. Only 17 people were left alive . . . kids, all of them too young to talk."

Bobby pushes away his plate. "You read the reports, seems like it was completely uncharacteristic of the militia members. They were family men, good God-fearing Mormons. Some of them didn't even remember doing it. And worse, the townsfolk just left the bodies lying there after the massacre. No burials. Just left there like some kind of killing fields: men, women, children, left to the vultures."

That's not all that's strange, Sam explains. "The landmarks and site names are suggestive. First of all, there're plenty of basaltic lava flows that may be a million years old in an area that is mostly sandstone and flood plains from the Virgin River. The red granite buttes shelter an area known as Purgatory Flats. This town, St. George, has something else nearby, too. Out in the Pine Valley Mountain Wilderness area, right on the edge of the Mojave desert, there's the largest solid piece of granite in the United States, a Laccolith, in an area where geologists say there appears to be impact cratering. All of this is in the shadows of Zion National Park."

"Impact cratering?" Dean asks. "Like maybe this thing is some kind of meteorite? . . . This isn't more of that X-Files shit, is it?"

Sam finishes the last of his juice. "Don't know. Might be that something else," he shrugs. "I think we need to bring Cas in on this, though, Dean. Everything's coming up demons, and he's our expert."

"No. No way, Sam." Dean is shaking his head and squaring his shoulders. "He's not all the way okay, and we saw how easily just being a little bit slow can backfire on us in Albuquerque."

Bobby leans forward across the table, closing the distance between him and Dean so his voice doesn't travel around the diner. "Son, it's nice you've got someone in your life now, but that - man - is a hunter and an expert like we don't have access to anywhere else on this demon crap. Let him decide what he can and can't do, because you're not doing him any favors by keeping him out if you're putting your neck in."

"I don't know why we can't find someone else in the hunter network to ask," Dean complains, a final hollow objection as he is already peeling some money off his roll and laying it on top of the ticket on the table, preparing to go let Cas weigh in.

Bobby scratches his blunt fingers through his beard, and makes a decision not to try and pull the wool over the boys' eyes. "Ain't no one completely reliable since Pastor Jim died, and no one near as knowledgeable as Cas. Besides you boys may need to avoid other hunters for a while. They seem to have a notion that all three of you are some kinda monsters now. What with starting the Apocalypse, demon blood, and not staying dead when you're supposed to."

Dean, Sam and Castiel were out in the cold with the other hunters: and they ought to start watching their backs around them, too. Everything had gotten worse since San Antonio, and even a crappy-ass Hunter like Rivera could plant a hell of a lot of landmines in the community.

"Don't bring up the 'monster' crap around Cas." Dean advises quietly, pressing a thumb and forefinger over his eyes before pushing out of his chair. The last thing he needed was Cas going into that again in the middle of the entire drug-rehab, too. One major crisis at a time, that's all he asks for.

As the three leave the diner, Dean asks if he can squeeze into the truck with them for a ride back to the Sun Time Inn where they have rooms. "Where's the car, Dean?" Sam is puzzled, but then it dawns on him. "You let Cas take Baby? By himself?"

Dean ends up in the middle and starts to feel like it was intentional entrapment as soon as Bobby starts asking personal questions, and Sam is between him and the door. "Did'ja get your shit sorted out like I told you to at Christmas, Dean? Or is this moodiness crap from the angel because you ain't manned up yet?"

Yep, Dean would have been out the door and walking if Sasquatch wasn't sitting there smirking at him. "Kinda personal question there, Bobby," he mutters.

"You asking for personal space, Dean?" Sam asks, stretching his arm out behind his brother and capturing him in a headlock, pulling him to muss his hair, ensuring he had absolutely no actual personal space.

"Get off me Gigantor!" Dean rabbit punches his brother in the ribs, and Sam lets go with a pained oomph. "Yeah, Bobby, guess I am asking for a little personal space here. I'm taking the chance though, I listened. I just... It's still… And I don't…" He hated this crap, and they kept dragging the conversations back here. Frikkin' family, man. "And I figured you and Sammy know, and you're the only two other people whose opinions mean a damn thing to me besides Cas."

Bobby can hear what Dean is saying right through the hesitations, and he turns a proud smile on an uncomfortable Dean. "Good on you kid." Watching him squirm, Bobby sees something else he was afraid he'd never see again after – shit, ever since Dean killed Azazel. "Good on you."

Sam huffs, "You only say that cause you're not the one that's around when they get sickeningly sweet."

Bobby gives him a stern glance, and Sam shrugs apologetically. "They're adorable together Bobby." And he's using Dean's word against him, the bastard. Ignoring Dean's scowl and literally talking around him, Sam recaps the situation where they ended up sitting together in the back seat of the Impala while driving down to Utah. "They kept it to PG, but I felt like I was driving my brother to the darn prom, and trust me, between us that always ends up awkward."

