Lawrence, Kansas

November 2, 2020

From the outside, it is nothing more than an ordinary house. Single story, brick. Flowers and hedges outline it. There's a chimney, a wrought iron fence, and neatly trimmed grass that is spattered with the bright colors of autumn leaves. An Impala sits in the driveway, its mint condition anally maintained by the owner who had just given his baby a much needed wash and wax that very morning.

Yes, it is a very normal, ordinary looking house. You wouldn't know of the demon traps under each and every rug, the salt lining the windows, hidden by curtains; you wouldn't know of the arsenal kept in a floorboard at the edge of the owner's bed. Just in case, he'd always tell his wife whenever he'd check to make sure everything was still in place. Secretly, he prayed he'd never have to lift the floorboard for any other reason.

The windows of the house are dark, the curtains drawn. It is practically noiseless from the street. The neighbors are oblivious, late night passerby seem to not notice the muffled sounds of the nightmare within.

If they had gone through the front door-all they had to do was push, for it was already unlocked and slightly ajar-they would have found a woman's body lying half in and half out of the entrance to the hallway from the living room. She has dark brown hair, now soaked in blood as it pools from the deep slit in her throat. Her eyes are still wide, her face still contorted with the horror of her final moments. One of her legs is bent at an odd angle; a hand, fingers still slightly curled, the bottle it once held dripping formula on the hardwood flooring several feet away.

If they still had courage, they'd have to sidestep the bottle, avoid the blood ebbing across the floor just to go down the hallway. Just a few steps, make a turn at the second door on their left, they'd find themselves in the master bedroom. The heavy covers of the four poster bed are in disarray, one of the nightstands turned over. There is broken glass from a shattered bulb and a crack in one of the walls. Moonlight streams through the gossamer curtains. It is in this room that a man, a mortal man, lies at the end of the bed. He's wearing sweatpants and a Guns N Roses band t-shirt that his brother had gotten him for his birthday the year before. Beads of sweat and blood trickle down his face. His breathing is heavy; he's been out of practice for a long time. With narrowed eyes, he stares down the thing before him.

Although the body is made of flesh, the creature within is not. It is an unholy thing, black to its core, writhing with an unspeakable evil.

"You've lost your touch," it sneers. The teeth are white, pearlescent. "And here I thought you were going to be more of a challenge."

"Sorry to disappoint." The man struggles to sit himself upright, but lets out a hiss at the pain from the deep gash in his back. "You ruined my favorite shirt, you son of a bitch. Bet that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside, huh?"

With a snarl, the creature grabs the man by his neck. "No. Spraying your blood everywhere…Well, I think that'll do the trick."

"Trust me, pal, I've met my fair share of monsters. You don't even come in the top twenty."

"Is that so?" He smirked. "Your wife seemed to think I was pretty terrifying. Before I slit her throat."

The man jerked forward, causing the demon to laugh at his attempt of attack.

"Oh, did I strike a nerve?"

"You shut the hell up." A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, trickled down the side of his face. It didn't go unnoticed.

"Don't worry, Dean Winchester. You'll be joining her soon enough. Sooner than you think." He let go of Dean's throat and then gave his face a firm pat. "So, chin up."

Suddenly a wail made its way through the silence of the house. The demon turned to the sound. Dean followed his gaze and his eyes began to fill with tears, with fear. "Please…" he whispered.

There was a rumble of laughter deep within the creature's chest and a sinister smile, like a wolf's, spreads over his bearded, tan face. "I never liked babies. So needy. Always…crying." He turned back to Dean. "And so helpless." He got closer. "Tell me, Dean Winchester, should I kill her first and then you? Or should I just save her for last?"

Dean's jaw clenches and a look of malice takes over his eyes. "Go fuck yourself."

Their eyes remained locked, unblinking, man staring down monster, monster staring down man.

Then there came a sound, a piercing sound of flesh being broken.

From inside his vessel, the creature was scorched, his eyes flashing, mouth agape; Dean heaved, gasped, his body suddenly overcome with a searing, white-hot pain.

The creature fell back, unmoving, the blade still protruding from his chest.

Blood began to leak from Dean's lips as he trembled, looking down at the blade that had been stuck fast into his abdomen. It hurt like hell. Sure, not as bad as hellhounds ripping him open, or any monster for that matter, but the end result-the one he knew that he was on the cusp of-enhanced the pain tenfold. There was only one person Dean knew that could help him.

