Chapter 1

Say your prayers little one

Don't forget my son to include everyone

I tuck you in, Warm within, keep you free from sin

'Til the sandman he comes

Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight

Exit light, enter night

Take my hand

We're off to never never-land

"Enter Sandman" by Metallica

There was just something so fun about working with someone who looks at you like you are something scraped off the bottom of their shoe, the creature known as Meg reflects bitterly as she stares into the frothing surface of blood beneath her. Each bubble breaks the surface in thick, squelching pops, droplets misting the air, the voice from the Down Below filters through to her in a language no mortal would understand, screeching along a connection of magic and hellfire. This wasn't exactly kid stuff she was doing here, considering only months ago she'd had no backup from the Hell side of things, and considering her role in things, she had assumed maybe the dicks would have some appreciation for her work.

Or at least enough to not pace around her peripheral impatiently, incessantly, circling like some overgrown buzzard complete with feathery trimming that she could catch glimpses of in the shadows of her ritual fire.

The urge to tell the angel in her corner to buzz off is rising, but she isn't suicidal, and, unfortunately, chuckles here doesn't seem to have any more sense of humor than he does patience. Funny for a guy who'd been trapped under a rock for millions of years.

"What are they saying?" The deep voice asks, for what was probably the fifteenth time, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes in the face of the question. Not all angels, fallen angels, rebellious angels and Grigori were made alike, she is finding, and this one isn't even in her top five favorites. Which is saying something.

If Hell had needs a barking drill sergeant from that fallen squadron of angels who'd founded it for Lucifer, Ba'el is it. And if anything, being confined for. . . well, who the hell knows how long. . . has just made him impatient and bitchy on top of intolerably bossy.

"The same thing the rest have said. No one in the Pit has any idea how to crack it, and it all points back the same direction." She manages to keep her annoyance out of the saccharine sweet toneless voice, but she's told them the direction they need to head, and it isn't to her old pals down in Tortureland, Perdition. They need to be paying attention topside, and she doesn't need another bunch of allies who make the same mistakes as their predecessors.

"It's the Winchesters we need, and their little pet."

"Angels are not pets," Ba'el hisses, suddenly close to her ear, and this is a creature who could destroy her on a whim and she is completely conscious of that fact. But she isn't planning to roll over and show her throat, either. She doesn't bother turning to face him, instead flicks her fingers to discard with the cooling corpse that has made her little collect call to hell possible.

"Clarence isn't exactly an angel anymore."

"Castiel. . ." there is a faint emphasis on the name, a dangerous note of correction ". . . is my brother."

"Cas. . ." and her own correction is blatant. ". . . picked his family. And it isn't you. We need him to pull out the brother you actually care about. We've got a solid lead into the pit. And I have a way to get to him."

"He has hidden the vessels and himself." Ba'el rumbles, and suddenly he is back to pacing again, away from his spot breathing down the back of her neck, and she feels herself relax slightly with the deceptive illusion of safety those yards brought. "We will try other means. You may pursue your own."

"Oh, goodie. Because we're good at pursuit, aren't we?" Meg's lips curl up into a satisfied smile, as she slants her eyes towards the door, to her new toy. "And I have a plan. Little something I picked up in Utah."

. . .

Dean Winchester's breath steams the air in puffs as he steps carefully through the parking lot, balancing the most precious cargo he could carry on a cold January morning in one hand, plastic bag hanging from his other hand swinging in as he steps with exaggerated care over the iced-over curb and across to where his Baby idles in the lot. The two most important people in his life were probably still arguing. . . well, Sam was arguing and Cas was making incoherent disagreeable noises from the back seat. . . over newspapers and maps within the car.

Dean raps a knuckle against the glass of the window, shuffling from one foot to the other in the cold as if he was afraid his legs were going to freeze off if he stood still too long, until the window rolls down and a hand snakes out. . . taking just one of the coffees, the one with CASS scribbled on the side in Sharpie. Leaving Dean with an off-balanced coffee carrier threatening to tip, and his other hand still tied up in the plastic bag as the window rolls up between them like a barrier once more.

"Gee, Cas. Thanks. Glad to know you're still such a team player." He snipes when he finally rights the coffee carrier enough to put it on top of the car and open the driver's side door, popping his head in to shoot an affected glare at the angel huddled over his coffee in the back seat, soaking in its warmth and scenting it, nose nearly touching the plastic lid.

Rolling his eyes, Dean shoves their breakfast into Sam's hands and picks their coffee back up, separating Sam's out and tossing the carrier at the trashcan on the sidewalk before folding himself into the driver's seat and adjusting the vents so he could thaw out. "We decide on anything?"