"That was one time, Sam!" Dean protests.

"It was memorable, Dean! And I only had the one prom!"

"Just get used to it, kid. Every couple has a honeymoon phase." Bobby chuckles. "Speakin' of which, if you boys decide to tie the knot, Dean, I better get an invite. If I get a "We eloped" announcement, I will kick your ass and add a whole new meaning to 'shotgun wedding,' you understand me?"

Dean pulls his own hair in frustration, and he didn't remember the trip between the diner and the motel being this long in the morning – and that was with a pissy angel sitting in the passenger's seat. "Yes. I mean, no. I just - Just please, shut up. Bobby. If it'll make you happy and shut you up, you can be mother-of-the-groom, and Samantha here can be maid of honor. But first, let me pop the question when and if I'm ready. Sheesh. Is everyone happy now? Can we please just talk about the case?"

There's a stunned silence from beside him, and about the time Dean is getting comfortable with the idea that maybe Sam has decided to shut up, he's pulled around to face his brother, hazel eyes intent on Dean's. "You're serious, aren't you? You're really going to ask Cas to marry you?" It's been a lot longer than six months that Sam's been sharing his brother with the angel, but never realized how far Dean was willing to go to make that clear to everyone.

"I don't know if I'm serious or not, Sammy, but I'm not going to go half-assed into this." Dean shrugs, and neither of them is trying to pretend this is a joke any more. "If this is going to happen between me and Cas, I gotta go all-in. And I don't even know if he'd want to marry me. I mean, I'm just a high school dropout with no skills but killing people. But Bobby asked me not to elope, so I'm just letting you know I'm not shutting you out. Not that I could shut you out, Samantha, you stickin' your nose in my business every day. I am not you guys' frikkin' soap opera telanovela."

"My 'stories' have been in a drought lately. Ever since Rodrigo's suicidio, all they do is sit around and cry." Bobby's words are a complete deadpan as he stares out the windshield, and Dean has never been so happy to see his Baby as he is when they pull into the parking lot. When the three of them reach his shared room with Castiel, Dean glances back at Sam and Bobby and uncharacteristically stops to knock, calling that he's coming in with Bobby and Sam.

Castiel looks better than he did earlier. Showered, shaved. But he still looks like he has lost weight recently; weight his already slender body did not need to lose, and he still hasn't slept. He's sitting at the table with the Gideon Bible at his elbow, his journal open before him and a pen in his hand, so Bobby figures he took the challenge to fix that book's bad translations as well. It's a distraction, the journal, and perhaps someday a useful one. When Dean crosses the room and catches him in a one-armed hug, giving him a chaste kiss in front of his family as if he's the only sane damned person in the room, Castiel almost glows.

That was new for them. Open affection in front of the others was new since Christmas, since Dean sat with his arm around Cas's shoulder through an entire movie, but kissing him . . .

Dean rubs the back of his neck, catching himself, and glares at Bobby and Sam exchanging significant looks.

"Que preciouso, Deano."

Castiel's eyes narrow and his head cants to the side slightly. "I don't understand. Even in Spanish you wouldn't add an 'o' to his. . ."

"Bobby's fucking with me, Cas."

"Oh." Castiel glares at Bobby, then, warningly, until Dean squeezes his shoulder lightly, and then drops down into the chair beside him.

"We've got some things we need your expertise on." If they were going to do this, they were going to do it right. Dean spent years taking for granted that Cas had all the answers for him and demanded them, and he's been spending a while now trying to make up for taking the angel for granted right up until he was broken on their behalf.

Nevertheless, the eyes that stare back at him as he relays their information, with assistance from Sam and Bobby, are intelligent and ancient, and Dean's sense of foreboding increases as his Cas becomes more and more Castiel, the angel of the lord, the shift in his posture and his manner so subtle and yet dramatic.

"I should have seen it." If he hadn't been drowning in side-effects and withdrawal, he would have. "It's in the name. In all of the names of things, here. He never was subtle in naming conventions, 'Saint George.'" Dean arches an eyebrow at him, prepared for another 'in the good old days' story that never quite sounded like how they'd gotten it down in the Bible and probably was funnier in Enochian. Cas sees the confusion in his eyes, and shakes his head slightly. "Saint George is just another representation of my eldest brother. Of Michael, Dean."

"A rock plucked from earth to block the mouth of a tomb. A battle hot enough to melt the ground where they stood. A cage formed beneath the heart of a desert. Signs of demonic activity here are extremely bad news. This is the place Michael trapped the other Grigori. Where he buried Lucifer's lieutenants in the earth."