"C-Cas…" he managed. "Cas, I…need you…"

With his last bit of strength, he pulled the blade from the wound, gasping as he let the blood race from within. He let the blade fall to his side. In some meager attempt, he pressed one of his hands against the wound. Blood seeped through the cracks in his fingers.

"Cas…please…"

He heard the familiar flutter of wings, a sound he had not heard for the past three years. Before him stood his friend. He reached out to him with a blood soaked hand. "Cas…"

The angel kneeled before him. "Dean…What happened?" He looked from Dean to the body on the floor.

"Demon…" was the reply. "Thought he had me by surprise. Moron."

"Here. Let me help you." Castiel reached forward, but Dean grabbed his hand, stopping him. He shook his head.

"No, Cas…Not this time."

"Dean, I have to. You will die."

"It's…okay. Not so bad." A sad smile came to his face. "Don't…tell Sam."

"I don't understand. Why?"

Dean didn't respond and, slowly, his eyelids began to close. "Watch…Watch over her, Cas…" He lifted a hand and gestured at the door opposite of his own. "P-Promise…me…" He gripped the angel's hand tighter with all the strength he had left in him. "Promise…"

"I promise," Castiel said. He placed his other hand over Dean's. "I promise, my friend."

"Good…And don't you go bringing me back, either, okay?"

"Dean-"

"Cas."

There was a finality in his voice, one that Castiel had come to recognize and understand. "Very well." He shook his head. "What about Sam?"

"In the…nightstand…He'll understand…"

"Dean, you just can't-"

"Don't worry…Cas. It's…okay." Dean gave a ragged cough. "Ass...butt."

And, with a crack of a smile on his face, the life faded from the Dean's eyes and he slumped over. For a moment, the angel just stared, wanting to not believe in what now lay before him. In the past, he would've simply walked away, for a human soul is fleeting and was once worth so little; a dime a dozen, they're all the same.

Now, however, he felt trapped. Bring him back, a voice commanded. Do it. Bring him back. But he couldn't, could he. An angel's word is bound and for the many times he'd made a promise to the Winchesters and it was broken, this was not one of them. Not now.

But why not? Don't you care?

Of course he cared. But there was something there, something he'd seen in his friend's mind, felt in his soul, that was stopping him from acting. And this…this was the result of inaction: A death of a good man.

A grieved, tortured moan came from his lips and he clutched his friend close to him as he sobbed, his body violently tremoring. He remained like this for some time, tears racing down his face, the same cries of agony ripping through the silence of the house. He had been amongst men for so long that now, he knew what despair was, what sadness was. He knew the pain of tears as they stung his eyes, the tightness in one's chest as grief overwhelmed them. But, damn it all, he hated it.

Dean Winchester is no more. Dean Winchester is no more.

This thought raced through his mind until a cry that was not his own pierced his ears. He stopped. It wasn't a cry, no. More like a squall. I need someone, it said. Help.

Help.

How long had the child been crying? Had she been doing this the whole time? Surely not…

Still trembling, Castiel laid Dean down on the floor and rose to his feet. He crossed the hallway into the room.

It was a nursery. The walls were painted the color of a soft blush, elephants holding each other's tails with their trunks bordered the ceiling. There were shelves of little knickknacks, stuffed animals, and books. The carpet, much like the crib that stood against the wall to his right, was a pure, clean white. A mobile hung over the infant's head, little puffy clouds and smiling angels with bright yellow halos spinning slowly, Brahms' lullaby playing soft and sweet.

Castiel peered down into the crib. Before him was the child, her face red, her eyes scrunched closed, her tiny fists balled up. She was kicking, screaming, frustrated that no one had come to her aid. She was hungry, her time to feed past due.

"There there," he whispered, picking her up. He cradled her in the crook of his arm and placed two fingers to her forehead. Her crying ceased and she blinked, staring up at him. She had a tuft of light blonde hair and…

Castiel felt something catch within him. The same eyes that looked up at him were the same eyes that had just drifted closed in the next room; her father's eyes.

She let out a burble of contentment and raised a little hand at him in a gesture of acknowledgement.

"I'm here," he said to her. "Don't worry, little one. I'm here."

And, then, the quietness was all that remained. Once again, the house became nothing more than just a house, still and peaceful on that cool November night.