"I've decided Sméagol back there doesn't ever get a vote until after he's caffeinated." Sam mutters, apparently just as amused by Castiel's reverent treatment of the coffee cup in his hands, and the younger Winchester sips the spilled coffee off of the lid of his own cup with a slurp, pulling the maps back into his lap and refolding them carefully.

"He is about two seconds away from saying 'My Precious' and shanking us both for being near it." Dean agrees, and maybe the mirror is already tilted to give him the best angle on the fallen angel in the backseat, and maybe he is already watching it with a faint smirk as Castiel takes the first careful sip of his drink, pauses in surprise, and then licks his lips and lets out a groan of appreciation as he tips his head against the window and gulps down more, Adam's apple bobbing smoothly as he practically guzzles the drink down. "They had some sugary Mocha thing. Thought you might like that."

Sam watches him knowingly from the passenger's seat, and Dean studiously ignores his little brother's rising glee as best he can as he puts the car into gear and eases them out of the parking lot, but he knows he's flushing slightly at being caught staring at Cas again. Dean and Sam have always delighted in teasing each other, and his relationship has recently become a goldmine of material for Sam. "Dude. I don't know what's funnier: Cas discovering the guilty pleasure of chocolate masquerading as coffee, or you. You are so whipped."

"This makes me very happy. Do many places make these?" Cas interrupts hopefully, rolling the cup between his palms as he licks chocolate syrup off of the rim of plastic, and Dean jerks a thumb indicatively towards the back seat, taking it as a win when neither Winchester can keep a straight face at the badass angel of the lord, reduced to childlike glee over a Starbucks cup.

"Him. Hands down, him. And anyway, the guy who's ever had soy anything near his coffee doesn't get to say shit about other people's coffee orders, right Cas?"

"I think he's trying to cuddle a coffee cup. How many months you figure we got left until the back seat's just a nest of candy wrappers?" Sam asks, turned sideways in his seat and smirking at the fallen angel, and he might be getting fucked with, but Dean loves mornings like this, his family on the road again, where they should be, without people crowding in on them or trying to kill them.

"I am not my brother." Castiel corrects Sam, but come to think of it. . . Gabriel with his candy-bars and pagan goddesses, Balthazar with his sweet champagnes and soprano navels . . . Maybe it was just that the angels who flew closest to the earth all ended up with a wicked sweet tooth of some sort or another and an insatiable appetite. Dean hoped so. For more reasons than one. He couldn't handle the image of Uriel guzzling Big Red and Seven-Up while talking about leveling cities, or Zachariah downing Ho-Hos.

Actually, the thought sets him off snickering again, while Castiel eyes him from the back seat, holding his coffee cup defensively. "I would have had coffee already if Sam hadn't chased us out before dawn, as if he was attempting to slink away for fear the women there. . ."

"They were frikkin' scary, man. You have no idea. Either of you." Sam objects explosively, pointing at both of his companions.

". . . would put him up for auction like a prized lamb. . . "

"Maybe they'd have paid per pound. I mean, geeze, coulda turned a profit finally off of the overgrown man-boy. . ."

"Hah hah. Laugh it up, jerk. Only thing that saved you was that Cas pretty much branded 'Property of Castiel, hands off' on your ass. . ."

"Actually, I assumed branding his 'ass' would be too forward of me." Dean nearly chokes on his own coffee at Sam's horrified expression and Castiel's compete deadpan. "Nevertheless, if my presence warned away the apparently terrifying attentions of the women at the camp, you're welcome." Castiel continues dryly to Dean from the back seat, and takes a more dignified drink from his coffee while the Winchesters break down into laughter, Sam thunking his head against the window repeatedly as if he can jar the image out of his mind. Cas's eyes are bright and electric in the early morning light when he meets Dean's glance at the rearview, corners of his mouth up tilted, sharing a joke rather than inadvertently the butt of one.

"Cas with a sense of humor. It really is the end times." Dean's grinning as if he's not quite sure how to stop, and maybe that's a little on the nose, but the entire thing's just too damned funny. Every time Cas cracks a joke, it's a bit like watching some gangly newborn exotic animal try to get its legs beneath it for the first time. It's awkward and fumbling and kind of adorable, though the second Dean starts saying crap like that aloud they're revoking his Man Card once and for all.

Sam coughs into his hand, and it sounds distinctly like whipped, and Dean flips his brother off casually without lifting his hand from the wheel. "You're just pissy 'cause you set that one up for him."

"God, I hope he's still funnier in Enochian." Sam mutters, and if he never has to hear about Castiel's dibs on Dean's ass, or vice-versa, ever again. . .

Castiel tilts his head to the side, darts his tongue across his lips, and considers that for a long moment. The words that roll out of his mouth next are guttural, rough, completely incomprehensible, and holy fuck that was his native language and Dean never really stopped to consider that anymore and the car is suddenly very warm as he shifts in the driver's seat slightly as Castiel continues, eyes fixed on the angel in the rearview and the way he shapes his lips and how each syllable is dark and graveled, and the rich texture carries into Cas's quiet laugh to himself at a joke neither of them would ever understand and Dean has to jerk the wheel to take them back off of the rumble strip and snap his eyes back on the road again.

"Seriously, Dean?" Sam exclaims, shielding his face in his palms, trying not to look at his brother or the fallen angel "You hate dead languages. You've called me a geek my entire life for . . ."

"It was his Batman voice!" Dean defends, and Cas looks between the two of them with faint puzzlement.

"Fine, whatever, perv. Cas, no more 'Batman Voice,' or my brother'll end up driving us into a ditch or something."

"What is a 'Batman voice?' Is that a good thing. . .?"

"Yes." Dean says enthusiastically, at the exact moment Sam emphatically declares "No." and all of a sudden the Winchesters are laughing again with a bemused Castiel in the back seat, and it's just about perfect. He's yearned for this almost his entire life, the easy camaraderie of family, the sense of belonging to someone, having something to go home to (even if home is a string of crappy motel rooms) mixed with the solid, steadying purpose of hunting, and his brother at his shoulder and happy to be there, and his angel solid and present and slowly adjusting to his life as a Winchester.

Dean feels like they're finally shaking off the funk Camp Chitaqua had thrust them into, building something out of the rubble of Zion National Park, and he hasn't felt this light since Christmas. He's still chuckling as he drags his phone out of his pocket at the first chords of Back in Black, greeting Bobby cheerily. "You make your escape yet, or are we gonna have to put together a rescue crew to save you from old widow women?"

"I'm still here. Throwing them off a scent. Need you boys to turn around. We've got a situation." Bobby's gruff rumble carries through the phone as if he's keeping his voice down and has a hand over his mouth and the receiver, and it's such a drastic shift, his brother and Cas joking and Bobby's urgency, that a sense of dread settles over him as he flicks the turn signal on as he U-Turns the Impala on the empty road, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

"Okay, we're turning 'round. What's the situation? Where're we going?" Dean bats Sam's shoulder, gesturing at the glove box, where his brother draws out a notebook and pen, ready to take down an address.

"St. Louis. I got a call. . . took a little while to get to us, the phone number she had was to the old place, lost that line in the fire. You may not wanna bring Castiel with you, though. . ."

"Why the hell not?" The instant flare of defensiveness surprises Dean in its force, and beside him he can see Sam raise his head and fix a worried stare on him, broad forehead drawing down.

"Because the last thing Jimmy Novak's widow needs when you go investigating her missing daughter is you parading her dead husband's body in front of her." Bobby shoots back, sharp and unyielding, and Dean feels all of the air punched out of him at the words, combined with the wide, curious, concerned blue eyes framed out and watching him in the rearview.

. . .

Wearing a suit is starting to feel unfamiliar, and Castiel tugs on his new tie to loosen it, glancing over at Bobby Singer. This suit feels strange after wearing Jimmy Novak's for years because it's not the same baggy, loose fitting, worn jacket and slacks. Dean helped him pick this two-piece out at the thrift store, and he insisted they go to the tailor to have it fitted. The outfit is a dark charcoal grey, a white dress shirt, and new tie – a stripe pattern, but still mostly sky-blue. Dean told him it looked good on him while straightening his tie and the collar of his shirt, and smoothing a hand unnecessarily along his shoulders.

Sam made some kind of remark about how Dean was playing dress up with a new doll, but Cas is nearly certain it had been a joke, because he knows Dean does not plan to get him a "Barbie Dream House," and he cannot imagine why Sam would think Dean should drive a pink convertible. Sam really thinks his own jokes and teases are funny lately. Castiel, for his part, has no problem with Dean's expressed interest in his appearance and attire, or the glint it puts in his eyes.

With his hair combed back and no cap on, wearing a suit and an overcoat, Cas reflects that Bobby looks completely different from his usual lax and unkempt self. In his FBI character Agent McCreedy, the older hunter even stands and moves differently; he bustles when moving and projects an aura of authority while standing still. Cas thinks he is actually learning a lot about disguise just watching him work.

Maybe this was not just a ploy to send Cas away while the brothers work. Dean told him he should learn from Bobby when he assigned him to go with him to the morgue and find out what they could about the dead utility workers in St. Louis. Cas knows there is more going on, saw Dean's agitation and his avoidance, but Dean said to be patient and he will fill him in later. As if Dean Winchester could teach Castiel anything about patience.

Cas follows along after Bobby, flashing his badge – the right one and right side up – at the appropriate time. He is getting better at being a hunter. He and Bobby are at the Medical Examiner's Building in downtown St. Louis. The Winchesters are near the scene of the incident where these utility workers were injured about four miles away in East St. Louis. Bobby had found possible demon activity, he said, but as Cas examines the bodies of these three city employees – he knows differently.

This is angelic activity.

Having their eyes burned out did not kill these men, Cas notes, nor were their eyes burned by electricity as the M.E. suggests. It was a fall of some type, broken bones and internal injuries that killed them. Bobby is conversing with the medical doctor who works at the M.E.'s office as Cas muses to himself that most angels would be more careful filling a human vessel –doing so in plain sight of others where the observers could be injured is reckless, or simply callous. One of his brethren has corporealized so close to his current location: the hour drive between St. Louis and Camp Chitaqua is nothing to an angel's will. It is quite possible that this is finally Balthazar or Gabriel sending someone to end him.

It is, after all, merely a matter of time.

Cas waits until he and Bobby are alone in the examination room before tuning back in to what Bobby is saying - he is still not as comfortable lying to people, and, at times, it is simpler to allow the more experienced hunters to do the talking. "Lot's of demonic omens right now in St. Louis…"

Cas cuts in, and for the first time he realizes that he has learned impatience from Dean.

"This is not demonic; it is angelic. Bobby, you must recognize the eyes from the unfortunate incident when your friend Pamela was too insistent…"

Bobby narrows his eyes as he intrudes into Cas's sentence. "Too insistent?... Why you arrogant little…"

"…and demanded to see my true face." Cas finishes, feeling himself grow angry. There is something they are keeping from him, he can tell. Oh, he can no longer read what is on their minds, but they should stop underestimating him. He is millennium older than any of them. He does not intend to allow Bobby Singer, no matter how much Dean Winchester loves him, to patronize him, nor to behave paternally towards him. Or to lie to his face.

"Now listen here, Cas. I don't know what kind of bee flew up your bonnet all the sudden, but…"

Castiel makes a slicing motion through the air with one arm, the other fisted by his side. He does not intend to listen while Bobby continues to prevaricate. Cas leans in toward Bobby, staring in his eyes intently, ready to wring every ounce of truth and dispel every lie from him.

"Who did you send Dean and Sam to meet?" Cas is demanding an answer – almost nose to nose with Bobby, and he cants his head, bird-like, inhuman despite months of practice at humanity. "What is it you are trying to hide from me?"

Bobby steps back, his mouth drawn in a grimace. It was his suggestion to keep Castiel away from the person who brought them to St. Louis, but Dean and Sam agreed. Dean told him not to tell the angel until they knew more – said he would break the news to the angel himself. Sometimes that boy lets his affection for people blind him from seeing any problem with them. Bobby figures that assessment of Dean includes himself. Sometimes I think me and Sam, and this fallen angel, become stronger, better people just trying to live up to that image that Dean has of us.

"You think we're trying to hide stuff from you?" Bobby's standing with his arms folded across his chest, and Castiel narrows his eyes critically.

"Do you think I am stupid, or that I need to be coddled?" Cas's voice is dropping in register, graveled and angry. Bobby figures if feathers there actually had feathers they were ruffled right now. This is problematic.

This is his role among them, Castiel thinks, they should not be keeping things from him that clearly pertain to the angels. Particularly not now.

"Well, hell, Castiel. I don't know what to make of you half the time." Bobby's grunt expresses his disgust in the situation: he needs to rein this back in quickly, before they draw attention to themselves. "What I do know is that we've got work to do here because we need these medical records. Anything else you want, you're just gonna have to wait to get from Dean, 'cause I ain't saying."

The tense moment stretches between them, Castiel's face unreadable, Bobby's stance unyielding. After the span of a few slow breaths, Castiel steps swiftly past him, and Bobby swears quietly as Castiel stalks away from him.

Bobby pulls out his cellphone to call Dean. The boy needs to be ready to talk as soon as they meet back up, because the last thing they need is Castiel deciding to strike out on his own in this for answers.